A/N: This story idea just came to me out of nowhere and refused to leave me alone, soooo… (smirks sheepishly)

WARNINGS: Language, some vivid description of injuries, perhaps a bit of violence… (arches an eyebrow) Well, for my story that's a incredibly short list!

DISCLAIMER: Oh boy… IF I DID own anything I would've hurried up with series 3. (pouts) (I'm a impatient person, especially when it comes to 'Sherlock'.)

Awkay… Before I change my mind let's go! I really hope that you'll enjoy this one.

TAKES PLACE: Half a year after Sherlock's return from 'the dead'.

Light at the End

Waking Up to a Nightmare

Dr. Watson woke up. And instantly regretted it. He groaned when pain traveled through him like wildfire, seeming to consume him in whole.

This… had to be the worst hangover he'd ever had.

He groaned, unable to stop himself even though the sound seemed to tear his skull to pieces. He spent a few moments attempting to pull himself together. It was around then the world around him began to make sense.

He wasn't in his own bed. Wasn't in a bed at all. Was that… muddy ground below him? The smells around him… Was he in a forest?

What the hell was he doing in a forest?

With another moan John attempted to search through his memories, fumbling futilely for even the smallest bits and pieces. Nothing came to him. All answers slipped right through his fingers like quicksand.

The last thing he remembered was having a fight with Sherlock Holmes, which was nothing uncommon especially after the man's return from the dead. They fought way too much, the two of them. John decided that he'd need to do something about it.

But first he'd have to figure out why in the God's name he was in a forest and how he was supposed to get out of it.

John spent several moments picking up whatever little strength he'd be able to summon. It was highly likely that he passed out at some point. But in the end he felt courageous and determined enough to open his eyes.

John prepared himself for the assault of merciless sun. Nothing such came. Instead he stared right into pitch black darkness. His heart began to hammer while panic took over for a moment.

What…?!

The fact that it was night wasn't, however, the most terrifying part. What almost rendered him to a anxiety attack was that the trees he was just able to see were far too high up. And there were stone walls around him, towering in a circle formation.

A well. He was in a fucking well. In the middle of a forest who knows where.

Struggling and swallowing furiously to keep the terror from taking over entirely John allowed his thoughts to whir for a moment. Then did what came instinctively. "Sherlock!" His voice was hoarse and pathetic, most likely didn't even carry out of his stone walled prison.

Was Sherlock somewhere nearby? Did whoever toss him here harm the detective as well? Was Sherlock alright?

John's cry received no response. Not that he'd been optimistic enough to expect one. A weight plummeted all the way to his stomach, making him feel sick.

"Sherlock!"

It was of no use. For some reason it seemed that he had absolutely no voice left. Feeling furious, defeated and scared he slumped further to the mudd below him.

Able to do little else John allowed himself to catalogue his injuries. It was, after all, something that came naturally to him even in his far from coherent state. He needed anything to focus on for a few moments or he'd lose his mind entirely.

It was quite clear that he had a concussion, hopefully not a contusion. It was unwise to surrender to the exhaustion hanging heavily on him, then. Pity. Sleeping sounded like a very tempting idea. It hurt to breathe enough to suggest that one or several of his ribs had been broken. He could only wish that by some miracle that injury wouldn't turn out to cause bigger problems. His left leg felt like it'd bent to unnatural angle and he could feel that parts of his pants had been soaked. A open fracture, then. Wonderful. Such was bound to earn a infection under these conditions. His shoulder, the same bloody one that'd already been shot, didn't feel right, either. He didn't quite dare to take a look to find out just what was wrong with it. His back also didn't seem to be alright. Moving was out of the question, then. Along with that damage he most likely had a large number of smaller injuries and bruises. It felt like his whole body had been one big open wound. He preferred not trying to guess how much blood he'd lost and how much he was losing with each passing minute.

While John's mind drifted he noted absently that he wasn't in as much pain anymore. The thought made him shiver. The blood loss and cold were pulling his body further and further into a state of shock. He wondered how much longer he'd be able to stay awake. The thought was nothing short of mortifying.

If he'd fall asleep here, like this…

"Sherlock!" he whimpered, a searing sensation finding its way to his eyes. "Sherlock! Anyone! Please…!" His voice broke and faded away.

He'd never felt so alone in his life. Or actually he had, just once. The memories made him want to vomit. Or perhaps it was the concussion.

"Help!"

There was a great chance that he'd catch the attention of whoever put him into this situation. He didn't care too much. No one finding him meant just as sure of a dead, only a lot more slowly and painfully.

Breathing was getting harder. John wondered with a great deal of dread just how close one of his lungs was to collapsing, or if there was internal bleeding. How much time he had left.

/ "Hurry up, John! The murderer isn't going to sit around waiting for us. You're wasting time." /

John's eyes widened a fraction and he blinked twice, his eyes darting around in the dark. For a moment desperate hope bubbled in his aching chest. "Sherlock…"

Of course there was no response. He was still alone in the dark. Alone in this nightmare. But it was better that way, really.

There was no way he could've wished that Sherlock had been with him in this.

John unleashed a choked, shuddering exhale, staring at the cloud covered sky.

He just wished that Sherlock was alright, somewhere out there. And if such was possible that the detective would, in his usual miraculous, amazing way, find him on time. And, unless it was asking entirely too much, that he wouldn't die out here all alone, in a place from which his body would never be found. The thought was just too miserable.

John growled at himself, his eyes sharpening and narrowing.

Enough with thinking about death. He wasn't going to die, period. He was far tougher than that. And Sherlock was just fine, too. Sherlock would come. He'd just have to hang on.

The universe, apparently, decided to show its poor sense of humor right there.

John's eyes were dangerously close to drifting closed when he realized there was something moist on his cheeks. At first he thought that he'd broken into tears. But then his hazy eyes drifted upwards, spotting the rain beating down all of the world around him.

It was pouring rain.

And John was quickly losing his fight to stay awake.

/ "If you were dying, if you were being murdered, in your last few seconds what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me live."

"Use your imagination!"

"I don't have to." /

TBC, OR NOT?

A/N: And that, my dear readers, is how it begins. (gulps) Poor John, let's hope that'll he'll be fished out of this mess SOON! He'd really need Sherlock right now.

Soooo… The ball's in your court, really. How was that – any good, at all? Would you be interested in reading two to three more chapters? PLEASE, leave a note to let me know! First chapters are always absolutely nerve wrecking so it'd mean A LOT.

In any case, thank you so much for reading!

Who knows, maybe I'll be hearing from you again…

Take care!