It's finally up! I've been working on this for a while now and almost gave up. I've also wrote it out about a million different ways and I finally came up with this. Because of my new meds for the illness I have makes me out of it I'm normally pretty blah during the day and have to write at night. You'll notice when I am I think in the middle when I decided I'd treck through it all the same. But I wanted to thank everyone for the support so far.
And here it is! Sherlock's POV. Just a warning, I'm not very good at writing as him, but I gave it a shot because a lot of you wanted to see it.

I still own nothing. Sherlock and John belong to BBC. Well, more Moffy and Gaty.

...

That wasn't John.

No. Correction. It wasn't his John. His John had never looked so small, never looked so scared of the world around him. Never since Sherlock had met him anyways.

As his fast moving feet went over the cold cement floor, the torch light in his hand shinning in a far too menacing way for him to stand. With every foot fall images of John's face flashed through his head. A smile, a laugh. Scowling at him when Sherlock almost blew up what was on the stove dinner. The way John's face lit up whenever Sherlock kissed him. The way John had flushed when Sherlock first kissed him. The way John's eyes a lit with such emotion that Sherlock couldn't even put names for whenever John saw him in the crowd. How perfectly his rough fingers from years of holding a gun instead of taking care of this sick fit within his own so well.

And now... now he didn't resemble the other at all. His dirty blond hair was knotted and dark. Why was it so dark? It looked as if someone had dunked it into paint. Every inch of his skin was swollen or black coloured or the dark thick liquid... oh god.

It clicked in his mind. Something that should have clicked long before, but he simply didn't want to believe it as he knelled in the pool of it. Blood. So much blood. With shaking fingers Sherlock reached out and touched the other's cheek. He just simply needed to touch him, to know it was real and not some sick dream. God. He didn't know what would be worse. Dream or reality at this point.

And yet, for that short moment that his eyes held John's before they closed, Sherlock knew the truth. No. It was reality. And that was okay. He found John. He found him and he was still alive.

"Oh dear god..." How long had Lestrade been behind him, Sherlock didn't know. He didn't turn to look at the other, his fingers gently brushing against John's swollen face. He didn't say a word, couldn't. He couldn't even take his eyes off John. If he did, someone could take him away again. And if that happened, Sherlock didn't know if he could handle it. Not again.

Sherlock could hear Lestrade moving away and yelling. There was a rush of footsteps from above and down the flight of stairs. But he didn't care. He was too focused on John, picking up the other's head gently and cradling it in his lap.

Then came arms and hands, reaching and trying to take John away from him. There was yells and desperate pleas and Lestrade grabbing hold of him, telling him everything was okay. It was only as they took John up the stairs that Sherlock realized the yells had been coming from him.

"Sherlock, it's okay. Everything is okay. We need to get him to the hospital now. Come on. We'll follow the ambulance. They're going to need all the room in there that they can get to help John." Why was Lestrade talking to him like that? In that god damn voice he used on victims families? And yet he knew the other man was just trying to help. Slowly Sherlock stopped fighting against Lestrade's grip and slowly gave a nod before letting himself be led up the stairs and through the deserted house once more.

...

The simple fact Sherlock had behaved up to this very point was amazing. But how could he be expected to keep sitting there when he had seen them wheel John from surgery and into a room? He had tried to go into the room only to be blocked by a nurse and told only family was allowed at this time. She might as well of spit on him than say it in such a horrid way.

Words had flooded from his lips, curse words along with every horrid statement he could think of about her appearance, her intelligence, and even prying into her private life, saying it all loud enough for everyone in the waiting room to hear.

"Shit! Sherlock, you need to calm down! I can't leave you for two minutes to fill out paper work, can I?" Lestrade's voice was extremely tired as he grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulders and moving him a bit further away from the nurse who looked like she was either going to burst into tears or start kicking the shit out of the detective.

"It's not my fault that it's all true! She's being unreasonable and wont let me see John!" Sherlock snapped, his voice full of venom and with childish displeasure. But Lestrade knew better, under the heated exchange and cold words he could hear the hint of a desperate tone buried in it all. Sherlock just wanted to be with his boyfriend.

"And as I already told him, at this time only family can be allowed in. The patient -"

"The patient is only a live right now because his boyfriend found him in time. Trust me, when John Watson wakes up he wont want to see his 'family'. He'll want to see his boyfriend that has been searching for a week for him and then you'll have his anger on top of this ones. And if that isn't enough to convince you, I'll leave this one to shout out every little detail about your love life to the rest of the hospital just by what he can see with what shoes you have on or whatever nonsense while I stand here and make sure that no security interferes. So it's up to you." In any other case Lestrade wouldn't act in such a way. But the past few days had shown him a side of Sherlock that he was sure didn't exist. Him and the rest of Scotland Yard. And he wasn't going to let some uppity nurse try and keep the younger man from seeing John if he had any say. Because even Sherlock needed help every now and again.

The nurse at this point only had to look Lestrade in the eye to tell he was dead serious with the matter. She gritted her teeth and moved out from the doorway. "I swear, I don't get paid enough for this..." She hissed and made her way down the hall and her hands up in the air as a sign of simply giving up.

As soon as the doorway was clear for him to get through, Sherlock moved for it. He just had to see John, to make sure the other man was actually still there. Because Sherlock was still waiting to wake up in a cold sweat to find himself back at 221B Baker Street alone. John would still be gone with only the the distant taste of what had been and what could have been thanks to the so called dream.

But it wasn't a dream. He walked into the room and froze at the sight before him. Somehow it was worse then sight he had found only hours before. Sherlock hardly dared to breath as looked at the other. Gone away was the floppy sand coloured locks that John had been growing out. Instead was a hack job where they couldn't get the blood out and instead they had cut. It was shaved close in some areas here was uplifted spots of bruised skin and bandages covering stitches. Gone away was the blood soaked clothes, instead replaced of the red collared shirt there was a hospital gown lightly hanging over his swelled skin. That was if, if the area hadn't been bandaged up or bruised something horrible. And then there were all the wires and tubes and machines surrounding and hooked up to John. It was just too much. Stinging eyes closed as Sherlock's breath came in sharp and pained at the sight before him, of his John. But he was able to compose himself quickly as his eyes flashed open again, though focused on the floor.

Instead as he made his way over to the only chair that had somehow been squeezed into the small area that was made up of machines and IV stand. As he came around the bed, his fingers grabbed the patient file before falling into the chair, curling his legs to him. He didn't open it. Not yet. As much as his mind craved the information of just what injuries John had and what had been done to him while he had been behind those closed double doors, he simply listened to the beeping of the heart monitor and the moving air with the machine that was hooked to the tube that was in John's mouth. It left Sherlock shivering, but at least it was breathing. Even if it seemed too slow, it was still breathing and induction of John still being with him, even if his eyes were still closed and he still out of it.

But this was Sherlock after all and his lack of rush to find out answers didn't last long. His long fingers quickly opened the cart while his eyes skimmed over more of the basic things within the file until he found just what he was looking for. Why wait for a doctor? They'd surely forget something. The only doctor he trusted was John, and even he was human and apt to forget something. No, it was better he just did it himself.

But what his blue eyes fell on made him want nothing more than wish he hadn't looked, hadn't been so nosily. It was times like this maybe it was better to hear it spoken aloud and then in fine print that seemed to mock him. Dear god. His John. He felt the file slip from his hands as his eyes focus on the other's almost completely still form. Why hadn't he been there to protect him? "I'm sorry John. I'm so sorry," he rasped with the makings of a truly horrified and broken voice as he reached out and grabbed hold of John's hand gently.

Still those words whispered through Sherlock and left him shaking. 'Taring consistent with rape.'