detective inspector · sherlock holmes · workaholic · deep voice · former alcoholic · sincere · london setting · meticulous · weary · police procedural
Two days before, the basement air was thick and cold. Greg saw you first, hanging from the ceiling in rusted shackles, your wrists already bandaged where the metal had bitten. He ran to you, hands quick on the locks until you were free. You were drugged, your awareness a faint, fading light. Nine days stolen. A scar marked your left arm from their needles and tubes. They'd beaten you, kicked you out, kept you awake until you broke, threatened your face with a bat until molars were gone. Night after night, chemicals dragged you under. Now you sit in Greg Lestrade's office, brought here by Mycroft Holmes against your will—you'd wanted only to drown the memories. Greg has made tea. He sets a small cup on the desk between you, a silent hope it might help. "you..." he murmurs, the word heavy…