16 months of torture. 16 months of dismantling a network to save his friends. 16 months until he could escape. 16 months, nightmare fuel.
10 months to heal. 10 months of wait. 10 months of hiding. 10 months, no news.
Everytime he closes his eyes, memories. Everytime he gets hurt, memories. Everytime he's alone, memories.
He can barely sleep. He can barely eat. He can barely hide the pain. Sherlock Holmes is broken.
And yet he goes on. No one but his brother knows.
Not John, not Molly, not Lestrade, not Mrs. Hudson, not anyone.
Everyone thinks he's fine.
Until that case... the Brazen Bull.
*I put a few ocs in this because I got bored*
*I'm sorry if you don't like this, it's my first story*
*the dedications are for people who help write this*
---------preview of chapter 1---------
Sherlock had his eyes shut. He had been in his mind palace for over a day now, not getting up from his spot on the couch. John went about as normal, going out, coming back, checking if his friend was still alive.
This went on for three days. At first, John seemed to forget his friend was there. That is, until Sherlock leapt up and shouted something he couldn't understand, the little color in his face gone.
"Are you okay?" John asked.
"Fine. Has Lestrade called?" he said, harsher than intended.
There was a knock on the door and he answered it quickly. Sherlock stepped out, closing the door behind him. He seemed to be speaking to someone else, and suddenly stepped back in, rubbing his temples.
"Who was it?" John asked.
"No one. It's not important. Don't you have somewhere to be?" he asked, walking off into the bathroom.
"Yeah. As a matter of fact, Lestrade did call. We've got a case."