John works quickly and silently, only communicating with Molly when absolutely necessary. His mind is a whirlpool of hate - hate for Lestrade and Mycroft for not expending more resources and sooner, hate for the goons he had dropped with one bullet apiece with absolutely no remorse, hate for the still-unknown mastermind behind it all, and most of all, hate for himself. Because if he had been a better flatmate, more understanding of Sherlock's mercurial moods, he wouldn't have yelled about the perfectly predictable mess in the kitchen. And if he hadn't yelled, Sherlock might not have stalked out the door to go sulk elsewhere. And if Sherlock hadn't gone to sulk alone in the bowels of London, he wouldn't have been kidnapped and wouldn't have left John frantic with worry for five weeks, four days, six hours, and twenty-three minutes. And now he wouldn't be lying nearly catatonic on a cold surgical table, trembling no matter how gently John was touching him.
It's a relief to just let the medical side of his training take over, to let his mind settle firmly into the haze of "battlefield medic" and just work on autopilot. Molly isn't so lucky - she's making a litany of tiny shocked sounds, little sad noises and then the telltale silence afterward while she tries very hard not to think how Sherlock got each particular injury. From the pain marring her expression, John can tell she's failing.
When he and Molly, between the two of them, have cleaned and bandaged and salved and sutured and set as many of Sherlock's injuries as possible, John lays a careful palm on the least damaged part of Sherlock's shoulder and rouses him gently.
"Let's get you to bed," he says, as if this were any other night and Sherlock were merely falling asleep on the sofa.
Molly hovers, ready to offer support if needed, but John manages to hoist Sherlock up and drape his arm (the one without the fractured wrist) over his own shoulder, and somehow Sherlock is able to stumble to his bed. Mrs. Hudson put clean sheets on it ages ago, and someone had obviously been in to draw the duvet back and lay out an assortment of useful items on the bedside table - a neatly folded washcloth, a glass of water, Sherlock's mobile. John levers Sherlock down onto the sheets, pulls the blanket up over him, and steps away to turn out the light and give Sherlock some space.
"Wait."
John turns.
I don't . . ." Sherlock licks his cracked lips. "Stay. Please."
John hesitates, then bows his head. "Give me a second. Is that - is that okay?"
Sherlock doesn't answer, but keeps his eyes steady on John.
"Right then." John darts back out to the living room, leaving the door open so Sherlock can see him through the frame of the doorway. He grabs his own mobile and laptop from the desk and whispers a quick thanks and some instructions to Molly, asking her to only tell Mycroft the generalities of Sherlock's condition. It's Sherlock's story to tell, anyway. He's out of the bedroom less than a minute, but by the time he gets back Sherlock is already gripping the sheets with white knuckles and rocking slightly.
"Hush," John murmurs, repressing the urge to stroke Sherlock's hair as if he were a small child. "Do you - do you want me to lie next to you for a while? Or pull in a chair?"
Sherlock swallows, eyes wide, but stays silent.
"Right then." John comes around to the opposite side of Sherlock's bed, toes off his shoes and socks, and slides under the covers. He's still in the button-down and jeans he put on that morning, before Mycroft called and said they had finally found the location where the kidnappers were holding Sherlock. The knees of the jeans are filthy from the dirt floor of Sherlock's basement prison, and the shirt has streaks of Sherlock's blood in odd places. John hesitates only a moment before stripping both off, still under the covers, so he's lying on the silky sheets in just his pants. Next to his naked flatmate. In any other situation John would be mortified, would be sure this was crossing a line which was Not Meant To Be Crossed, but Sherlock is breathing more freely now that they can feel each other's body heat under the blanket. John tosses his rumpled clothes to the floor and pulls the duvet over both of them, so Sherlock won't freeze even though he's still completely nude. Sherlock shivers anyway.
John had intended to spend some time checking the blog, seeing if any new comments might provide a lead as to who, exactly, had managed to kidnap Sherlock, but the comfort of Sherlock's mattress and the incredible relief he's feeling at having Sherlock home combine to make his eyelids heavy. He manages a single text to Mycroft, proclaiming success and demanding not to be bothered for at least twelve hours, then he drifts off next to his already sleeping flatmate.