You Broke Me, Now I Can't Feel Anything.

Disclaimer: Anything recognisable belongs to the appropriate creator(s). The plot line is my own.

Song: Broken Strings-James Morrison ft. Nelly Furtado

Sherlock's heartbeat was pounding inside his head. He would've sold his soul to stop it right at that moment.

His sight was so bleary, he couldn't make heads nor tails of what he was looking at. With a deep internal groan – due to the fact that he was still unable to groan externally – he remembered why he couldn't raise his arms to rub the sleep from his eyes. He blinked as rapidly as he dared, making sure to clear his eyesight without vomiting violently from the pain. After a minute, the ceiling came into focus and he could tell by the brightness of the room that it was midmorning now, around 10 o'clock would be his estimation. His eyes drifted from the ceiling to the fireplace, which had grown cold hours ago, to the shards of glass in front of his armchair. He closed eyes in shame as he recalled the night's events.

"You're only teaching me because I'm an experiment for your work!"

As the sense of humiliation bloomed in his chest, Sherlock wished he could shake his head to remove last night's memories of himself. He swore to do whatever Hermione asked of him today, as way of an apology. Nor would he ever drink whisky again.

A sharp cough from the doorway pulled him from his shame-spiral and Sherlock's eyes flashed open to swivel in the direction of the sound. From his position, he caught sight of his flatmate out of the bottom corner of his eye. She stood, dressed for the day in sombre colours, matching the mood that seemed to emanate from her. Her bushy halo had been tamed for once into a simple braid and her arms were wrapped around her chest, as though she was protecting herself from his eyes whilst simultaneously holding the broken parts of herself together. Her eyes narrowed as he caught her gaze and tried to express his regret.

"I hope your head fucking hurts."

Hermione's fingers twitched on her right hand and Sherlock felt all his limbs relax as control was given back to him. He lay there a while longer as the feeling of pins and needles flooded his legs, making it impossible to stand immediately.

"Go shower and dress," Hermione barked at him. "We have an appointment."

"Hermione," Sherlock scrambled to at least pull his torso into an upright position. "Please, allow me to apolo-"

Hermione threw her hand in the air and Sherlock stopped short for fear of being cursed again. "Save it, Holmes. I don't want to hear it right now. Just… just do as I ask."

Ignoring the look of pleading on his face, she turned on her heel and went into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the click of the kettle and clinking of mugs. He knew that if he followed her, the situation would only become even more dire, so he sought to resolve it by doing exactly as she'd said – shower, dress and go to their 'appointment'.

*…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…*

"Hermione."

He hastened his stride to match her quick, sharp steps. Staring imploringly at her impassive face, Sherlock tried to grab her attention. "Please, Hermione. Just stop a moment, you've got to let me apologise. I need to apologise."

"We're almost there," Hermione's voice was almost as cold as the weather.

Sherlock huffed, finally fed up of being ignored. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he stopped short. The sudden action caused the angry witch ahead of him to whip round on her heel, her eyes ablaze as her breaths misted in sharp puffs in the freezing air. She threw her arms out in frustration. "What the fuck are you doing now Holmes? We have an appointment to keep."

"I don't know anything about any appointment and I'm not budging," Sherlock snapped. "Not until I can get you to bloody listen to me."

Hermione stamped her foot, the rage inside getting the better of her. "You don't get to do anything. You want to apologise to me? Well tough shit. Because I'm not ready to hear it. Right now, I don't want to hear anything out of your bloody mouth unless I ask a question, because I am doing everything in power not to curse you every time I hear you breathe."

Sherlock blinked owlishly, not expecting a full-blown rant. In broad daylight. In the middle of a very public street in London. But the woman before him was certainly going for it.

"You insulted me, you insulted my work, you insulted my friends," Hermione ticked off his indiscretions on her fingers as she spelled them out for him. "You kissed me without my consent – don't even get me started on that! So, shut up and follow me, because there's something I need to show you."

Without another sound, Hermione turned and carried on heading to whatever destination she was taking them. Left with little choice, and not wanting to be stood under the accusatory gaze of nosey street-goers any longer, Sherlock jogged lightly to catch up with the fuming witch in front of him.

*…Of Ravens and Writing Desks…*

The detective stood in the corner of the stark waiting room. He watched as Hermione spoke quietly to the nurse behind the desk, her face becoming stonier with each passing moment the receptionist remained unhelpful.

Leaving her alone to deal with the help – however loosely the term could be applied – Sherlock busied himself with taking in the contents of the room he found himself in. After the strange experience of walking through a shop window where Hermione had had a conversation with a dummy, he found himself in what he could only deduce was a hospital waiting room. The clinical decoration of the room, the rows of old chairs facing the desk at the far end of the room and the odd few, ill-looking people perching on the seats led him to this conclusion. His other reason for the assuming this was that Hermione was still not speaking to him and had yet to tell him where they actually were.

"Holmes."

The sharp call of the witch's voice caused Sherlock to swing his head back round to face her.

"Fourth floor, let's go."

The consulting detective hurried to catch up with Hermione, reaching her just as she pressed the button for the lift. They waited for the doors to slide open before joining the sole occupant. Hermione nodded at the Healer before pressing the number four. The whole lift stood in awkward silence, the tension between Sherlock and Hermione palpable as they were forced into the confined space.

Sherlock blinked at the back of Hermione's head, half convinced she could magically see his apologetic gaze. "Hermione, can we please talk about what happened now? Or at least tell me why we're here?"

"If you don't stop asking me questions, I will Silence you for the rest of the day."

The eyes of the Healer flicked up from the chart he was studying – the back of which was stamped with what the detective assessed was the hospital's name, St. Mungo's – to give Sherlock a pitying look at Hermione's waspish tone. He offered an understanding grimace and a half shrug before going back to absorbing the information on the parchment before him.

Saving all three passengers from the awkward tension, the lift bell pinged, and the doors slid open to reveal an empty white corridor. Hermione stepped out, Sherlock following closely behind as the doors slid shut with the Healer still inside. Hermione began walking down the long, sterile hallway, the click-clack of her shoes echoing in the overwhelming silence of the entire floor. Sherlock tried to discern what kind of ward they were in, his detective instincts going into overdrive as he was met with white walls, white floor and ceiling tiles, and white doors with only a number attached to each at average eye level. Drawing a frustrating blank at deducing their specific whereabouts and therefore the purpose of their visit to the wizarding hospital, Sherlock looked ahead once more to see the silent witch take a sharp left. Turning the corner himself, he saw Hermione had come to a stop at the third door on the left-hand wall, the number '477' fixed to seamlessly to the wood. A micro-expression of anguish flitted across the young woman's face before a deep breath pulled her mask back into place and she pushed the door open. Watching her disappear over threshold into a dimly lit room, Sherlock dithered outside, unsure of whether or not he should follow.

"Come in, Sherlock," Hermione murmured from inside. At her instruction, the consulting detective entered, letting the door fall shut with a muffled thump.

Taking in the environment, as sterile as the corridor they had just come from, Sherlock focused his attention on the unknown occupant of the room. A man lay unconscious on the bed, his limbs arranged so perfectly that it was not possible for him to be naturally sleeping. Taking a logical guess, the man appeared to be the same age as Hermione and her friend Harry and, given his flaming hair and the freckles that covered his nose and cheekbones, he was obviously a relative of Harry's wife – a brother, he supposed. The man was incredibly pale, and only through a thorough check could Sherlock tell he was still breathing.

His attention now turned to Hermione, awaiting an explanation. He watched as she stared at the comatose man, hesitantly stepping closer to the bed and taking the seat next it. With a tentative and shaking hand, the witch raised her arm to hold the man's hand which lay lifeless at his side. Knowing better than to encroach on the moment, Sherlock hovered at the foot of the bed.

The silence they had disturbed settled back over the room once again, and Sherlock lost track of the minutes. His gaze flickered between Hermione's rigid profile and the entwined hands, his flatmate gripping the red-haired man's like a lifeline.

"I lied to you before," Hermione's voice, no more than a whisper, ripped through the stillness.

Despite his urge to converse, Sherlock held his tongue, knowing his silence would get more out of her than his questions.

Content that the detective wouldn't interrupt her, Hermione continued, a slight tremor running through her words. "When I got my scar… the one that Death Eater – Dolohov – gave me… Ron did save me," at this, the young witch dropped her head to stare at her lap, defeated. "But I couldn't save him in return."

Her breathing began to shudder as she relived a memory Sherlock so desperately wanted to watch. He took a silent step towards her but kept himself from reaching out.

Clearing her throat and forcing herself to breathe as evenly as possible, Hermione carried on. "Everything was blurred. The pain threatened to overwhelm me, I thought with each breath I would pass out. But it wouldn't let me. I was forced to watch as Ron stood over me. He… he didn't even get to fire a spell.

"I remember him screaming my name, but I couldn't see him. And then his face was there, swimming in front of me. I could make out others running around us, calling for Healers, for anyone who could help, calling for Harry. Ron stood and turned to Dolohov. I couldn't hear them, the screams of everyone else and the pain flooding my senses drowned them out. Ron never got the chance to raise his wand, to defend himself. The next thing I saw, he was on the ground in front of me. I wanted to go to him, I tried to crawl through the dirt and the blood, but I couldn't move. He just stared at me and I could do nothing but watch as he tried to speak. As the light in his eyes dimmed."

The young witch paused, her head still tilted so Sherlock couldn't see the expression on her face. Despite the odd catch in her voice during her story, no sobs, no outburst of emotion came through. She relayed it as a fact, as if her detachment was the only thing keeping her together in that moment. It was a quality Sherlock could relate to better than most.

"Afterwards, after the battle was over and we… won," Hermione's voice turned mocking for a moment, at the thought of victory bought with so many lives, "he was brought here, where we thought experts could help him. But since that day, nothing's changed. He's never gotten worse, but he's never gotten better either. Once I was patched up, I used to stay right here with him, for weeks at a time, only leaving when Harry and Ginny forced me to go home and rest. But I always ended up back here, in this chair, holding his hand. Molly, his mother, was here just as often, holding the other. I would catch her staring at me, her eyes questioning. She never blamed me, not outright. But her eyes – Ron got her eyes – they asked why it wasn't me in his place. Why it wasn't me who refused to wake up. It took almost two years for me to buckle under her gaze. I retreated from everyone, finished my education in private and threw myself into my job. I was a war heroine, so I got what I asked for. A research job where I didn't have to work with anyone, didn't have to communicate with the outside world. I eventually retreated from myself, hiding from any part of me that invoked thoughts of him, of my friends, of my guilt. I stopped visiting, convinced I didn't care anymore. It's been over a year since the last time I was here, almost three since I spoke to anyone other than Harry and Ginny. It was Ginny who checked what day Molly would be away. We wouldn't be here if she was."

Hermione's hand squeezed Ron's.

"I knew he loved me. During the battle, he kissed me to show me I was loved. And it was kind, and it was sweet. And it was then I realised that I didn't love him in return. That I was in love with a child's idea of what love was supposed to be, and loneliness brought about by fear of dying with a life unfulfilled forced an intimacy between us. I care for him, truly. For a long time, he and Harry were the closest family I had. He will always have a part of my heart, that innocent part that the rest outgrew. But he gave me all of his. And knowing that he's here, because of me… that's a guilt that outweighs any sins I've committed with my own hands."

Sherlock listened to her story, listened to the weight that had formed a blockade around her heart for the last seven years. He heard the cracks in that blockade as she spoke a truth she had protected for so long. The young witch had never appeared so fragile than she did in that moment. Sherlock knew there was nothing he could say, no apology that wouldn't ring hollow in the face of this revelation. So, he asked the only thing that came to mind.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Hermione finally raised her eyes to meet his, the caramel orbs brightened by the tears that refused to fall.

"I… I don't know."

AN: So… this has been a long time coming. RL is a bitch. Hope you liked this chapter, despite it being a tad morbid. You finally know what I did to Ron! 5 chapters and an epilogue left to go, just so you know that this is fully planned to the end and that it will not be abandoned, even though I am an atrocious updater. The next chapter will probably be a while again, I have a 20,000-word dissertation to write, rewrite and edit numerous times by the end of summer. Hope you're all well. Reviews are sanity-savers.