This is going to be an angsty piece and likely full of triggers so I will put a trigger warning for each chapter.

Trigger warning: child abuse

Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me, no matter how much I wish they did.

I hope you like this fic. There will be eight chapters in total and I'm not going to promise that my updates will be frequent, I have exams and the like. Anyway, enjoy and don't forget to review at the end. *Hint hint*

It's nothing to worry about

Chapter 1- I'm fine (I'm not fine, please help me)

There was a scream of terror which emanated from cellar; it was a loud but high pitched scream which was muffled by the thick stone flooring and the heavy door. Any ordinary father who heard his child scream in such a way would be worried and run to their child's aid. However this father did not, he turned towards the door in anger bordering on rage. "Shut up! There's no point in you screaming, nobody cares because you're so worthless. I'm going away for a few days and I have locked you in there until I get back. I know you too well; I know you'd get up to no good. So you will remain in there and keep quiet until I get back."

Mere silence was the response and the father smiled. His child was far too reckless and excitable and he had a tendency to misbehave. It needed to be beaten out of him. The father remained stationary and silent for few minutes to see if his younger son would break down again. When he did not he smiled again to himself, at last the useless child was getting the idea. He began to head towards the front door to get into the car, his footsteps echoing loudly on the ground. "My?" came a small voice from the cellar. It almost sounded broken.

"I thought I told you to shut the hell up!" bellowed the father. "Mycroft left for university, he doesn't care about you and neither do I. He has a future ahead of him, but you… All you can bring this family is shame and embarrassment. You think about that while I am away Sherlock Holmes. Also think about this, you should not show emotion, it makes you seem even weaker. A real Holmes does not have emotion let alone show it." With that he stormed out of the house to where his driver and car were waiting leaving the young boy trembling and quivering in the darkness trying to will the tears that had already fallen to go back into his eyes.

Sherlock touched the metal door tenderly, knowing John was just the other side of it. The loud mechanical noise was comforting too, it meant that someone was trying to get him out, it meant that someone cared. He had been so stupid, so very stupid for getting caught in this situation. He'd been tricked by the petty criminal, thinking that the man had run into the room so followed where he'd thought he'd gone. In fact the petty criminal did not run in there, but closed the door on the unsuspecting Sherlock before he had a chance to react leaving him in complete and utter silence.

At first Sherlock had the comfort of his phone, even without signal, to brighten up his surroundings but the battery died after a couple of hours leaving him isolated in the blackness. It was five hours after he had been initially trapped that John had found him. Luckily the detective had bothered to leave a note informing his flat mate where he was going so, when night fell in the real world and nobody had heard from Sherlock, John went looking. And it had not been a moment too soon. Memories that Sherlock was sure he'd put in the deep and forgotten places of his mind palace reappeared, presenting themselves to him in their full glory. He cried out Mycroft's name longingly but there was nobody to hear. He could feel the sting of his Father's words, the aching loneliness, the fear and the pain he endured as a child. It all resurfaced causing tears to flow silently and unnoticed down his cheeks.

It was John's voice which soon broke through the solitude which was once again threatening to consume him. "Sherlock, are you here Sherlock?" The detective's eyes snapped open from whatever hell he'd just been reliving. It was momentarily forgotten as he scrambled forward towards the door to try and get closer to John, his John. Unfortunately in his panicked mind he misjudged the distance he was from the door and ended up crashing into it with a dull thud which was soon followed by a groan of pain. "Is that you Sherlock?" John shouted again, heading towards the door hurriedly.

"Yes, It's me," he confirmed, schooling his voice into his usual measured and unemotional tone.

"How long have you been in here, are you ok?"
"I'm fine, yes. Please, just get me out of here." At this point his voice slipped slightly, betraying the true panic he was feeling. He silently prayed that John did not pick up on this but he did.

"Are you sure you're ok mate?"

"Yes." The detective did not trust his voice enough to speak in full sentences anymore.

"I'm going to have to call Lestrade; this door is some kind of security door. It needs a code. I'll stay right here though." Although Sherlock was annoyed that he had shown his emotions to the doctor he was incredibly grateful John was just a few meters away and that he could still hear the man speaking. "Right, he's on his way, probably will be here in about ten minutes." John slid down the door to sit on the floor and seemed to know that Sherlock would need the reassurance of his voice so he began to recall the events of his day. Mundane though it was Sherlock did not care, he was simply pleased that he had been found. He did not listen to a word that his friend was saying, he simply basked in his baritone voice, relishing in the fact that as long as John was talking he did not have to recall those nightmarish memories.

It was almost exactly ten minutes later that Lestrade arrived, sirens blaring. After that there was a lot of noise. The frantic shouting as Lestrade called various people to find the code then the sound of a saw as they tried to cut through the metal. Eventually they had to resort to a small amount of explosive to blast off the hinges. All this noise, though it did stave off the worst of his memories, didn't keep the ones of his Father and Mycroft shouting at each other the other side of the cellar door. Mycroft was the apple of his Father's eye, they often fought but Mycroft was the only one their Father would listen to. Their Father would never lay a finger on Mycroft but wouldn't hesitate to beat the living daylights out of his younger son if the mood took him. The elder of the sons often used his Father's affection to defend Sherlock but he wasn't always there.

All of a sudden there was a loud noise and Sherlock swore that he most certainly did not let out a whimper, that is not what a real Holmes would do. The door was quickly removed and the dull light was welcome. Vision, no matter how limited, had been welcomed by the younger Holmes after his periods of imprisonment. He dashed out of the room which he had spent the last few hours in, fighting hard to control his breathing and emotional response; it would not be good if anyone picked up on his emotional state. His heart was pounding but as long as John did not try to take his pulse then everything should be ok.

"Are you ok Sherlock?" asked John gently. The detective took a deep breath and made sure his face had the neutral expression it ordinarily bore before turning to face his best friend.

"I'm fine John; did anyone manage to catch the criminal I was chasing?" Sherlock impressed with himself for his convincing performance.

"No, I'm afraid we did not," replied Lestrade walking over to join the two of them.

"Of course you didn't, you're all incompetent fools. Well John, we'd better dash, we have ourselves a criminal to catch."

"No, I think we'll leave this one to Lestrade. As a DI he should do some work you know," John chuckled but then his face turned serious again. "You need some rest, you look exhausted. Let's go back to the flat so you can get some rest then try again in the morning." Much to both Lestrade's and John's surprise Sherlock conceded without any argument. Within two minutes the two flatmates found themselves in a cab heading back to Baker Street.

The army doctor knew that there was something wrong with Sherlock, something he didn't know. It could have been a simple case of claustrophobia which was causing his friend to act slightly off but he doubted it. Sherlock was never one to make things simple. John pretended that he did not see the slight tremor which ran through his best friend's body and the tear tracks which marred the pale skin on his cheeks. He wanted more than anything to comfort his friend, to take him into an embrace and tell him everything was ok. John knew Sherlock liked his personal space and would not take kindly to such an invasion.

Sherlock sat on the other side of the cab trying desperately to act as though he were fine but wishing John would see through the façade. The constant pretence wore him down. He desperately wished John would reach out and comfort him but he was unwilling to initiate such an action himself.