A gun was pointed at Sherlock only long enough for Lestrade to realize it was him before pointing it at the floor.
"You look bored," Lestrade commented.
"Do not get me started on the horrible effects a small space has on my mind." Sherlock snapped, rising. "You have to find John. Arron's doing things, I don't know. He's torturing John somehow."
"We know, we found him first. He told us you were in the barn. Arron suggested he wasn't working alone, which would explain the gun. So far we haven't found anyone but we're certain he was alone. Just precautions."
"He was working alone. Where did you find him? What was Arron doing? Where is John now?" Sherlock tried to leave the room but Lestrade stopped him.
"You don't want to see where we got him, Sherlock, trust me. We have Arron in custody and John is in the ambulance. They won't leave until you get there."
"I will go with John but you have to let me see where they were. The moment I desire you to dictate what I can and can not see, shoot me." Sherlock angrily pushed past Lestrade and stomped out of the barn. He was a bit stiff, not to mention thirsty, from having stayed in a small place so long. His shoulder blade, where the coil had been, felt bruised and sore. "Were they in the house?" He demanded and Lestrade called for him to slow down. Over his shoulder, Sherlock repeated the question.
"Yes, dammit! But don't say I didn't warn you!"
Sherlock went into the house and followed the officers that were standing about, waiting for orders, keeping an eye on things. Seeing Sherlock, most pointed the way, the rest got out of the way.
When he crossed the threshold of a windowless, bare room with chains hanging from the walls and two metal tables holding an assortment of tools, Sherlock felt his blood run cool, then start to boil. As Lestrade showed up behind him, he frowned.
"He was torturing him. But why?"
"He kept yelling about needing more names. John said something about how Arron wasn't done, how he wanted all to pay. He was trying for names to more veterans." Lestrade watched as Sherlock walked in. It smelled like John in here, which meant he'd spent a large amount of time here before Sherlock showed up. Anger flared and he used it to fuel his search.
Within minutes he got his brain latched upon each tool used, how it's used, the way John was hanging, where Arron had stood. In a faster time than those short minutes, he became more furious than he'd ever been.
Sherlock spun, fists clenched. Lestrade read the pure, murderous rage in the mans eyes and called for back up. It took most of the force on the grounds to pull him to a stop in the front lawn about six feet from the porch. He'd evaded them until the mass outside had been able to wear him to a stop. Breathing heavy, he looked around for Lestrade.
"Let me speak to Arron." Sherlock said softly, barely contained rage evident.
"No, I don't want to have to put you in a cell overnight or longer, Sherlock, think this through. He did horrible things and he'll pay for them, I'll make sure of that. You need to see to John right now." Lestrade, though unsure what was between the two, understood that Sherlock felt strongly about his partner. He knew that it had been the main reason he'd kept the case immediately, why he'd tried so hard to find the killer, and it explained the way he'd reacted the moment he realized Arron was after John.
At the mention of John needing him, Sherlock relaxed and nodded, willing to be led physically to the ambulance just in case he tried anything funny. With no hiccups, Sherlock entered the ambulance and they drove off.
At the hospital, they took John for testing to see exactly how bad his problems were. Time passed and shortly Mrs. Hudson stopped by to give Sherlock some food, a change of clothes for him and John, and wishing the best of luck. She also gave him a charger to his phone for she'd tried calling and had gotten just voice mail, as well as demand he keep her informed.
"My dear heart can't handle you too, I swear. You'll put me out of my misery soon enough, I'm sure." She rattled on as she wandered off. Sherlock was thankful for the objects but was also too worried to think of what to do with them currently.
A little while later a nurse came and asked if he'd like to go to the room John would be moved to as soon as they were done with his testing and such. Nodding the affirmative, Sherlock followed her in the elevator to a room with two beds, both empty.
"I was told to locate an empty room, and free of extra fees let you stay here with him. I am to show in the records that only one is staying but the second bed is out of order. You can stay as long as you wish so long as you respect our jobs and let us treat him to the extent of our capabilities and knowledge." She handed him a clipboard with a sheet of paper that basically she'd summed up. He signed it, not worried about breaking his word, and sat his things on one of the empty beds. She closed the door behind her.
Sherlock sighed and grabbed the extra clothes. There was, in fact, a shower in the bathroom to which he used happily. He wandered down to the cafeteria for a water bottle and then went back up to eat what Mrs. Hudson had packed. A simple sandwich with crackers, but it was something.
Sometime after he'd fallen into a fitful sleep, they brought John back. He was woken up by one of the nurses as was in the agreement: he was not to miss anything seemingly important. The return to John to him, looking healthy and clean, was more important than anything Sherlock could think of.
Waiting by his bed, giving him an occasional kiss on the hand or forehead, Sherlock waited up to three hours before John started to stir. He made sure the first thing in John's sights was himself. A smile crept over his face, seeing Sherlock.
"They tell me you're doing fine." He told John who nodded.
"Yeah," He croaked out. he sounded more like he'd lost his voice over a cold.
"I know what happened between you two." He said and a shadow covered John's face, his lips pulled down. "You don't have to talk to me about it unless you want to. I never need to hear it from you. Not unless you need to talk about it." John nodded in understanding and then reached for Sherlock's hand.
"I... I didn't... dream us... Did I?" Though it was slow and seemingly painful, John got the words, and their feelings, out.
Sherlock stared at him a moment before smiling and then shaking his head side to side. In order to prove it, he leaned forward and kissed John. John's arms wrapped around Sherlock, pulling him as close as he could get him, rubbing a hand down his back and deepening the kiss. Because he was on pain killers, John didn't feel when his lips split back open, nor did he care he suddenly tasted blood. Sherlock cared just as little and cradled John's face in one hand and rubbed a hand down his ribs.
"God, yes," John whispered against Sherlock's lips and Sherlock took the small break to bow his head, placing kisses down his throat and shoulder. John let out a strangled gasp when Sherlock grazed teeth. He wrapped a hand to the back of Sherlock's head, keeping his head close.
Sherlock felt heat rise through his whole body, spiraling down and nestling into his groin. Startled, he backed away just a small bit, breathing hard.
"I need this," John whispered, urging Sherlock back down.
"I know, but you need to be healed. I can't... I can't hurt you any more than you are. When you are home, okay?" Sherlock pleaded, giving small, quick, passionate kisses to John's lips to try convincing him.
"We'll see what this is?" John asked, slipping a hand down Sherlock's chest, grazing the tops of his pants. Sherlock nodded.
"Yes." John smiled and pulled his flatmate down for one more kiss before letting him go, claiming he was exhausted and needed sleep. Satisfied, Sherlock lied in the bed next to him and slept much more soundly than he ever had in a hospital.
