Hi guys! So I thought I would try something slightly different for a fiction this fan fiction slightly follows on from the BBCs 'The Empty Hearse' but will spin off in different directions.

The quotes in bold at the start are ones taken from The Empty Hearse and were not written by me.

I have done my best to make the chapters longer, like reviewersofsome of my other fics have suggested, and I will try and keep that in mind while writing this!

Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy this! :)

Sherlock winced as he sat up, the pain blurring his vision for a moment and raising his heart rate. His hands, hidden under a sheet, clenched together, safe in the knowledge that Mycroft couldn't see them. Sherlock tried very hard not to let the pain show on his face as he sat up. He already faced humiliation when he let his brother see his weakened state, as he hung onto consciousness by threads, as a muscled man destroyed his transport. That wouldn't-couldn't- happen again.

"You were enjoying it," said Sherlock coldly, glaring at his brother and letting the annoyance seep into his voice for a moment.

"Don't be absurd, I-" began Mycroft.

"Definitely," interrupted Sherlock, "enjoying it."

Sherlock climbed into the car Mycroft had called for him. On any other day, Sherlock would have laughed at the idea of accepting transport Mycroft had given him. He then would have proceeded to end whatever conversation he was having with Mycroft, and order a taxi instead.
Today was different however. While he would never, ever even entertain the thought of admitting it to his brother, he felt rather vulnerable today. Sherlock was used to violence of course, considering his unique occupation as a consulting detective, however never before had he been tortured and subjected to such unbearable pain.
Sherlock shuddered at the memory as he leaned against the cool glass window of the expensive black car, allowing his eyes to close for just a moment.

"Sir, " said a neutral voice from the front seat. Sherlock opened his eyes and stared at the man. He had already deduced him as soon as he got into the car, of course. A graduate from Cambridge who had hoped for a career in MI6. Mycroft had nabbed him from their ranks for his personal requirements, having seen the mans potential. He didn't have any close family, he was intelligent, and he knew to keep his mouth shut. Just what Mycroft looked for when recruiting.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Sherlocks eyes widened as he realised that he had fallen asleep. Him. He, Sherlock Holmes, had actually fallen asleep, in a car owned by his brother and driven by one of his men. Sherlock inwardly cursed. Naturally this would be reported back to Mycroft by the driver. Yet another sign of vulnerability he had failed to hide from his brother.

Stepping out of the car, Sherlock observed the flat in front of him. It was inconspicuous, and looked to all the world like a normal flat. Sherlock knew better, however. Mycroft would have had the whole street and surrounding area checked out, to make sure no potential threats lived nearby.
Sherlock slowly walked to the door and slotted the key Mycroft had given him into the door. Turning the handle, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The flat was far more modern on the inside than the outside. The exterior of the house was merely a deception, a method of keeping the neighbours ignorant of what the flat really was. Sherlock smirked. A warmer and false front with a colder and more complex inside? It reminded him of Mycroft.

Slowly walking into the living room, Sherlock fell into a chair, relief flooding over him at the opportunity to take the weight off his feet. Closing his eyes, Sherlock tried not to think about where he was, or more importantly, where he was not. More than anything, he just wanted to go back to Baker Street and lie on the sofa, letting Mrs Hudson and John fuss over him and bring him tea and biscuits. Sherlock, however, had wanted to surprise John about his return first, and that meant staying away from 221B and anyone he may know until he visited the restaurant tonight.

Sherlock flinched as he flicked his wrist toward his face; even that small movement hurt. Glancing down at his watch, he saw that it was only four o'clock. John wouldn't be at the restaurant for another three and a half hours.
Three and a half hours. After two long years of hardship, that was all the time left. Then he could return home and sink back into the pattern of normalcy and spontaneity at the exact same time, that he had come to miss.

Slowly pushing himself out of his seat, Sherlock made towards the stairs. Rarely being one to indulge in anything, he decided that he could allow himself a bath. It would result in more money for Mycroft to pay anyway, not that that would bother him. For the last two years, Sherlock had struggled to manage even basic hygiene, never mind anything as luxurious as as a bath. It had been quick showers or buckets of water and a bar of soap, and then back on the tail of however he was chasing, or back on the run from whoever was chasing him.

Stepping into the bathroom, Sherlocks eyes widened almost undetectably at the sight of the large, round bath in front of him. After the last two years he had been through, it may as well have been a solid gold jacuzzi. Although, as Sherlock looked at it, he couldn't help feeling that this bath couldn't have been much cheaper than that.
Delicately stripping out of his suit, hoping to avoid hurting himself further, Sherlock slipped into the soothing, hot water and huge amount of bubbles he had insisted on filling the bath with. The sensation that followed was a strange one. The best way Sherlock could describe it was like the feeling you got when you ripped a plaster off a particularly nasty cut. Satisfaction, but also pain. That's exactly what Sherlock felt as he slid into the water. His body seemed to delight in the bliss of the hot water, while also shying away from the pain it was inflicting on his many injuries.

Steeling himself, Sherlock began to examine his injuries. He didn't like what he saw. Yes, Mycrofts medical man had done an excellent job of making him look like his old self, hiding all the cuts and bruises he had acquired over the last two years. The injuries however, that would normally be hidden beneath his clothes had not been dealt with. Sherlock supposed Mycroft felt no one would be seeing them anyway.
Sherlock, who normally would have a high tolerance to any kind of pain or gruesome sight, even struggled to keep his breathing even as he examined his stomach, arms and legs. He supposed he wouldn't be able to wear short sleeved tops for a long while- not that he ever had in the past.
His arms were laced with scars and bruises of every colour, some fresher than others. His stomach was even worse, his ribs standing out clearly against his now red and purple skin. He sighed. Yes the fractured ribs and dislocated knee had been dealt with, but all of the other scars wouldn't be leaving anytime soon. If they ever did.
After about forty minutes of soaking in bliss, Sherlock reluctantly climbed out of the bath. He ran a towel through his hair and dried himself off, than wrapped another around his waist. He was about to go and find some clothes when he noticed the mirror in the corner of the room.
Turning around, he craned his neck so he could look into the mirror while facing away from it. The sight wasn't pretty. His back was covered in scars and whip marks. Painful reminders of what he had been put through.

Sighing, Sherlock walked out of the room. He was being far too dramatic about this. Walking into a neighbouring room, he was slightly surprised to find a suit sitting on the bed waiting for him. No doubt the work of his brother. Wanting to hate it, but admitting the suit did indeed look quite splendid, Sherlock put it on, once again being careful not to injure himself further. Then looking in a mirror, he buttoned the shirt up. A small sigh escaped his lips.

Less than two more hours to go.