For the past month, Sherlock slept, ate very little, and dealt with visitors. They always asked a lot of the same questions. "Are you in pain?" "Do you need anything?" "What kind of mood are in?"
Ever since he had woken up from his comatose state, he'd been suffering from erratic mood swings. One minute he could be fine, the next he was either on edge, or mad at whoever was in the room at the time for no apparent reason.
The only time he ever felt control, was when Sally came by. He could tell her anything. He could trust her not to tell anyone else.
One day he told her about what happened in Serbia. He was able to recall every cold night chained up, every beating, every insult, every word. He remember single second of torture. He had tried his best to delete the memory from his mind palace, but he couldn't. The memory was to big.
He told her of the nightmares he continued to have. He mentioned the scars on his back and how they were the constant reminder of the torture he went through.
Sherlock was to full of himself to admit that he had PTSD, so Sally did it for him. She also said that she would help him with it.
Sally even figured that it might be the root cause for his mood swings. When she told him this, he believed her, because it made sense.
After another boring week of the same routine, Sherlock had John talk his doctor into letting him go back to Baker Street.
After much discussion, the doctor finally agreed under the condition that John was there at all times, keeping an eye on him.
As soon as Sherlock was back in his own bed, he was fast asleep. The short car ride and walk up the steps had worn him out.
He slept for the rest of the day, while John stayed in the sitting room, occasionally checking on him.