A wild jolt tore the stream of his restless, short slumber. Slowly, he opened his eyes-well, just the right one. His left eye was too swollen and rheumy for him to open.

He glanced over the familiar, dark, windowless room, illuminated only by two modest lights hung on both sides, and sighed. He knew better than to hope that all of this could be just a bad dream. That became clear the very day he had woken up in this place. Four months ago.

Four months. One hundred twenty-one days. 2904 hours. 174 240 minutes. 10 454 400 seconds. Such a short period would fly by quicker than you could say Jack Robinson, but now it felt like an eternity.

He was lying on the hard floor of a small cell. The bald stone walls caused his insides to crawl in anxiety and deepened the feeling of despair that settled in his ribcage. At least he didn't suffer from claustrophobia.

However, that didn't mean that he had nothing to worry about. It wouldn't be surprising if the fear of tight places appeared when he got home. IF he makes it out of here, in the first place... Unfortunately, his future didn't seem very promising.

His chances were lower than zero. How could he possibly escape when he can't climb the stairs without taking a few breaks to catch his breath?

His only ally, who had made his days in captivity a bit more bearable, has betrayed him.

To his very last days, he will not forget the day he realised that Jack was gone. On the outside, he must have pretended that he's completely unimpressed by it, despite being pretty shaken by it. Not only did he lose the last chance to escape and a good friend, but it was a sign that he was starting to do stupid things and make mistakes. How didn't he see that coming? Why did he ever decide to trust him with such blind faith when he knew that it could have been a trap?

He has lost the little bit of self-respect he had since that night.

His friends can't help him. How could they when they have no idea that he's still alive? Thinking about it, he concludes that maybe it's for the best. At least they won't see how deep he has fallen...

The only hope left is his brother, the most intelligent man ever. Unfortunately, the tyrant that keeps him in his clutches is a strong opponent and is endowed with a powerful ability to blackmail in some of the cruellest ways that exist. To be honest, he's not sure if it's in his strength to save him, with all the respect he holds for him.

The last option would mean complying with his kidnapper's wish and giving him what he wants to hear... Only to return home in shame and live the rest of his life knowing that he had doomed the world just because of his cowardice.

The only thing he can do is not give up and fight until his very last breath. Unless his tyrant loses his patience and kills him himself.

But that's easier said than done.

John would have no problem with fighting. Sherlock has always admired his courage and persistence. His dear doctor might give the impression of a good-hearted softie, but when the game gets tough, he has a stamina of a gnawed rottweiler.

He wasn't so sure about himself, though. And not only due to his self-esteem, which has been dwindling drastically since the day he got caught.

His will was still resisting, but his body desperately called for a rescue. He was at the end of his tether, both physically and mentally. He soon felt he would be unable to bear the hell of the intensive interrogations he had to go through every day of his imprisonment. And all those humiliating comments and insults sounded like a confirmation of his weakness.

It would be so easy to give up. Many times, he wasn't far from breaking down and spilling the beans. And then, they would deport him home-to London, to Baker Street, back to John...

No, he won't allow this. How could he look his friends in the eye if he would?

The stone floor sent shivers down his spine and pressed uncomfortably into his stiff back, which cried for a new position. With great difficulty, he sat up - his hands, tied behind his back, hindered him from performing this trivial task.

As soon as he sat up, he realised that getting up probably wasn't the brightest idea, especially for his contused ribs that still ached persistently. The movement has irritated them even more. Judging by how it hurt, he assumed that a large haematoma had bloomed across his ribcage.

Hissing in pain, he cautiously leaned against the wall, his head bowed down and eyes fixed on the ground.

The battered chest wasn't the only reminder of yesterday's aggressive interrogation. His body carried so many bruises they couldn't have counted them on all his twenty fingers, no mind the number of scrapes. Nasty raw scars that a leather belt left there obscured a good half of his back. And his face...

During the night, his left eye turned a violent shade of violet and swelled to the point he couldn't open it more than for an aperture. Dry blood covered his nose, and his ripped lip stung like hell.

Dark, greasy hair hung alongside his face like lifeless lianas. A good while has passed since he was allowed to wash-he could take a shower once a week and wash his hair once a fortnight, with cold water only.

At least he got a new set of clothes. Sweatpants usually weren't part of his style, but he had to admit that they felt much more comfortable than his old jeans, which had left him after his first month of being held here. A bloodstained, dirty t-shirt reminded him of his old, ratty one. But it wasn't the same. The fabric itched on his skin like a scratchy jumper, and its smell stung his nose. He missed the familiar fragrance of fabric softener and quarrels with his best friend about 'who's going to do the laundry this week'.

He smirked humourlessly. What would Mycroft think if he knew what was in his little brother's head? Mycroft, who tried to warn him for the better part of his life that 'caring is not an advantage'?

He was right. 'Alone' wasn't just self-defense, it also protected the surrounding people. As a feared, brilliant detective, he's been written on the list of enemies of many criminals, and they did not hesitate to write everyone who stayed in his presence for more than half an hour right under his name.

But he didn't want to be alone. Even High-Functioning Sociopaths feel lonely sometimes.

Just like now.

But not for long. Soon they'll pick him up and lead him into an interrogation room. They'll try to force him to spill the beans and reveal the information their master craves so much. And then, if he succeeds in keeping his mouth shut-

The key rattled in the keyhole.

His stomach sank. He bit his sore lip to choke down the fear that sprouted in his chest and closed up his throat.

"You can tell him that his attempts are worthless," he remarked as the massive door opened with a sinister creak.

"Indeed, brother mine," came the reply from the doorframe. The switch turned on, and the light brightened the little cell.

He froze, and his heart skipped a few beats. With his eyes used to a murky room, he glanced up and squinted towards the door.

In the entrance stood a man of impressive height, with a round face, a beak-shaped nose, and dwindling mahogany hair. He wore a black suit and carried a black umbrella he would never forget at home.

There stood nobody else but Mycroft Holmes.

Right beside him stood Greg Lestrade. In the background echoed an intense wailing of police sirens that the soundproofing door hid. He has never heard such a pleasant sound.

"M-Mycroft?" he asked tentatively in a hitched whisper.

He couldn't believe his eyes. He feared to. If this was just a figment of his fantasy and the cruel fate only wanted to torment him even more, then it was doing a fantastic job. He has already stopped counting how many times his brain tried to trick him. It wouldn't be the first time someone had appeared to save him. But there's been a catch-his saviour disappeared as soon as he touched him.

"Sherlock?! Jesus Christ, what has he done to you?!" Lestrade breathed out, not even bothering to conceal his horror. He stared at him with a straightforward gaze and a jaw buried about two metres under the ground.

Blood rushed into Sherlock's cheeks; if his hands weren't tied, he would have wrapped them around himself like a shield. All his doubts about the situation's authenticity faded-their horrified voices and faces just proved it.

He didn't need his brilliant deductions to tell how caught off guard Mycroft must have been. He might look calm and composed-just like there was nothing that could unhinge him. But the surprise and shock in his grey eyes, which rarely showed any emotion, couldn't be missed.

Even despite the seriousness and awkwardness of the whole situation, he felt a pinch of satisfaction. 'Sherlock-Mycroft 1:0,' he thought bitterly. He found it unduly satisfying to see his omniscient brother agitated and confused, even though he tried to hide it.

Despite what had been said, it didn't mean their curious gazes didn't bother him.

"Would you be so kind as to stop staring? I feel stupid even without your scrutinising eyes..." he growled and bowed his head.

Sherlock didn't mean to snap at them, of course. He owed them gratitude for the rescue and was truly glad to see them. Yet he wished they had never found him. He was so ashamed! He expected that it wouldn't be a simple task to fall back into his place, but no one ever told him it would be this hard. Unwillingly, he had to admit that he feared what Mycroft and Greg would think about him. Not to mention John...

In a snap, both men woke up from their trance and made their way to Sherlock. Bending down, Greg took out a pocket knife.

While the sharp blade cut the ropes, Sherlock nodded towards the ceiling. "Where is he?" he asked in a strangely hollow voice. He couldn't convince his mouth to pronounce that stupid name out loud.

The last rope fell to the ground, and Sherlock finally stretched his stiff shoulders, blood-drained wrists, and sore ankles. His gaze, however, remained glued to the inspector's face as he waited for his verdict.

"He will not go unpunished, I can assure you," Mycroft assured him instead of the Inspector, and a flash of anger ran across his eyes at the mention of him.

Sherlock let out a shaky breath, and a wave of relief overwhelmed him. He's no longer bound to sit around and blindly expect rescue or the day he finally dies! They'll take him home...

He almost choked on a strong feeling of happiness that surged through his chest.

A stream of gurgling, hysterical laughter escaped his lips, and tears rushed into his eyes. Still, whether they were tears of joy, shock, or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. Perhaps a bit of each.

Greg and Mycroft watched a wretched detective with sad faces. Nothing about him seemed familiar. Everything about him screamed WRONG! The energetic, confident Sherlock Holmes died, and his place was taken by a traumatised, disgraced man.

They did not know there was something able to get to Sherlock and shake him to the core. Unfortunately, someone has succeeded, and the aftereffects were tragic.

But still-everything could have turned out much worse. They could have arrived with the whole police force and ambulance, driven by high hopes to save him, only to find Sherlock dead. Or just to figure out his tormentor has hidden him elsewhere. In comparison with these scenarios, their situation didn't seem as dire as they thought.

The realisation made Mycroft Holmes do something nobody would have expected. He closed the distance between them and pressed his brother to his chest.

Sherlock gasped, and his instincts screamed at him to pull away and escape. He didn't want to leave the welcoming arms. After such a long time of endless torture and loneliness, he longed for any positive physical contact. To his surprise, he wrapped his arms around Mycroft's neck and burst into crying.

Tears with a size reminiscent of peas rolled down Sherlock's cheeks and leaked into an expensive suit, but Mycroft didn't mind. He just brought the shaking detective closer, paying extra attention to his achy ribs, and offered him his shoulder to cry on. Soft sobs filled the silence, permeating the cell like an echo.

"Don't worry, he'll never hurt you again..." Mycroft promised again and again in a gentle, awkward mantra. He stroked his back with care, aware of Sherlock's wounds from how he held himself. "He will pay dearly for everything he has done to you; I won't forgive him for a single thing. He'll be begging me to have mercy and put a bullet through his head," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, his tone indicating that there wouldn't be any rush to the bastard's death.

Sherlock nodded into Mycroft's shoulder and sniffed.

Greg stood there, merely watching the Holmes brothers, unable to get rid of the impression of invading a very personal moment. After all, neither of the two was partial to showing their feelings.

He has seen this many times. In a situation like this, the cold logic goes away, and the only thing that remains is the joy of seeing your beloved one.

And even though Sherlock considers himself a heartless bastard, he's still just a human being who craves someone's support and comfort.

As it seemed, that was precisely what Sherlock needed right now. The sobs were slowly fading, and soon Greg heard only a timid sniffing.

"I'm s-sorry..." Sherlock hiccuped, wiped his wet cheeks with the back of his hand, and rubbed his puffy red eyes.

Sherlock never cries in front of anyone.

To a certain extent, he could blame his vanity and pride. He feared that this moment of weakness could turn into an excellent weapon against him. And he knew plenty of people who would have rubbed his nose in his misery...

Greg gave him a sad smile. It wasn't difficult to tell what was going on in the detective's head. "It's okay, Sherlock... Everyone needs a proper hug sometimes... Even High-Functioning Sociopaths..."

He took out a pack of paper tissues from his jacket pocket and handed it to his sniffing friend.

Sherlock accepted it gratefully, took out one tissue, and blew his nose. "Thanks... Can we go home now?" he wanted to know. A trace of hope winked through his cracking barytone.

"As soon as they'll examine you..." Mycroft replied, unyielding as ever.

He slipped out of his jacket and threw it around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him warm for at least a bit before they wrapped him in that nasty orange blanket meant for people in shock.

Sherlock breathed in, ready to protest, but Mycroft was faster.

"Sherlock, you've been here for an awfully long time, under even nastier conditions... There's a high probability that you'll suffer from some internal problems, and I will not risk leaving you without treatment!"

Stubbornly insisting that he didn't need any help, even though his knees hurt and his muscles felt sore. The younger Holmes gave his brother a grudging nod and scrambled to his feet. The sooner he gets examined, the sooner he will be free to go home.

"I see... Is that why you can't stand still?"

Mycroft remarked, back to his usual sarcastic self, and wrapped Sherlock's arm around his neck to supply his feeble stability. He could see how much energy and effort it took him to hold his body upright. He won't let him fall just because of his stubbornness!

Greg immediately assisted Mycroft in supporting the enervated detective, and together they made their way upstairs to meet the blinking blue lights of the ambulance, leaving that abominable place behind. But Sherlock knew well that returning to his everyday life would be a long haul...