Just... OMG you guys! Really! I just wanted to take this chance to thank every single one of you for your amazing responses~ Thank you so much! I've never had such responses before. My other fics have only a few reviews, which initially put me off posting. But I look forward to every review I receive for this fic. They are just wonderful and I love getting feedback! I never thought of myself much of a writer, only just started fic writing fairly recently. But it's so much fun!

I tend to write like a scene from an episode/movie. I see the story inside my head before I see words or write it down. Unless it seems totally an in character response or action I don't use it. By now I've watched the fall so many times but it still makes me cry. I can nearly say most scenes word for word.

I still have so much planned for this fic. I know what Sherlock is going to do soon. I know Moriarty will be dealt with. I know how at least one reunion might go. John's will take time. But I have plenty of chapters before that happens. Sherlock's recovery won't be instant, because that's unrealistic. And he may not totally be himself again until he and John have been reunited.

Before I go and plan the next chapter I just wanted to say thank you again and you've all missed something important. I can't help it. But you have. It amuses me because it's so obvious. But don't worry, I'm sure you will figure it out soon enough. Or you'll just have to wait until the reunion.

Thank you again!

Molly sat outside her flat, two packages in her lap, anxiously waiting for Mycroft Holmes. A few hours ago he had called, informing her that Sherlock had been found, two weeks ago in fact. She had been so relieved. When he'd informed her that he was missing and to keep an eye out, she'd been incredibly worried. Sherlock was always getting himself into trouble. But now he was back home in London, everything was going to be ok.

"Miss Hooper?" She looked up to see a car waiting in front of her, the driver holding the door open. "Thank you" She slid inside next to Mycroft and Anthea, his tetris addict of an assistant. Mycroft gave her a slight smile as they drove off, his eyes looking curiously at her packages. "Oh, I thought maybe he'd like a welcome home gift or two...how is he?"

"..As well as can be expected. Given what he's been through"

"Which is? I mean you didn't say. You just said he'd been found"

"I'll explain later. We have to stop at the airport."

Another passenger later and they finally arrived back at Mycrofts home. Irene and Molly followed the man silently down the hallway until they came to Sherlock's room. "Wait here, I need to talk to him alone for a minute."

"Sherlock?" His brother turned his head, a newspaper in his lap, still on the window seat. "You have visitors." Sherlock returned his gaze to the paper, but Mycroft figured he wasn't really reading it. "I don't want any" He replied quietly. His voice was always soft spoken now. Like a whisper. Like he was afraid to speak. Or even raise his voice.

"You need new faces, Sherlock"

"No."

"They've missed you."

"I don't care."

"They're coming in anyway."

"Fine" No more arguments, just silent acceptance. Mycroft would rather he argued more.

"Please, don't ask too many questions about where he has been. He has flashbacks. They are not pleasant. Just keep your questions general and simple"

"But what..um, what has happened?" Molly enquired, worriedly biting her lip. Mycroft knew explanations were probably in order. "He was captured, by Moriarty" The two women gasped.

"Wait, he's alive?"

"Apparently so"

"Anyway, The Black Lotus, who Sherlock had encountered in the past, kept him locked in a windowless cell for almost 6 weeks. They..they tortured him, they drugged him, they treated him like filth. I won't go into too much detail right now. But.. when I found him...he was catatonic..a broken soul" Molly started to cry, tears slipping down her cheeks. Oh Sherlock. Irene tried to stay strong but the thought of that brilliant man, broken, almost caused her to follow Molly's response.

"He's back now but, he's changed. I'm worried, frankly, I'm worried this could be permanent. Right now the main concern is recovering from his numerous injuries and trying to bring back some of his old personality. Which is where you two come in."

"B-but what can we do?"

"Just be yourself"

Molly crept into Sherlock's room. It was dark and she almost missed the man sitting in the window seat. He was in his pale blue pyjamas, bandages easily seen beneath the blue shirt. They covered both arms and his feet were also bound. His face was marred with fading bruises around his nose, eyes and jaw. There was bruising around his neck too. He was curled against the wall, watching the clouds go by, a newspaper lying on the floor. Molly pulled over a chair from the elegant desk that sat on the other side of the large room, which was more a suite really, and placed it beside the window seat.

"Hello Sherlock" She tried to sound happy and optimistic. No response. She frowned but tried again. "It's nice to see you again, been awhile." Nothing. Was he ignoring her? "Um.. I brought you some presents."

"That wasn't necessary" She almost didn't hear that quiet voice. He still stared outside. "That doesn't matter, you're my friend, so I got you something to welcome you home." She placed the packages on his lap, noticing how he curled away from her hands. Oh Sherlock. If she ever got her hands on Jim, whom she thought had been dead, there would be hell to pay.

Sherlock picked up one package, he was actually pleased to see Molly. He just, didn't feel like saying much anymore. Being quiet and keeping to himself, became more than a force of habit but an act of survival that seared itself into his personality. Quiet he was safe, if he spoke or made a noise, he was punished. The package was small, unwrapping it he discovered a small wooden box, richly engraved with a skull, glittering black stones for eyes, engraved in the middle.

"Found it at a one of those second hand stores. I don't know if you have a use for it but it was nice and I just thought.." Sherlock did like it. He'd find a use for it. The other package was a little bigger and a lot softer. It turned out to be a deep, deep blue hoodie, with large silver wings on the back. Angel's wings. Smart Molly, clever Molly. His skull marked hoodie, though he liked it, was past it's use by date. He folded the hoodie and placed it at his feet on the seat, the box on top.

"Thank you" He whispered.

They spent another half hour in silence before Molly left, incredibly sad and worried for her dear friend.

Irene entered after Molly left, unsure what she'd find. She noted the tear tracks on the girl's cheeks and bit the inside of her cheek. The sufferer rested against the wall of the window seat, one hand tracing circles into the cold glass. Her eyes noticed the bandages, the paleness of skin, the bruises. She wished she could get her hands on the Black Lotus and Jim Moriarty, instantly regretting once more, ever getting involved with him.

She sat in Molly's vacated chair, watching the man. She didn't know what to say. How are you? Sounded silly and inconsiderate. Nice weather we're having, was false and Irene wasn't fond of small talk. Hello would have to do.

"Hello Sherlock" No reply. Mycroft warned her of that possibility. The person he spoke the most words to was his own brother. "It's nice to see you again, I was worried." Nothing. "Those gifts from Molly?" She moved to take a look but he used his foot to push them away from her.

"Don't you trust me?"

"No."

That hurt. But what hurt more was how he said it. Like a whisper, like he was afraid of raising his voice. It was said with uncertainty and almost regret. The poor man, so fragile and vulnerable. So much thinner than before. The last time she had seen him he had been happy, vibrant and healthy. The exact opposite to the man that sat in front of her.

She couldn't stand the silence, the expression on his face. She got up and left the room.

Sherlock didn't blame her.

That evening Mycroft entered his brothers suite quietly, noting the uneaten dinner, the fact that his brother had still not left his post. Mycroft sat down on one of the couches that were placed in front of the bed and opened the photo album.

"I saw John today" Sherlock turned his head, watching his brother curiously. He only really responded to Mycroft. Mycroft was the only person he trusted completely. Strange, considering Mycroft got his brother into this whole mess.

"He was quite well, recovering from his own injuries, though they are much better than yours now. But then his were instant, yours were more...continuous. He's babysitting his girlfriend's niece and nephew. Adorable children really, fatherhood suits him." Mycroft flicked through the pages, noting his brother's shadow leaving the window seat and moving to sit next to his brother.

"Was he happy?"

"Yes, we talked about you a bit, about your childhood."

"Does..does he miss me?" Mycroft looked at his brother with bemusement. "Of course he does dear brother. Almost near tears a few times while we were talking." Sherlock poked the album. "From Mrs Hudson, she made one for John too, she never got a chance to give you yours. Lovely woman" Sherlock took the book from his brother and opened it. So many photos, so many memories. John. Sherlock felt a tear slide down one cheek as he turned the pages slowly. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly... So many memories but why did that make him sad?

"You'll see them again"

"...They won't want to see me"

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm different. Not..depressed, not disturbed, but..different."

"I know, we'll fix it"

"You can't fix it." He turned the page to a large photo of John and the detective laughing. His eyes mistied over again, tear drops falling onto the plastic. Strong arms pulled him to the side and Sherlock sobbed into his brother's suit.

"What's wrong with me?"

"You miss them. You miss him. And you've been through a lot. Too much. But I'm here for you. Molly and Irene are as well. They're staying here for a few nights."

"I don't want them. I want John" His voice muffled, his face still pressed against his brother's chest.

"I know, Sherlock. I know. You'll see him again. Hopefully this will all be over soon."

"He'll hate me"

"He could never hate you."

"I'd hate me"

"You're not John." He held his brother tight, pulling out his handkerchief from his breast pocket and gently wiped his brother's face. "Blow" Sherlock blew into the square of fabric. Mycroft gently wiped his nose and handed the handkerchief to his brother. "Will you be alright tonight?" Sherlock shook his head.

He had a lot of nightmares, a lot of sleepless nights. Mycroft always made a point of asking if he wanted to sleep alone or with Mycroft in the room. Mycroft usually slept on a couch but occasionally he'd shared the bed with his sibling. Because after a nightmare he usually needed calming down, someone to soothe his pain, physical and emotional. Someone to assure him he was not alone, not in his cell and not a freak or animal. Sometimes Sherlock just needed someone there, because it made him feel safe. The only person he accepted to do this task was Mycroft.

Mycroft left to get changed into his own pyjamas, returning to the room with a pile of blankets. Sherlock was already in bed, curled on his side, facing outward. Mycroft slid underneath the sheets placing the fresh blanket over the top of them.

"Good night Sherlock. Sweet dreams"

His brother was already asleep, safe in the belief his brother was there to protect him.

Sleep well little brother.