Spoilers for Reichenbach and The Empty House

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters.

Unbetaed, all mistakes are my own. I'll admit I wrote this while half asleep, but I think I caught the majority of mistakes when proofreading...the same night.

I hope you enjoy!

Subconscious Comfort

Temporary: lasting for only a limited period of time; not permanent. They had diagnosed his condition as temporary. They didn't clarify as to how long temporary was though, just that he would return to his normal self eventually. It was disconcerting and heartbreaking for the time being, watching such a strong man become a vulnerable child. His features remain the same; he still looks like the same old Sherlock he's known and missed. The same Sherlock that had insulted, amazed, and saved John and so many others. But…he isn't the same. The young detective's demeanor and expressions are different. His brain still functions in the same manner it always has, working out puzzles and information. His eyes still take in every detail, even the ones people try and hide, he just can't make out what it all means every time.

Two years after the man had jumped off that wretched hospital rooftop, to save all those who held a piece of his heart, he had been returned to them, alive. What more can they ask for? They were given the miracle that they prayed for…they didn't exactly specify more than being alive.

Mycroft had located his little brother after months of no communication with him. The man had then personally overseen the extraction of Sherlock from the grasps of the Serbian terrorists. According to the man who embodied the British government, the young genius had been held captive for months, anywhere from two to three months. Mycroft had an agent on the inside of the terrorist cell, keeping an eye on self-proclaimed sociopath, but was unable to interfere or pass on information before Mycroft had come to the rescue, as he himself was under suspicion. The information the young agent was able to give afterwards though was heart wrenching.

Sherlock's physical state told much of the happenings that occurred during his prolonged stay in the makeshift prison. Scars and burns marred his previously flawless body. X-rays showed healed and healing breaks. Fresh and old wounds littered and stained what was once porcelain skin. His long curls were matted with muck and grease, tangled into a rat's nest. His skin coated in dirt, blood, and other excrements that no one wanted to think about. Sherlock, once proud and somewhat arrogant had been reduced to such a sad and pitiful state; living in his own bodily fluids and filth.

His mental state was harder to gauge. Sherlock still interacted with his friends and family, but not the real them. He reacted to his figments of them. The agent alluded to what he saw during his boss's sibling's incarceration. The man told of Sherlock talking to people he could only see, people named John, Greg, Molly, Mrs Hudson, and others sometimes. Mostly to John, though Greg's presence seemed to visit frequently too. He would always tell them to hide when he heard his captors coming, reassuring them that Mycroft would be coming for them all soon. Soon they would all be safe and well, and home. Eventually though, the pain and infections started to get the better of the detective, the torment seemed to take a larger toll on him. The agent noticed a heartbreaking change in the captive man. Sherlock became more withdrawn, less prone to converse, though his feverish and delusional mutterings prevailed. He didn't react as much to the torture, seeming to hide within the confines and safety of his mind, until he would once again be left alone. He would cry out, and beg John to make it stop; plead with Greg to help make it better. His mind regressed into a state that could subconsciously comfort itself. Hands petting his hair, his face, rubbing his arms, wrapping around his body, fingers tracing patterns on the other hand. Lips allowing simple tunes and complex melodies pass through.

John sighed, rubbing his face to try and scrub away the tiredness and stress. He sat in an observation room with the others, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft, watching doctors trying to prod some sort of reaction from their not quite catatonic friend. They had patched his injuries and cleaned him up, and never once received recognition. He'd react to pain with a grimace or a hiss and go back to chattering with whomever he thought was visiting him at the time. They sedated him to set his left arm and cast it. He had curled up in himself as much as he could, his right hand moving up to pet his own locks, murmuring to Greg in appreciation for the comfort. There wasn't a dry eye, save for Mycroft, in either room.

Currently, Sherlock was awake and sitting up, gazing into nothingness. His doctor came out of the room, and spoke briefly to Mycroft before leaving. Mycroft looked like he'd aged quite a bit in the last few hours, but he remained his stoic self even so.

"Well, what did he say?" Lestrade and Molly glanced up at the pair, while Mrs. Hudson slept on. "Is Sherlock going to be alright?"

"They've done everything they can for him, John. Physically it will be a few months before he's up and about, moving without pain. He'll be taking medicines to help fight off infection and restore him to his original health."

"Yes, and mentally?" John's brow rose as he waited with an impatient air. "Did they say whether or not he was starting to come back to?"

Mycroft turned towards the glass again, his eyes searching his brother's face, "They say that he reacts to different stimuli, and they feel his 'regression' is temporary. The doctors believe the more he interacts with someone and begins to feel safe outside of his mind, the more he should revert back to normal."

"Well, what is going to be done with him then?" Lestrade asked, his voice laced with the tiredness his eyes were trying to blink away. "If the doctors can't do anything else for him, I mean…surely you don't mean to leave him here…"

"You said he needs to feel safe, where better to send him than home?" interrupted Molly. "We could all visit him and perhaps bring him back out of his shell. He won't need the imaginary us if he's got the real us, right?"

"I'm a doctor; I could take care of him, Mycroft. You could supply me with the necessary tools and medication."

"He does usually respond better to you, Dr. Watson…my presence would just further set him off I believe. He's always been petty." Mycroft grimaced before nodding towards his assistant. "My dear, could you make the necessary arrangements for Sherlock to go to 221B Baker Street?" Anthea's fingers flew across her phone as she left to do her boss's bidding. Mycroft followed after her, but stopped short at the door, "I will be by to check on him tomorrow, Dr. Watson. Do take care of him." With that, the British government was off.

"I suppose I should be off myself," stated Molly. She sent a side-glance towards the room that held Sherlock, before letting it slide to Mrs. Hudson, slumped in a chair and snoring away. "I could take Mrs. Hudson home, if you'd like John… I mean, if you wanted to stay…not that you have to, I just thou-"

"It's fine, Molly," John halted the pathologist's nervous ramblings, hands rubbing through his hair. "That would be great actually; if you're sure you won't mind."

"Not at all," she assured. Molly roused the landlady from her nap and headed home, making sure John promised to call if there was any change, leaving John and Greg to keep watch.

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

Sherlock stumbled gracelessly off his bed, hobbling about towards a corner and dropping unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. He ached all over, but the pain wasn't as intense as before. He examined his arms and legs, taking note of the lack of grime and fresh smell of cleaner, as well as the bandages and his cast.

"It's a new game, John," he grumbled at his friend. "They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I'm safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won't be fooled!"

His gaze lifted up to John's face as he huddled in his corner, searching his eyes and finding nothing but the brotherly love he had come to depend on. He rested his heavy on his friend's shoulder, taking in scent and allowing it to fill him, calm him.

"Perhaps it is a new game, Sherlock, or maybe Mycroft has come and gotten us out of there. You know how he is, he won't bother to show up for a while yet, if it is him," John murmured into the genius's curls.

"I don't think he's coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one," Sherlock said, voice void of emotion, as if he was just stating fact.

Greg sat cattycorner to the two and brushed a hand through the tatted, brown locks. "Don't give up yet, kiddo, he'll come," the DI assured. "Just sleep. We'll still be here when you wake." He continued to sooth the battered mind underneath his hands, even after the form it belonged to slumped slightly from unconsciousness after sighing a "thank you, da- Greg".

~SH~ ~SH~ ~SH~

John and Greg fixated on the delusional detective. They watched with bemusement as he teetered off of the hospital bed and tottered over to a corner of the small, square room. The two exhausted gentlemen observed their friend examine his freshly bandaged and medicated body, hoping against all hopes that it would bring him to reality; he had been rescued, he was safe.

They were dismayed to hear Sherlock's gravelly voice come to the wrong conclusion. "It's a new game, John," he grumbled to himself. "They must be up to something; trying to lull me into thinking I'm safe. Well, they can try as they like, I won't be fooled!"

Sherlock lifted his face somewhat to observe something at his left side. A small smile graced his lips as his head tilted to the side. The genius detective breathed in deeply, allowing the air to flow back out, slow and precise; he wrapped his casted arm securely around himself, as much was physically possible.

Sherlock gave a hum as he tightened his grip around his midriff, gentle fingers brushing over emaciated ribs. "I don't think he's coming, John… He would give me some sort of signal, to let me know it was him. I have not received one," Sherlock said, hopeless and resigned.

John gasped in horror at the conversation Sherlock was holding with the imaginary him, his fist pressed tightly to his mouth, to hold in what, he didn't know. His heart ached to go into his best friend and hold him, tell him he was here for real and everything would be ok. That as long as John had him, he was safe, but his legs refused to budge, his eyes wouldn't turn away. He was paralyzed to watch the scene unfold, helpless to right the wrongs.

Lestrade wasn't faring much better, blinking rapidly to fight off the tears that were desperate to break free; his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. The DI wanted nothing more than to march in and grab the young man he'd come to think of as a sort of son and hold him close and never let him go. If he wasn't sure Mycroft had ended the men who had done this to his little brother, Greg may have marched out and taken care of it himself, and made it much less quick and painless. He'd known the young man for what? Five years? Seven years? He'd been there for the drugs, the withdrawal, the relapses, the achievements and successes, the good, the bad, and the ugly. He'd dare anyone to even suggest he'd leave now.

Eyes closed, Sherlock angled his head slightly to nuzzle his own hand as it petted his hair. As he drifted off into a fitful rest, a contented sigh passed through chapped lips, "thank you, da- Greg."

It was painful to watch Sherlock comforting himself, even if in his mind it was his friends there for him. Maybe that is what made it so painful? Greg felt like someone had grabbed a hold of his heart and was squeezing the life out of it. Sherlock had almost called him dad! More than ever he needed to be there for his boy, a man he had helped save from himself when he was just entering true adulthood.

The air had been knocked from John, he was sure of it, he needed air, but he couldn't remember how to breathe! His heart was breaking in two. It was just too much. He had grieved for his friend and begged for him to come back to him, but he didn't mean like this! He wouldn't wish this on anyone, least of all Sherlock.

He couldn't hold himself back any longer, the blond doctor rushed through the observation room door that entered into the detective's hospital room and went to his friend's side. He felt Lestrade enter behind him and saw him kneel beside him. Together they managed to ease Sherlock up and half carry, half drag the tortured body back to the bed. He whimpered and groaned as he was jostled about. Once placed upon the soft mattress his quiet mutterings became more incessant. "No…no, please, let me back onto my cot. I don't like this one, it's too soft. Tell 'em, John. Tell 'em it's going to swallow me up." Sherlock continued to complain and whimper, tossing and turning about on the soft, white bed, trying to escape its confines and the discomfort it was causing him.

"Shh, shush now, Sherlock," John tried to soothe, intertwining their hands and giving it a squeeze, using his other to dance across the man's gaunt cheek. "Everything is going to be alright; I've got you now."

Lestrade followed suit with carding fingers through the curly locks, gently kneading the scalp with a comforting pressure. The DI began to hum, a song his own pa would sing to him during his youth, letting the soft noise lull his detective into a comfortable sleep.

As Sherlock curled into himself, casted arm wrapping back around his torso, the other hand coming up to fist the pillow near his head, face nuzzling into it, John and Lestrade vowed to themselves that they would do everything in their power to undo the damage done. To be there for their broken friend and make sure that he never doubted how much he was loved and cared for. To heck with his "high-functioning sociopath" proclamation, no one that really knows him has ever bought that *** anyhow. Sherlock would be okay. He may never be the same as he was, but his friends…no his family, would make sure he would be just fine.

I hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review with your thoughts.