Two days later, Sherlock found himself sitting in the chair in the living room. He'd gone to the press, he'd told Lestrade that they needed to know everything. Lestrade, reluctant at first, agreed to it. The TV almost constantly played the brutal murders. When one channel took a break, he switched to a new one.

He needed to review each and every clue there was. He was no closer to finding John than he had been the moment he'd known John was gone. Feeling the loss so painfully his hands shook, Sherlock yelled out and knocked everything off the side table with a swipe of his arm. He rose from the chair and paced. The likelihood that John was still alive was so slim, Sherlock didn't even want to think about it. The thought of never seeing John again made him violent.

The thought that John was dead and he may be the next pair of dead eyes Sherlock saw kept him up at night.

After trying, and not fully succeeding, in not breaking everything in the kitchen, Sherlock went into John's room. He knew he wouldn't move anything in there, let alone damage it. Also, he needed to think John was somewhere near him because, as it turns out, he couldn't think right without him.

All the victims previously had been killed in the same spot they were found. John on the other hand, had been removed after being wounded, and hadn't shown up since. The police force was aware of John's absence as well as the newscasters. Lestrade was one of two aware of Sherlock's seemingly complete breakdown. Mrs. Hudson was the only other person because she couldn't get Sherlock to eat or drink, or even to lie down and rest for more than a few hours at a time. Though Sherlock looked positively sick as well as exhausted.

He couldn't imagine the torture John was being put through, all because of him. Without realizing exactly what he was doing, Sherlock lay upon the bed, taking a deep breath. For a moment, he didn't question what he was doing but then he suddenly realized that he missed John so bad it hurt. His chest tightened at the smell, expecting John to walk into the room and have one of his issues about personal space.

Sherlock turned his face to the side, resting is arms and legs, breathing John's smell deep. He shut his eyes a minute. His mind slowed in a way it hadn't since he started worrying over the case. It had all been boiling down to this: loosing his Doctor. How could he have not seen?

He rolled his head to the other side, pushing up more of John's smell. Why was the killer only going after veterans? What grudge did he have against John himself?

Sighing, he opened his eyes and focused directly in front of him. His eyes suddenly locked onto a picture frame. It was fairly older but he could definitely recognize John. What fully caught his eyes were the others in the picture. Sherlock shot up and snatched the picture frame.

Calling Lestrade, he asked for a ride and was on his way to Lestrade's office in under half an hour. The moment he walked in, the pictures and information of all the victims were laid out on the desk. Sherlock took the picture out of the frame and compared the faces and found each and every murder victims face was in the picture, though there was a considerable amount more that weren't in the picture. John, the Doctor-type of this particular regiment, was the last one. Only there was one last detail.

"Who is this man? Is he a victim? Why don't I have all the pictures here?" Sherlock demanded from Lestrade and the three other officers in the room.

"Those are all the pictures. You, get me information on that man." Sherlock gave the picture to the man Lestrade pointed to and paced the moment the man left.

"It's the first lead we have, Sherlock, don't expect anything..." The glare Sherlock leveled at the man who was talking, one of the two left, shut the man right up. Sherlock continued his pacing until the man came back, a folder in one hand and the photo in another.

"You'll never believe who he is." He set the folder down and opened the file, showing a picture of the man in the photo. Sherlock frowned, grabbing the folder and reading. After a short few minutes he looked up, finding the men and Lestrade waiting.

"He is Arran. He was filed MIA after everyone but him came back. They basically said they were ambushed and scattered. He never showed up at their recovery point and they couldn't possibly know where to start looking so they let everyone know his face and name and slapped MIA on his file." Sherlock sighed. "In other words, we have nothing."

"Actually," the man who'd brought the file said, "he was brought back. They found him." He pointed deeper into the file of papers Sherlock was holding and he flipped to where the man pointed. He had been found late last year.

Sherlock nodded and then looked to Lestrade. "I can think better alone. Allow me to take the file to my flat and I'll call you if I find anything useful." Lestrade didn't feel right but he sighed, knowing there was a small possibility they'd find it without Sherlock and he was a very stubborn man. Once he got it into his head he wanted to be alone, it was going to happen.

An hour later, Sherlock had the papers spread out over the coffee table in the sitting room. He put his fingers to his mouth and readied himself for what was to come. The story of Arron was not long, but it spoke little.

Sherlock frowned, reading farther. He'd assumed the rest was just reports about the dates and times leading up to the MIA report. Not having John was affecting him horrifically. The times he needed his abilities, they were the hardest to grab.

"He was found wandering the wilds six months ago. He had been found unstable and institutionalized. After a few months, his therapists claimed he was fine, if a little damaged in his mind. They cleared him to be able to live on his own and he...He bought a farmhouse about eight miles out of town." He said this aloud, summarizing the last few pages. Within the pages was a more recent picture of a man scared and tortured, a man who'd been broken and pieced haphazardly together. He put the picture in a pocket for possible use later. To realize there was a possible farmhouse that held John, Sherlock shot up from his chair and readied himself to go. His heart flew to his throat and he went to John's room.

He smiled and fixed the bed from when he'd laid upon it. John would have none of it, just as Sherlock wouldn't. John was learning from Sherlock and maybe that wasn't the best thing, but it was happening and John was happy where he was.

Without even thinking about calling Lestrade, Sherlock got a cab and paid extra to be dropped off two miles from the farmhouse, plenty of space to not be seen coming. Smiling, excited, he wasn't even thinking about if John wouldn't be home later that day.

As he came within sight of the farmhouse, he grew more and more sure he was to find something of importance here. He used a smart method and headed for the chicken coop in the back of the yard first. It was essential to search each building, of that there were five, in order to successfully deduce if coming here was a good idea.

There was nothing but, as was guessed, chickens inside the coop. He moved to the big barn, mentally checking the building off his list. Next, he would check the mobile home, then the shed big enough to hold two cars, and then the two story home. He had to get through the barn, first, so he crept through, checking to make sure no one was after him, and slipped inside.

He immediately noticed the lack of cobwebs as he moved to the middle of the first room in the barn. At the back on the far right, he could see a small light that didn't look like the sunlight. Though the sun was setting, this light was obviously not apart of it.

Sherlock moved smoothly to the back, careful to make as little noise as possible. The light was coming from slips between the wood boards. It was a very old barn and he was having a hard time with the squeaky boards. The door wasn't locked so he opened it, but room was eight feet by ten feet. Inside, he saw a body curled on a dirty mattress. The light was coming from a battery powered lamp about a foot away from the body right next to the mattress.

Keeping himself in as much check as possible in a situation as this, Sherlock moved forward slowly. he didn't want to startle whomever this person was. The chance of it being a body with no life was fairly high, but that didn't bother Sherlock. What did bother him to the very core was if it was John and he was lifeless.

"I was hoping you wouldn't show up, Mr. Holmes." A voice from behind Sherlock said softly, sadness almost dripping from it. He spun around and saw a man that could have been the man in the photograph he'd pulled from John's room. The scars and torture on his face could never be fixed. This man, though, was the spitting image of the photo in his pocket.

"I am under the assumption you are Arron." Sherlock said, straightening and looking at the man. "You have angered many people."

"I assure you that I meant to anger those people, Sherlock Holmes." He smiled, but with the scares he looked more like he was grimacing. "How did you find out it was me?"

"You know my name. You know I would have sooner or later." Arron nodded at him, his teeth showing. HE was missing a few teeth and obviously hadn't bother to fix any of the chipped ones either. "Where is John Watson!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, lunging for the door. It slammed in his face and he heard a very unsettling laugh.

"The amazing Sherlock Holmes should have known I wouldn't have hurt him unless he started ruining my plans!" The laugh continued even after a distinct click signaled a lock setting in its place. As well, it was very audible to hear the front door of the barn slam and more than one lock click. Sherlock had nothing to chip away at wood held together by metal, and he was fairly too aware of how little possibility there was to slamming his shoulder against any wall either.

So instead of looking for escape, he turned to look at the body, which hadn't made even a twitch or squeak, and steeled himself for what was to come.