Sherlock was very happy to be back at 221b. He refused to sleep in his own room, though - it didn't have a window, and therefore it was much too confined. He stayed on the couch, his two casted legs propped up on piles of pillows.
It was at that time that, once again, at exactly 12 am in the morning, he woke up screaming his lungs out, once again drenched in a cold sweat. He just wanted to curl up on his side and try to push it all [i]away[/i]. But he couldn't - ever since those stupid [i]idiots[/i] had caught him and started to torture him, his mind wasn't the same. It was clouded and hazy, wrapped in cotton. It was ravaged with an insane migraine at least once every day - and sometimes he'd be even driven to complain about it. 
He lay on the couch, throwing and arm over his eyes. He pushed back those stupid, [i]stupid[/i] tears that decided they should make their presence known. He hated them. He hated [i]everything[/i]. He'd done bad things in his past, but nothing so horrible as to deserve [i]this[/i].