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 dim 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 with 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.

Jack, his treacherous ally, who had made him devise a plan to escape, has betrayed him, leaving Sherlock to his fate.

His friends couldn't help him. How could they when they had no idea that he was 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... After all, if he couldn't even get up without gasping for air, how could he possibly escape?

The only hope left was his brother, the most intelligent man he's ever known. Unfortunately, the tyrant that kept him in his clutches was a strong opponent, endowed with a powerful ability to blackmail in some of the cruellest ways that exist. To be honest, Sherlock was unsure if it was in his strength to save him, with all the respect he held for him.

The last option would mean complying with his kidnapper's wish and giving him what he wanted 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 could do was not give up and fight until his very last breath. Unless Magnussen loses his patience and kills him himself.

But that was easier said than done.

John Watson 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 whenever the game got tough, he had the stamina of a gnawed rottweiler.

He wasn't so sure about himself, though. And not only due to his low 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. Soon, he 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 wouldn't allow this. How could he look his friends in the eye if he did?

The stone floor sent shivers down his spine and pressed uncomfortably into his stiff back, which was crying 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, which still ached persistently. The movement irritated them even more. Judging by how it hurt, he assumed a large haematoma had bloomed across his ribcage.

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

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

During the night, his left eye had turned into 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 the last time he was allowed to wash—but hopefully, he'll be allowed to take a quick shower today.

At least he had gotten a new set of clothes. Sweatpants usually weren't part of his style, but he had to admit they felt much more comfortable than the jeans they had given him. The elastic band wasn't digging as deeply into his stomach as the rough denim waistband that had been pinching his tummy and cutting into sensitive, irritated flesh.

A bloodstained, dirty t-shirt reminded him of his old, ratty one. But it wasn't the same. The fabric was itching his skin like a scratchy jumper, and its smell was irritating 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 had 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-defence. 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 at that moment.

But not for long. Soon they'd pick him up and lead him into an interrogation room. They'd try forcing him to spill the beans and reveal the information their master craved so much. And then, if he succeeds in keeping his mouth shut, they will feed him another high-calorie bomb, after which he'll be sick for several hours –

The key rattled in the keyhole.

His stomach sank. He bit his sore lip to choke down the fear that had 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.

Sherlock 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 dark umbrella, which he would never leave at home.

There stood nobody else but Mycroft Holmes.

Right beside him stood Greg Lestrade. In the background echoed an intense wail of police sirens that the soundproof 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 that was just a figment of his fantasy and the cruel fate only wanted to torment him even more, it was doing a fantastic job. He has already stopped counting how often his brain has tried to trick him. It wouldn't be the first time somebody 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. His doubts about the situation's authenticity faded—their horrified voices and faces proved it.

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

Despite the seriousness and awkwardness of the 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 had 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 as a wave of relief overwhelmed him. He was no longer bound to sit around blindly expecting rescue or the day he finally died! They were going to 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.

Nobody, not even Sherlock himself, could have imagined that someone could get to him in such a way. Unfortunately, someone succeeded, and the effects were tragic.

Sherlock felt like the most pitiful wreck ever. How could they even look at him? Sherlock Holmes, the energetic, confident detective, had died, and in his place stood a traumatised, disgraced man.

He clamped his fist to his lips in an attempt to calm himself and suppress the emotions that were taking control. It didn't seem to work...

He hid from them, covering his face with his hands so they wouldn't see him like this. As if sitting in front of them in clothes that hugged his curves so tightly that they felt like they'd tear apart with the slightest breath wasn't enough. Christ, he was on the verge of sobbing like a baby!

Suddenly, a pair of long arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him into a hearty hug.

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

Tears of 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 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 to 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 sniffled and nodded into Mycroft's shoulder.

It was a very personal moment. None of the Holmes brothers was partial to showing their feelings. Still, 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 considered himself a heartless bastard, he was still just a human being who craved someone's support and comfort.

That appeared to be exactly what Sherlock needed just now, as the sobbing faded, and only soft gasps could be heard.

"I'm s-sorry..." Sherlock hiccuped, wiping his wet cheeks with the back of his hand, and rubbed his puffy, red eyes. He felt so exposed, so vulnerable!

He never cried 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's okay, Sherlock... Everyone needs a proper hug sometimes. Even High-Functioning Sociopaths..."

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

Sherlock accepted it gratefully, took out one tissue, and blew his nose. "Thanks... Can we go home now?" he needed to know. A trace of hope winked through his cracking barytone. He'd go insane if he remained here even a minute longer than necessary!

"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 suffer from some internal problems, and I will not risk leaving you without treatment!"

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.

Bending over his bulging tummy and getting up with such a load proved difficult for Sherlock's new physical constitution. His cheeks flushed; he hadn't even completely stood up yet and was puffing like a locomotive!

With a crimson face, he was waiting for vicious sniggers and snide remarks, but then he realised these weren't Magnussen's minions. Which, paradoxically, appeared to be the worse alternative. Sherlock didn't give a damn about what those pathetic sidekicks thought of him, but Mycroft and Greg were among the closest people in his life, and he didn't want to lose their respect.

Deliberately avoiding eye contact, he insisted he didn't need any help, even though his knees hurt and his muscles felt sore.

"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. 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...

»»──────　★　──────««

"How long have you been aware of my absence?" Sherlock wondered as he lay in the ambulance, watching the paramedics check his vitals and prepare him for transport to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Mycroft took a seat next to the trolley. "Not for a long time..." he admitted, albeit reluctantly. Mycroft disliked confessing his faults, as had both of the Holmes brothers.

Then he dropped his voice and began to explain.

"I've been keeping an eye on your phone, but Magnussen has been altering the GPS location of the device. The bastard has done everything to ensure that no surveillance equipment on Appledore or nearby picked up a signal.

Had your phone number been constantly unavailable or displayed at the same location, I would have instantly suspected something was amiss, and I'd have gotten you out of there in a matter of days.

But because your phone was charged and traceable, I didn't suspect anything wrong at first. Your position has been changing every few days. Therefore, I assumed you were breaking through Moriarty's web. After all, you didn't want me to get in your way, and you insisted that the less I knew about your mission, the better.

And then, one day, thank God, Magnussen made a mistake that resulted in your phone displaying non-existent coordinates. At that moment, it was clear to me that you were in trouble, but I had no way of tracking you down. Your cell phone had been hacked, showing misleading data. You were supposed to be "dead," and I couldn't cause a fuss with a wide search operation; that's why only Inspector Lestrade has been participating."

Mycroft hesitated, rubbing the bridge of his pointed nose, before warily leaning closer to his miserable sibling and gazing him in the eyes. "But don't think that I've given up looking for you for a second. And I sincerely regret not acting sooner," he said, exhaling heavily.

Mycroft's demeanour abruptly changed. The artificial serenity plastered to his features shattered, and his face crumpled. Something sad gleamed in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I should have known, and I should have supervised you more. You wouldn't be in this state if I was paying more attention! Forgive me, please..."

Sherlock looked in disbelief at his guilt-ridden older brother. Was this what Mycroft thought? That he was partly to blame for Sherlock getting into this mess? He reached out his hand and touched Mycroft's wrist, noting how slender it seemed in comparison to his. "Mycroft, you couldn't have known. He had the most advanced surveillance and security systems in place to guarantee that no one knew what was going on behind those walls. He knew he'd be standing against you."

Mycroft nodded, still somewhat incredulous.

Sherlock, however, had a far more important question itching on his tongue. "And..." he paused, considering whether to inquire. In the end, curiosity got the better of him, so he put the question he had been dying to know the answer to. "What about John?" he asked with forced casualness; trying to hide how much he cared.

"He's safe. He has moved out of Baker Street and currently resides at the opposite end of London. He has even changed employment, but he's safe, and that's what matters...." Mycroft replied, propping his chin on the handle of his umbrella, "And he doesn't know anything—neither of you faking your death nor of your disappearance, if this is what you meant..." he continued.

John was alive and okay, lulled into a sweet ignorance of what his friend had just endured; Sherlock realised with immense satisfaction and hoped, cruel as it might sound, that it would remain that way for some time.

Rocked by these thoughts and the swaying interior of the ambulance, he closed his eyes to rest for a while and gather his strength for the medical examination that Molly Hooper would perform once they arrived at the hospital.

AN:

Hi, my dear readers!
Here's another chapter, which is actually the more detailed prologue. Sorry, I like to play with the timeline. I loved writing Mycroft, it feels somehow special to show that he cares about Sherlock, but in his own way...😊 I just love complex characters! And Sherlock? I wanted to hug him so much—to comfort him and tell him he's still amazing and gorgeous and worthy of love! Sorry, I'll shut up...😂

Yours,
PaulineHolmes02🖤