The details wash over him without really hearing them, but he's shuddering with emotion, trying to control himself. He's blind. The thought keeps pounding through his head, the flash of the white hot knife before it cut into him.

His eyes. His eyes. That explains the bandages, would have bled--oh God, the knife--he wants to be sick, but he can't, not with the damn tube down his throat. He's trembling without realizing it, and it hurts, moving hurts a lot even with the painkillers he can tell are coursing through him.

I'm never going to see again.

The thought crashed over him, crashed down on him. He's never going to see Sherlock's improbable, changeable eyes. Never going to watch the sun come up. Never going to get that feel of a perfect shot that you know is going to hit the target.

Never going to stitch up a patient. Never going to run through the streets of London chasing criminals.

He only half remembers after that, the pounding of his head and the searing pain of his eyes making thought almost impossible. But he remembers the hand running over his cuts, the voice in his ear.

"He won't need you now, Johnny. He'll be better off running on his own."