Author's Note: Thank you so much for reading Are You Feeling Okay? This is my first piece of fanfiction! Reviews would be greatly appreciated! Thank you!

Chapter 1

John Watson woke up in a dark room, the full moon casting down two dark, strange shadows across the floorboards. The night was humid after the day's rain and the musty scent clogged his nose. He blinked quickly a few times to get rid of the uncomfortable haze that shifted across his eyes. John was surrounded by the dark light of night, but he could make out a few windows, some ruined old furniture, peeling wallpaper, and a puddle of water directly under a hole in the roof. He tried to move out of his current position, squirming a little, but ropes, zip ties, and a cloth stuffed into his mouth suppressed his movements.

John desperately tried to gather his thoughts. He shifted through the memories in his head and pulled at today's events. He remembered telling Sherlock he was going to the supermarket, but he didn't remember arriving. He must have been nabbed on the way. Sherlock would know to look for him. He always did. For a high functioning sociopath, he did care a lot for his flatmate.

They had both been on edge since the pool incident with Moriarty. Sherlock wouldn't sleep (when did he sleep anyway?) and John couldn't help but worry for their safety. Moriarty was known for his lack of mercy and John didn't expect him to bat an eye before he blew them to shreds.

A smooth mellow voice reached John's ears, "No use John, those ropes are meant to keep even the most lethal soldiers stationary."

John didn't realize he was still yanking at his bounds until the shadow pointed it out. The dark figure seemed to move out of the wall, reforming into a relatively tall, lanky man.

"Was that a Browning L9A1 in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?" the shadow said rhetorically as he moved closer. He pulled out John's gun and twirled it around his finger. Bastard,John thought as the shadow showcased his skill by tying John up and then easily taking his gun away.

Slowly the full moon showered half the man's face in light, reviving his identity, "John, so nice to see you without that ridiculous parka."

John squirmed and let out a little squeal that was soon muffled by the cloth covering his mouth. Fear spread through him. Every part of his body was on him alert as Jim Moriarty stepped into the light. He hadn't been this scared since he was strapped up in bombs. The last place he wanted to be was in a dark room with Jim Moriarty.

John knew this couldn't be good. No this was bad. Maybe even worse than the pool. Just then, John noticed a cart beside him. All sorts of weapons covered the top. Metal on metal. Knives and guns. What was this, his secret arsenal? Past the cart, John could see a trough filled with dirty water. John had seen these sorts of things while he was in Afghanistan, but he had never experienced them first hand. He's going to torture me isn't he, that sick bastard, he thought as the second shadow emerged and slithered towards Moriarty.

This man was noticeably taller that Jim. He was stocky, but his weight to height proportion made him seem slimmer. His arms were toned with thick muscle and he had the most menacing eyes. Even though the room was dark the man's eyes were the deepest, heaviest black John had ever seen. They were the black holes of a snake's eyes, teasing and taunting. The most intriguing part of his face was his scar. It was long and stretched from his temple down the side of his face where it ended just below his cheekbone.

"Let's skip the friendly introduction," Jim said turning towards the other man and smiling. His eyes shifted back to John, "This is Moran," He paused his eyes lazily running over John's features. He was pacing now, walking as if he was a predator stalking his prey.

God, he wished Sherlock was here. He was so good at reading body language. If he could see Moriarty now he would be able to predict his next move while John just sat there. Unfortunately, Sherlock didn't have the mass and muscle that John had over Moriarty. Sherlock and John, the perfect team.

Before Moran could do anything, Moriarty knelt down uncomfortably close and rested his hand on John's knee, "Such a waste really, a fine, strong specimen like you." Moriarty stared at John, smirked, and stepped back, "Sherlock Holmes would have been disappointed." After a long pause, Moriarty turned his back and started walking towards the door, "Take him out Moran."

Moran stepped in front of John, blocking his view of Moriarty. John felt a fist slam into his right side and he could have sworn he heard a bone crack.

"Lestrade, it's been days and you're going to tell me you haven't found anything. Days. Do you know what that means?"

On the first day of John's disappearance, Sherlock had sat in the flat rummaging through his mind palace for what seemed like hours. Little did he know it had been hours since John had been there making noise and annoying Sherlock with his constant stream of comments. Sherlock didn't think much of it, probably stopped for some chips. After a while, Sherlock became curious as to what was taking his friend so long. First, he texted John…nothing, then he called, which he never did, no answer, just John's voicemail. "This is Dr. John Watson, I'm sorry I was unable to come to the phone. Please leave a message and I will get back to you as soon as possible." In Sherlock's opinion, it was far too lengthy just to let someone know you didn't want to talk to them.

It had been three days since John had been home. He had left and he hadn't come back. Sherlock had gone searching his regular pubs and to his old girlfriend's flats. When one of them didn't answer their doorbell, he broke in.

"Well, you should be worried, Sherlock. John doesn't do this kind of thing, he's not you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Obviously, Lestrade."

Lestrade didn't say anything for a while, the silence and tension swallowed up the conversation, "Do you think it's…"

"Oh, of course, it is Lestrade! Who else would kidnap John?"

"Oh, I don't know Sherlock, some crazy lunatic who has a weird thing for middle aged men?!" Lestrade paused, "I'm trying to talk myself out of the fact that John could be in James Moriarty's hands. The most wanted man in all of England. Oi mate what's this?" Lestrade said to someone at the Yard.

"I think we may have something that just came in. It's pretty vague, but you've figured out cases a lot more blurred than this."

Sherlock's eyes widened, "Give me ten minutes."

Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could say anything else. Moriarty was a dangerous toy to play with, one misplaced step and he'd snap John's neck. He wouldn't kill him before Sherlock got there; he wanted to make him suffer. Make him watch his best friend die and make him believe it was because he was too late, when really it was Moriarty playing with his head all along.

He was always there, haunting Sherlock ever since the pool. Now John's life was in the hands of a trigger-happy psychopath that Sherlock should have killed when he had the chance. If it weren't for John he would have turned out to be like Moriarty. No matter how hard he tried, the loneliness of 221 B. would have swallowed him up.

He bounded down the stairs and onto the pavement, scanning the road for an empty cab. The street wasn't busy and Sherlock was worried that he would have to walk to a busier one. Just as he was planning a new route, a black cab barreled down the road, splashing the pavement with water. Sherlock hopped into the cab and ordered the driver to Scotland Yard. The urgency in his voice makes the cab driver drive at speeds not appropriate for the conditions. It didn't matter to Sherlock; he had to get to John.

The rain started to fall just as Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard. He briskly walked up to Lestrade's office, taking long strides up the stairs to cut the time. Sherlock could see Lestrade through the panes in the windows, but he looked like he was talking to someone and the way he was standing, gave their identities away rather quickly.

Lestrade was relaxed: he was leaning on his desk so it wasn't the chief inspector, but his arms were crossed. He wasn't happy and his eyes were shifting back and forth, therefore there were two culprits.

Sherlock strode into the office cold eyes falling on Donovan and Anderson. They looked eager to share something. Probably that they were having an affair and needed a paid holiday. Incompetent human beings,"Lestrade we have to go. Now."

"Sher-"Lestrade couldn't finish his sentence before Sherlock shoot him a glare filled with fire.

Sherlock paused right before he was going to tell Lestrade off. Donavan andAnderson. They had information about John. God, this situation has really turned the tables,Sherlock thought, as he turned around and paced up to Anderson, "What is it. Stop wasting my time," he spat misting Anderson with his spit. Oops.

"Don't expect us to give you information if you treat us like we're horse shit," Anderson said as he wiped at his face.

"Oh grow up Anderson. Horse shit is better than having to stare at you for more than two seconds."

"Boys," Donovan said as Anderson shot her a menacing glare.

"Don't look at me like that," Anderson spat back at her, "He's the one who thinks we'll just bow down and be stepping stones to this throne!"

Donovan shot a look at Sherlock, but he just swiped the folder out of her hands.

She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, but eventually gave in, "We've been hearing reports of noisy squatters. Nothing we haven't handled before, but this one is…interesting," Donovan paused long enough for Sherlock to interrupt without looking up from the file.

"How is this one different than another case of squatters? Is this whole department so terrible at doing their job they can't take care of a few homeless people?"

Donovan rolled her eyes and continued talking, "They move right before we get there. They leave clues that they were there. Something is always left that could have been easily taken with them. No fingerprints of course. They're smart. They know we are following them. Sounds like Moriarty."

Sherlock flipped through the file and found images of abandoned warehouses and old vacant houses. There was a map with red dots plotted where all the locations were. They followed a vague path outside of the city.

"Black dots are all possibilities for their next stop. If we could just scope those out we may be able to narrow it down," Anderson said as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Sherlock could tell he was uncomfortable with the fact that he was putting an effort into helping Sherlock. Snob.

"No. You missed one," Sherlock pointed to a point on the map that he had spent many nights at, "There's a house that was vacated about twenty-five years ago. Previous owners couldn't sell it so they let it go to waste. No one will touch it."

Anderson scoffed, "Oh really! You think we are going to believe that? You could have pointed anywhere on that map and said, 'There's an abandoned house here. '"

Sherlock scanned the three faces: Lestrade knew, Donovan suspected, and Anderson was clueless. Not surprising. He lowered his voice quietly saying, "Just trust me, I know."

Lestrade and Donavon glared at Anderson. It was quiet obvious. All three of them knew his past; it was just a matter of looking at the big picture.

The office was quiet as realization settled in. Another puzzle piece put into place.

"Sherlock we have no idea if he's even going to be out there," Lestrade hadn't moved and his eyes were sad, "I'm sorry I can't send out a team. It would never get approved."

Sherlock turned around angrily and paced back towards the detective inspector, "I don't need a team. I need a cabbie who's willing and a working gun. I can't find mine," Sherlock held out his hand waiting for Lestrade to give him the one he was guarding in his desk drawer.

"Sherlock my hands are tied. I can't. We've given you classified information and they have a team out searching the area. This case hasn't gone public. It would draw too much attention to you and John. Assisting you any more would really be crossing the line."

Sherlock could see the hurt in Lestrade's eyes. He had to play it, just play the game, "You've been crossing the line since we met. Don't act like you're going to stop when John is in danger."

Lestrade just stared and considered the consequences. He didn't have to say much for Lestrade to give in. The gun was in his hand before he knew what to do with it.

"On one condition," Lestrade said grabbing Sherlock's arm, "Don't get yourself killed."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was his condition? What did he think Sherlock was going to do, walk in and drop the gun?

"You've done it before Sherlock. Don't do it again."

Sherlock took a good look at the man in front of him. Big grey eyes, tan skin from sun beds, dark thick eyelashes, and grey hair. He'd aged in the last few days with dark circles under his eyes and new age lines.

"I'm coming with you Sherlock and we're bloody taking my car."

The detective inspector walked out of his office leaving Sherlock, Donovan, and Anderson perplexed.

John's head lulled forward causing his neck to tighten. He winced trying hard not to breathe too heavily because his other injuries would hurt even more. They had moved around to about three different abandoned locations. The days seemed to blur together and John couldn't tell exactly how long he had been with Moriarty and Moran. He hadn't eaten since the first night and the constant torture wasn't helping his physical strength. They were breaking him slowly. He suspected Moriarty was just doing this because he knew it would lead him to Sherlock. It was just a trick; a trap that Sherlock would walk right into. John just hoped he was smart enough to bring some form of back up, but that was highly unlikely. He was Sherlock Holmes, for goodness sake, he didn't needback up. Idiot,John thought as his head pounded against his skull.

John looked down at his chest. His shirt had been stripped a long time ago. Small, deep cuts were carved into his skin. They had been patched up, but not before Moran had dug his knife deeper and played with John. A long gash ran from his collarbone down to his hip, which was sure to be infected. It hurt like hell, too. The sick bastards hadn't even bothered to clean this one up. Moriarty had had a go at John's neck and throat. Surprisingly, Moriarty hadn't slit his neck open, but instead drew thin, carved lines along John's jawline with the knife.

The blood had dried on his trousers and anywhere on his torso. Damn, he smelled ripe. The only thing that slightly resembled a bath was the end-of-the-night water torture. Moran was rough and had slammed John's head back and forth relentlessly, barely allowing a gasp of air in between the vigorous cycle. Breathing had become harder and John hoped and prayed he didn't have any fractured ribs, but being a doctor himself he knew his wishful thinking was blind and naïve.

He could barely move without screaming in pain. John didn't think he could take another beating, cutting, or torturing session. Honestly, he just wanted to lie down and fall asleep forever. He just couldn't take it. He really had tried. He tried to fight, but he wasn't getting out of this one. Damnit Sherlock.John sobbed, which caused his left side to rattle and he had to suppress a scream by biting his bottom lip.

At their current stop, John had passed out before he could see his surroundings. The room was almost pitch black, but a small slither of light was able to pass through the blacked out window. John just assumed the paint had chipped a little.

"Don't look so glum John. Sherlock should be here any minute now," Moriarty stepped into the light and gave John a wicked grin.

John glared back and tried to control himself. If he fell apart now Moriarty would win and then he would kill Sherlock, "This was all just a trap wasn't it? Just to get back at Sherlock."

Jim laughed and paced around John's chair, "Oh you naïve, little thing. Do you remember what I told you earlier? Sherlock's been here before. Spent quite a lot of time here, in fact. I wonder what he was doing here?"

He crouched down in front of John. He was nervous. His eyes kept wondering off to look out of the corner of his eye, yet his overall aura leaked confidence.

His attention quickly shifted back to John, "It's truly amazing that someone as brilliant as Sherlock would pick someone as stupid as you for a pet," he spat the last words straight into John's face. His eyes were coals fueling the fire in his breath. He was like a dragon causing mass destruction everywhere in his wake. John tried to process Moriarty's behavior, but his head was crowded and heavy. Moriarty never lost his cool, so what had happened to make him react like this? Just then, Moriarty leapt out of John's reach and scrambled behind him.

Before John could twist around a heavy hand gripped his shoulder.

Lestrade pulled onto a dirt road that was all too familiar to Sherlock. Memories of the abandoned drug den flooded Sherlock. This was the place where he had lost all self-control and everything he had accomplished. He hadn't been to one of these in a few decades and he wasn't happy to be back. The long nights spent crouched on the floor, the calmness of his head, and the pain of knowing that no one would come for him surrounded Sherlock, but he moved on, head held high. Moriarty was very good at his job, plucking at Sherlock's pressure points in this manner. He could feel the fire in the pit of his stomach.

"Let's go Lestrade," Sherlock said as he moved gracefully out of the car.

Lestrade scrambled around, grabbing Sherlock by his coat collar, "Are you crazy?! We can't just barge in! He would be expecting that, wouldn't he?"

Lestrade said the last statement with such uncertainty that Sherlock cracked a smile.

"Moriarty isexpecting us. He's planning on you to come up with such an outrageous plan and for me to shut it down. That's how we are going to get John, by beating Moriarty at his own game. Don't you see," Sherlock said as he focused on Lestrade, reading his movements.

Lestrade bit his tongue. Sherlock honestly didn't know how he got anything done at the yard with all his pondering and careful thinking. Probably why he called in Sherlock.

"I don't know Sherlock. What if…what if he's dead? What if we're too late? I can't let you see him like that. I can only imagine…"

Sherlock froze. The rest of Lestrade's sentence drifted into the mass void. He hadn't even though that John wouldn't make it out alive. He knew it was a possibility, but he refused to think about an empty 221 B. No John running around making tea and toast. No yelling about the experiments. No one to pester and annoy Sherlock. No one. Just Sherlock and his worst enemy, his own head. Sherlock couldn't think about it anymore, "I have to get him out, dead or alive. He deserves better. He's my friend."

Sherlock turned back around and walked toward the house, frustrated at the fact that Lestrade didn't understand. Lestrade was so set on Sherlock not caring that he couldn't see how he felt about John. He didn't know how much this army doctor did for his heartless friend.

He could hear Lestrade behind him making more noise than Sherlock thought humanly possible.

The moon was only a sliver in the night, not shedding off enough light to guide then safely across the path to the house. It did, however, give the abandoned house an eerie look. The windows were blacked out and the railing had been torn. It was just how Sherlock remembered it and just how Moriarty wanted him to see it.

Sherlock pulled the handgun out of his pocket. He paused and listened for any sounds of unwanted residents. Nothing. Sherlock opened the door and braced himself for assault. Nothing, no sign of movement, no sounds echoed through the house, nothing. Sherlock stepped into the house.

The memories swarmed his head. The old furniture, a broken chandler, black windows, and hypodermic needles laying everywhere. Personally, Sherlock used his own needle. It was unsanitary to inject life threating substances into your body with someone else's needle. The irony surrounding that thought was suffocating.

Dismissing his own thoughts, Sherlock noticed a small pool of dark water collected at the end of the stairs. Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to follow him. "Don't point the gun at anyone in good company, even if it's Anderson,"John's wise words echoed through Sherlock's head, "Walk straight and always clear any openings. You never know where the enemy could be hiding."As Sherlock walked closer to the pool, he soon realized he wasn't looking at water, but human blood.

"Bloody hell…is that John's?"

Sherlock responded to Lestrade's absurd comment with a roll of his eyes, "How would I know? We live together, I'm not his doctor."

Lestrade let out a low chuckle, "Oh, but he's yours isn't he?"

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look, which quickly shut Lestrade up, "Shut up."

Lestrade tried to break the uncomfortable situation that it was someone's blood at the bottom of the stairwell, but failed miserably, "Should we go up there?"

Sherlock bent down and touched the blood with his long slender fingers. He pulled the dark, red substance up to his nose and smelled it, "It isn't fresh. It's been dripping here for a few hours."

The edge of the pool had dried confirming Sherlock's suspicions. Either Jim was baiting Sherlock into running up the stairs or John was really up there suffering. Sherlock had told himself a thousand times to not let his heart rule his head, and this time, he didn't know which side was right.

John's head lulled forward as Moran repeatedly punched him in his face and stomach. His blood was everywhere and he wasn't sure where it all was coming from. He knew the zip ties that bound his wrist together had carved into his skin, he could feel his nose bleeding, and his mouth was full of blood. Moriarty had slipped outside the doorway a few minutes ago and quietly trotted down the stairs. John hadn't heard anything since. Only Moran's bloody knuckles to keep him company. At least he didn't have to deal with Moriarty's creepy stare or his sing-song voice.

The pair didn't seem to sleep. Their only goal was to hurt John, which in turn would hurt Sherlock. Moriarty wanted Sherlock to feel pain. All of Moriarty's focus was on how to mar John's skin and soul. The worst was when he poked and prodded at the scar on his left shoulder. All of his pain, struggle, and mental instability was locked into the small spider webbed scar. The memories of the war would flood his head and he always had a hard time fighting back the tears. He hadn't cried in front of anyone in years and he wasn't going to start now. Especially not in front of James Moriarty and his menacing side kick.

Moran stepped back for a second, taking a small breather from punching John senseless, "You know why he's doing this, right?"

John shook his head, not having the strength to mutter a sound.

Moran smirked, "No one ever sees him and lives." Moran pulled a long knife out of the sheath linked to his belt. He ran it across his finger leaving a small pool of blood on the pad of his fingertip, "He had several of his men learn you and Mr. Holmes's schedules, habits, trends. It was quiet easy to learn yours, but your friend was erratic. Nothing ever seemed to fit. Odd that you two would get along so well?"

Moran walked over to John and pressed the knife into his neck. He could feel the blood trickling down his throat. He wanted it to be over. His body trembled and the knife dug a little deeper. John was freezing and his eyes were clouded with blood. His pants were soaked with water and his own sweat. John's head was clouded and forming coherent thoughts became much harder.

"I worked for years to get where I am now and all it takes is a few bombs to have him interested in you two? The ladder was high and full of blood and betrayal, but in the end it's all worth it to see you suffer. Guilty by association, huh," Moran spat into John's face, spraying saliva. He gripped the back of John's neck and tore at his skin with his fingernails. John winced and tears pooled in his eyes.

Moran motioned to his scar, "You know your friend gave me this. We used to know each other, but then he decided it was better to leave and give me a gift instead."

God, Sherlock had met this maniac? Looks like both their choices in "friends" was a little screwy. Moran's features were straight and unrevealing, but his voice was filled with a deep pit of emotion. He pushed the thought aside and focused on not making his predicament worse.

"Sounds like…you're, kind of…jealous," John said barely choking the words out.

Moran's eyes turned to fire and John knew then he had made a mistake. He pulled on John's hair and grabbed his neck, "You son of a bitch." So much for not making things worse.

Moran tightened his grip around John's neck. He could feel the airways closing off. His eyes were drooping and his head was losing oxygen. He was done; this was it.

The darkness surrounded him and he embraced his homecoming.

Author's Note: Thank you again for reading my fanfiction! I will try to upload new chapters every week on Sundays. Thank you and please let me know what you think! :)