And the Lost Return Changed

Sherlock hadn't expected to come back.

To be fair, he wasn't unscathed and he was certainly scarred in more ways than he cared to even ascertain let alone admit, but he hadn't expected to come back at all.

"Little brother."

Sherlock wasn't even sure he was glaring as he glanced at his brother from the side, reaching for the car door to brace himself. "Mycroft."

"Welcome back."

Sherlock grunted softly, propping himself with either of the crutches. "Not officially."

"Perhaps not."

Sherlock sighed, meeting Mycroft's gaze for only the tiniest moment. "Well, go on, then. Tell me how horrible I look; I know you're dying to." He looked back down at the crutches, at the way his trousers crumbled and rumpled due to the bulky cast on his right leg. "Just as much as I'm dying to say that you were wrong about my chances of survival." He tightened his grip on the crutches and limped towards the door.

"For once, Sherlock, although you may find this hard to believe, I'm glad to have been wrong." Mycroft opened the door, stepping to the side.

"Oh, save the sentiment, Mycroft. You know how it turns my stomach this early in the morning."

"Yes. Well."

Sherlock painstakingly made his way upstairs, dogged by Mycroft for his every step. The broken tibia was irritating at best and gut-wrenching at most, but the cracked ribs and the nearly healed fractured collarbone did nothing to help ease his level of discomfort. He wasn't about to get started on the number of black and purple colorations mottled nearly every inch of his skin, or the gashes, stitches, and half-healed nicks and scrapes that still stung with the water from the hot showers that he had only just gotten reacquainted with.

"Do you have an estimate until the rest of your... mismatched group of friends becomes privy to your return?" Mycroft asked delicately.

Sherlock gingerly sank onto the mattress with a sigh, dropping the crutches onto the foot of the bed. "Preferably sometime after I stop looking like a skeleton beaten half to... re-death." Mycroft raised his eyebrows; Sherlock scowled. "You know what I mean. Going back looking like this isn't going to soothe anyone's nerves. Besides, they thought I was just on exile, bored out of my mind and doing a little undercover work. They still don't know it was meant to be suicide."

"True," Mycroft mused. "Get some rest, Sherlock."

"Rest?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the choice word. "Don't be ridiculous." He turned over to face the wall, effectively ending the conversation. He hadn't been able to rest since three weeks into the exile, more or less. The nightmares had begun even earlier. Those had started the first week.

He didn't care to talk about it.

He closed his eyes as Mycroft exited the room, leaving silence behind. Sherlock wasn't particularly tired, nor did he think he would be able to sleep, but the plane ride had been long and tedious, and the altitude had wreaked havoc on just about every part of him. He was back in London now, though, finally. Maybe he'd been able to relax.

As if.

A/N: Just what has Sherlock been up to... I was prompted by a person who wishes to remain anonymous, but do take note that the plot is product of another's genius. I love where the prompted plot is going to go, so I accepted the request and am writing the story, hopefully to said person's delight and standards. I hope I'm doing this idea justice!

Is it a sickfic? Yes... and no. Is it a dark fic? It's middling, but it will have its moments. Is it character development centic? Yes. There is going to be a lot of character development (or deconstruction... just saying). It's emotional, it's angsty, it's Sherlock-centric. The premise is a mystery, but I promise - without giving away plot points - that it is a beautiful idea (if I can pull it off!). Hopefully it piques some interest!

Chapter One coming soon - this is just the prologue. Chapters will be longer.
I do not own Sherlock. Thanks for reading; stay tuned!