So it took a while, but chapter number three is here! Its a bit disorganized, but I tried to pack in some information that was missing to try to tie up some loose ends that you might be wondering. Another chapter from Sherlock's view, so again, I apologize if its not the greatest. I still can't seem to get into him as easily as I can John.

I want to thank a friend of mine who's been there a lot for me as of late and helped me get through this time for me and helped me from going insane. The character by the name of David in here is hers, and I'm extremely happy she let me use him.

Also, thank you to everyone that has reviewed and everything else. I hope that this chapter is as good as you hoped it would be!

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Time passed at too slow of a pace when there was nothing to keep his mind busy from the boredom he felt. And despite it, Sherlock hadn't moved for two weeks other then for the times he was forced to because his body needed to. Instead he watched a slowly raising and falling of John's chest, listened to the beeping of machines and the sounds of shuffling feet and voices outside of the room. He had done this all for two weeks. Two weeks of John laying there with very few changes.

Sherlock had been told not to get his hopes up that John would wake up anytime soon, if at all. There had been so much trauma to the body that it wasn't something that a body could just recover from over night. And despite it all, John seemed to almost know what was being said about him and kept leaving his doctor shocked.

John no longer needed his breathing tube to help get air through him, though now he instead had tubes going to his nose to give him only a little help. According to the monitor, John's mind wasn't still but instead showing activity, more so when he heard Sherlock's voice, though the other man was sure it was just acquiescence. He was told to talk to the other, maybe it would help, but couldn't get himself to do it. It was like talking to a wall. (Then again, Sherlock was a man who used to carry around a skull to talk to, how could this be any different?) The bruises about the other had for the most part calmed down to a purple, blue, or red colour and the swelling had gone down a bit.

Within the two weeks only a few people had shown up to see John before visiting hours were over. Mrs. Hudson tried to come as often as she could, but every time left in tears, mumbling that it wasn't fair. The poor woman at least brought a change of clothes for Sherlock though whenever she did come so that Sherlock wouldn't have to leave. Not that he would anyways. No matter how bored he got.

Lestrade and his insufferable boyfriend visited as well every other day. In all truth, Sherlock leaned on these visits, even if he had deal with David during them. Lestrade was more then happy to run and get stuff for Sherlock such as food and coffee, anything to not stand in the room for too long, instead leaving his boyfriend to do that. It was the first time that Sherlock had been in a room with David that didn't end with them yelling at each other. Instead there was idle chat that drove Sherlock mad. But at least they were both there because they cared about John. Against Sherlock's will, David and John had become friends over the months. John would often laugh at him for being jealous that he had other friends besides Sherlock, and maybe scared that David would steal him away. He always coupled such teasing remarks with laying kisses on Sherlock's skin until it left the detective dizzy.

And finally, Mycroft had come to hold up his end of it, to say how regretful all of this was. But even though such an encounter where even more stressed then having David there, Mycroft had said something that made Sherlock feel slightly better. His older brother promised to track down Moriarty and get him for what had happened. Of course Sherlock knew it was silly to take relief in it because he knew that even with Mycroft's resources that Moriarty wouldn't get caught. But the idea that since he didn't dare leave with John like this, with him able to wake up at any moment, that someone was trying to track down the man who had hurt John in such a horrible way might get caught... Moriarty would be lucky if Mycroft's men or officers from Scotland Yards got to him first, because Sherlock would kill him for it if he got the chance.

And yet, John's family never made an appearance. Sherlock could still hear John's tight voice when he finally got worn down enough by Sherlock's curiosity to talk about them. They weren't close, him and his parents. Not in connect. While Harry was normally too drunk as of late to even know something was wrong. They all had been contacted and not one showed up.

Sherlock hadn't slept much during these weeks, hadn't moved from the chair he perched on since that first night. It was the longest he had stayed in one spot without going completely insane from boredom or not in deep thought. Though, he was bored out of his mind and most of his time was in thought. He kept trying to think how he could have gotten to John sooner, some how got to him before Moriarty could harm him. But he couldn't and he knew that. Moriarty had seen it as a game, giving him a clue to where John was after solving little riddles, sending him 'presents', if they could be called that. He still remember that dreadful night when he had first gotten a message from Moriarty, saying he knew where Sherlock was and that he would destroy him. Sending John out on a wild goose chase had been hoped to protect him, not for any of this to happen.

Hours later Gladstone had started barking at the door at the point that Sherlock was ready to simply let the horrid animal go. In the end, Sherlock got to his feet and opened the door to find a news paper with blood spatters on it with no trace of where it had come from. Sherlock blinked at it as he picked it up, seeing it was an old paper. And then he remembered his own words to John a little over a hour before.

It had seemed like the moment it had clicked, that his heart raced in fear of what might have happened to the doctor that he got a text from an unknown number. The picture had shown up, though dark on his phone screen. A picture of John, his hands bound and a gun point to his throat. Though it to an untrained eye it might have seemed that John wasn't letting this get to him, Sherlock saw otherwise. For the first time since he met John Watson he had ever seen fear glitter in his blue eyes.

And then it went on from there. The little game with a different number to contact each time when Sherlock figured out a puzzle and a clue and a box would appear at Sherlock's door. John's jacket, his mobile (which had been pretty much destroyed), a picture of John somewhere dark (a basement?), and so many other things over that of a week. The last item he had gotten had been John's wool jumper, soaked almost black and stiff with blood. It had been torn close to ruins. The sigh of it had made Sherlock sick, though little had actually come up for he hadn't ate a bite within those days.

And yet those clues had pointed no where until that final one. Even if he had some how guessed the location, it could have led them wrong. And which would have wasted them time in actually finding John.

Sherlock watched as a nurse came in to check on John, her eyes wary of Sherlock. After all, it was past visiting hours. And yet he hadn't left yet. The nurses soon learned to just leave him be, that he wasn't going anywhere after that first night. Word had spread and in turn when a nurse that hadn't yet met with him knew that it would be far worse and more of a pain for them if they tried to get him to follow the rules.

The nurse for the most part did her job, checking John's pulse and temperature and the readings on the monitors. But when she saw the doctor's temperature, Sherlock knew it was still too high by the look on her face. It had gone for too low that first night and through that next day to too high. John had had hypothermia from being exposed to such cold for too long. That, and pneumonia. All things that had been found that first night, things he had read in the file along with broken bones, torn muscles and tendons and ligaments, fractures (far too many of them to the skull), gaping wounds that were stitched together or stapled, blood transplants for the fact his body had been close to drained. And so many other things.

And of course, the clear signs of rape, signs of torture, signs of attempted escape. The latter was something Sherlock had seen within the wounds, not the doctor's. There had been a build-up of splinters on John's fingers after being dragged back from the wooden stairs that led from his prison, him struggling to keep hold and keep from being brought back. And yet the doctor's weren't giving John pain medication because of his current confinement within himself. They said it would be more likely John wouldn't wake up if they gave it to him. And sometimes, Sherlock wished they'd take that risk. For John's swollen face still conveyed his pain. Tears would drip from closed eyelids, his lips turned down. Somewhere in there, John could feel all of this, was suffering through it.

Once Sherlock was sure the nurse wasn't coming back, he did something hadn't done before. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his arms gently and carefully wrapping around John and leaning the other's body instead against him. He held John close to him for the first time since he found him those two weeks before. Sherlock did this for his own self reasons, knowing quite well that he could be hurting John by doing this. He simply had to do it, to know he was real. For it had been too long since he held John to him. He never went so long before. Sherlock wasn't one to show his feelings. Yes, he'd kiss John and some times give into the urge (mostly from John's own undoing by being cute) of cuddling with the other. But it was while the ex-solider slept that Sherlock stayed awake and wrapped his arms around John and simply held him to him, so tightly that their heart beats were felt by the other. Because everything in their relationship and that there was one went again the fibers of Sherlock. It went against every rule of the markings of a sociopath.

Under the hospital and chemical smell, Sherlock could faintly smell the musky smell of John. Carefully and softly, he laid a small trail of kisses to John's head, moving around the stapled up areas, which was a good part of him. His broken soldier was far more broken then when he first met him. And it hurt Sherlock, hurt him to know this was his fault.

"John, if you really can hear me, I just want to say I love you." Such words had never been uttered by Sherlock. But he was sure that the feeling that welled up him was love. There was no one else in the world that mattered so much to him then the broken man in his arms. And Sherlock didn't want to know he had never had the nerve to say them to him before John... if he...

As tears stung at Sherlock's eyes, with blurred vision he noticed something. He quickly blinked the tears away, clearing his vision as quickly as he could, even if it meant letting the drip down his face. Even before he could figure out what he saw, a weak hand moved and gripped hold of Sherlock's shirt.

"J-John?" Sherlock croaked in a hoarse voice, a voice he hadn't fully used in far too long. There was no answer, though he could see eyelids moving, blinking. As much as Sherlock didn't want to, he carefully moved out from under John moved to sit on the edge of the bed so he could face John, take even every detail of the other as a smile formed on his own face. John was awake, finally awake. He knew he should have the doctor paged, but he wanted to have his own moment with the other after three weeks now of not truly having the other there.

Sherlock's grays moved and met John's. For a moment, he just looked back into John's eyes, his smile and happiness fading. Something wasn't right. His hand gently pressed against John's cheek softly, which John flinched from. But he didn't care. His gray-blue eyes were glued to John's blues which were hallow and clouded. It was an expression he'd never seen, an expression that would haunt Sherlock. For even though his eyes were open, that he was breathing, they held the expression that Sherlock had only ever seen in a dead man's eyes.

"John...?"