No description needed except for : Reichenbach.

If one was to remove the coat off of Sherlock Holmes' back after his two year disappearance, they would see how much he had changed. How his bones protruded even further through the thin fabric of his shirt. They would notice that the lean body had slightly withered, shrinking inwards, as if it was trying to consume itself to stave off starvation.

If, fingers trembling, one was to remove his shirt, trailing fingertips down ribs like some kind of drum made from bone… They would be horrified. Through the seeping black bruises staining his porcelain skin left by John Watson after an enraged encounter, lay scars even whiter than the skin they marked. Some were pink and raw, only just healed, while others were cruel reminders of how long the torture had been going on. How long it had been since the first crack of a ravenous whip against flesh; How long it continued.

Sherlock stood in front of the bathroom mirror at 221B Baker Street, shirtless, observing all of this. His lip was cracked, slowly oozing blood, so he tended to that first, slowly moving and listening to his joints pop. The skin on his back stretched and contracted with each movement, every reach into the medicine cabinet behind the mirror leaving the scars pulled and aching. He then rubbed a soothing cream into the bruises, carefully manoeuvring around his blackened eye, wincing slightly.

His eyes, oh his eyes. Once hard and cold, they had become worn, hollowed. Days, weeks and months without sleep had taken their toll on him. John's reaction and the horror at being replaced, showed even more on his face then the sleepless months. Still, Sherlock had not told John how much he missed him, why he had left or how he was treated while still in shackles. How his shirt sleeves were never rolled up so he could cover the scars those shackles had left. How he had endured so much because he could not deal with losing his best friend. He knew that would break John. Break him even more then it had when he thought Sherlock had died. Sherlock closed the cabinet, took one more look in the mirror, and left the bathroom. Sleep. He needed sleep.