A/N: Hey guys! I just watched Empty Hearse yesterday (and rewatched it today) and so I had some torture feels that needed to be expressed. So...

SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS! FOR S3!

I feel like John had to know Sherlock had been tortured within 24 hours or something of seeing him. And I haven't seen Sign of Three yet (can't believe it came out today, wow) so this might be totally off. But please, enjoy. And don't forget to leave me a review! I love being off hiatus!

Each heart knows its own bitterness,
and no one else can share its joy.

Proverbs 14:10

The first time I saw the scars, it was right after our first case together. As in, our first case after Sherlock stopped being dead. Apparently, dead men do indeed listen to the prayers of the living. Sherlock would, he completely would do something so ridiculous like that.

And a waiter of all things? With a French accent and matching mustache?

What on earth had he been thinking?

It's a well-known fact that the brilliant ones look like fools to the rest of us, but I was fairly sure that fell well outside the realm of all intelligent and sane.

"I've not heard a peep from him all day," said Mrs. Hudson as she ushered me in kindly, shutting the door behind me. "I think he's sleeping, the poor thing," she said, a tittering laugh trailing the words. But her eyes were sympathetic, even sad. I frowned and turned to go up the stairs, and suddenly froze.

Violin music drifted down the stairs, like the scent of baking sugar. Sweet, inviting, irresistible.

In a trance, I rose up the stairs, one by one. Each step was slow, savoured. An unaccountable fear nagged in the back of my skull, whispering that there would be an empty room at the top of the staircase, mocking me. But I shoved it away, finally reaching the last step, and pushed the door open softly.

Sherlock's tune was emotive, raw. It was incredibly confusing, switching back and forth between sadness and elation, as if both were a dream, and he would fall asleep to one only to wake to the other. He didn't see me, just faced out the dark window where nighttime London danced, his silhouette swaying in time with his music. Despite myself, a lump rose in my throat, a sound I thought I'd never hear again lightly ringing in my ears.

I opened my mouth to get his attention, feeling as if I were intruding on something very private. But my invitation to come to have dinner with Mary and I at our flat (her idea, not mine) fell dead on my tongue. Sherlock is a drug, and the sound of the strings trembling with emotion was my fix. I was starved for the sound. I closed my eyes and drank in the melody, relaxed almost to the point of sleep. I cracked them open again, and watched his body gently channel the song with small gestures and movements, subtly accentuating it.

I could tell he was shirtless, he did that a lot when he was sleeping. Everything was so - Sherlock. Between Sherlock and Mary, I could burst from happiness.

I was finally about to move forward and announce my presence when Sherlock suddenly turned, and he still didn't see me, his eyes being closed. But I could finally see him, in the low light seeping in through the open window. It fell on his bare back and shoulders, making him glow. The sight of it froze me, a thrill of horror exploding in my chest.

His back was crossed with several deep cuts, some still healing. Bruises too, deep and angry. I fought back nausea, knowing under what circumstances he must have got them. Though I had already been wondering what he occupied himself with for two years, for the first time I began to understand how dark a time it had been for him.

Originally I had imagined him going about, happily solving crimes and bringing criminals to justice, and conveniently forgetting to just pick up the phone and call his old friend John Watson to let him know that there was no reason to grieve. His back, however, argued differently.

My medical mind looked at the gashes, assessing. Couldn't be more than a few days old. To think he had been acting so normal, dashing about and being a pompous so-and-so, and never breathed a word about the burden on his back. Why, I had even attacked him. Three separate times. With that, fresh in his mind. While there is no way in this life or the next I could ever be moved to apologize for the way I reacted (he brought it on himself), I did feel slightly guilty.

Is this what it would be like to be Sherlock? Hurting people, and never having a clue.

He must have had a large share of inhospitable people, as always. I knew he had nearly the best reaction time on the planet, and enough self-defense knowledge to put James Bond to shame. So then right after he went through that, he was throttled by me, of all people. Heaven knows I wanted to plenty of times before, but we both knew I wouldn't lift a finger to actually hurt him.

The memories were mostly a red blur of rage, but looking them over with a more precise eye, I realized that he hadn't lifted a finger to defend himself, taking every single attack, both physical and verbal, not fighting back at all.

How uncharacteristic of him.

His eyes drifted open dreamily, and suddenly the music stopped and he straightened.

"John?" he said pleasantly, though his eyes narrowed in confusion, his head tilting to the side like a confused puppy.

"I... Erm..." I said awkwardly, my feet and eyes shifting nervously.

He looked down, and blurted, "Oh," as if he had just noticed his state of undress. A dressing gown soon fixed the problem, and he turned to face me, looking amicable. He'd been doing an unnatural amount of that lately, and it was more than slightly unnerving.

"What is it?" he asked, raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Mary wanted to have you over for dinner," I explained, reducing my awkward movements down to a fidget in one hand.

Sherlock huffed and turned away. "You know I'm not much for those things." he said, sounding more like his usual self.

"And we can have anything you like, as long as it's not too expensive," I continued, repeating Mary's words to me.

Sherlock chuckled lowly and replaced the violin to his neck. "I've got leftover fish and chips in the fridge if I'm hungry," he said dismissively, half facing me as he spoke. Then he began playing again, a more arrogant tune this time. I don't know how he can make a series of notes sound arrogant, but he's Sherlock Holmes, I guess.

I silently turned and left, and let myself out, Mrs. Hudson being out of sight, busy with something.

Down on the street, I turned and looked up at the first floor window, seeing Sherlock's rocking form through the panes. The flowing red dressing gown made him look almost mystical, and I was tempted to think he was, at times.

I was definitely owed more answers, and I resolved to get them, no matter what. But there was no rush.

After all, we had the rest of our lives.