You guys are... amazing. Really, I love you all.

I'm going to try and write everything down as fast as possible. After four days without internet, my brain has been bursting with ideas, and I don't want to lose them. But before I make up for leaving you with a cliffhanger, I just need to say thank you for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and everything else. I appreciate it, because truthfully, I'm a little nervous writing. I feel very American writing about a British programme... and it shows in my writing too. (I used "writing" a lot... [laugh])

As with before, I'm typing as fast as I'm physically able, so if you see errors (or I'm ruining your fandom, this pairing, etc) let me know. I'm good with questions, complaints, concerns, whatever you have to throw at me. Again, not begging for reviews, but they fill my day with happy sparkles and rainbows.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, as always.
Note: Yeah, this is eventually about John and Sherlock being together. Not friends, something more. If you don't like that, I do deeply apologise, but I have no regrets. Also, I love Moriarty's signature myself. I thought it would be plausible that just to mock Sherlock he would sign his texts "Jimmy"... it had to be done. (Yes, that was a random nugget of worthless information.)

Sherlock feels his blood run cold, a pit seems to open up in the bottom of his stomach. A chilling dread sets into his bones and his knees start shaking, to his disbelief. There have been few times he's found himself this alarmed, but all of them happened to be when his friend was in danger. So he shouldn't be so surprised when he finds himself typing a frantic reply back.

Where is he?

SH

For an instant, the world stands still. Then his mind kicks into overdrive, but instead of looking for solutions to the problem, all his thoughts go over - in excruciatingly terrifying detail - every possible situation John could be in right this moment.

The dark-haired man is immediately made aware of the deep-set panic taking up residence within himself. He watches his phone screen intently as it jumps in his trembling hands (God, he's actually trembling).

Sherlock waits on pins and needles for an answer.

Oh, Sherly, Sherly. If I told you it would spoil the game. You are playing, aren't you? Wouldn't want poor John Watson getting hurt, would you?

-Jimmy

Fingers fly across the keyboard.

I'll play.

SH

For an instant, just an instant, the detective almost surprises himself. He should be thinking this through, he should be trying to think rationally, he should be making scathing remarks and threats to Moriarty's life. Yet he's not. Slowly, Sherlock comes to the realization that if this was anybody other than John, the situation would be entirely different.

Goody! There are some rules, however.

-Jimmy

It's at this point the detective realizes he's truly under Moriarty's thumb.

What are the stipulations?

SH

As it turns out, Moriarty has kept it simple. One, two, three.

The men at Scotland Yard aren't to be involved. Sherlock isn't to breath a word to anyone about their little "game". Three strikes, John dies.

Oh, and the detective has roughly twenty-four hours to figure it all out - if John can stay calm and not use all of the oxygen before Sherlock can find him.

He's pacing in a frenzy now, eyes closed (he knows the layout of the flat like the back of his hand, there's no need to watch where he's going), long fingers tangled in a mess of dark curls. It's been a long time since the man has worked up a dread like this. Moriarty's voice floats mockingly front and center in his head, Irish lilt ever-so prominent. He thinks to the market, where John was last heard of, and sprints to his room. Throwing off his robe madly, he flies about in a whirlwind, changing into a fresh shirt and jacket, pulling on socks and shoes. Eyes wild, he rushes to the sitting room and down the stairs, snatching his long coat and scarf on his way. Sherlock has absolutely no time to lose.

"Damn, damn, bloody damn." The irritability in his tone is prominent, yet only barely masks the anxiety that is also present. John has no idea what happened. One minute he was crossing the street, fully intending to cut through the alleyway on the other side to shave a few minutes off his long walk back to the flat. The next, he was out cold. Or did it go quite like that? "No, someone was following me from the market," he mutters, cursing himself for letting his guard down. Now he was stuck in this... this...

What was this? He can't see a damned thing, it's pitch black in here - and musty. His nose wrinkles at how stale the air is.

Reaching out with his hand, John blindly takes a step forward. Then another. And another. After roughly two meters, something brushes against his fingertips. Smooth, but solid. Concrete. Relatively new, by the feel. Just what the hell was this?

Sherlock, his mind calls out desperately, hoping in vain that somehow his detective can hear him, help me...

There's people everywhere. In the streets, in shops, on the sidewalks, in cabs. Even the alleyways and side streets are crowded (when did all these people get here?). Sherlock tries to run, but it's so congested, he simply can't. The urge to scream at everyone until he's hoarse is highly appealing, but he holds himself back - just barely. Moriarty may be watching. Instead he weaves through the crowd, taking advantage of his height and lithe figure. Delicate looking, but strong, pale hands push others gently out of the way when it's too tight a squeeze, avoiding knocking anyone to the ground. Though this urge is also overwhelming.

His friend's name (John, John, John) is running through his mind like a mantra, along with the phrase (from the Irish bastard), You need to find clues, Sherlock.

Damn Moriarty. Damn him to the bowels of blood-boiling, gut-wrenching, flesh-ripping, demon-wailing hell where they can just take his- Suddenly his phone rings. The detective rips it from his pocket and looks at it -and rip it off, and feed it to the drooling, man-eating, soul-ripping hounds of Satan himself.

Mycroft. What could he possibly want? Sherlock presses the ignore button and shoves it back in his coat. He has no time for his older brother. Yet something briefly flits in the back of his mind. Mycroft never calls. What if it's important?

No. There are more important things at hand. John will always be more important than anything his brother could ever say to him, any case he could ever have. Anything Mycroft will always be trumped by John.

John has resorted to sitting in the middle of the room(?) by now. The floor is hard and uncomfortable, concrete as well, and chills him to the bone. God knows how long he's been here. The man has searched the entire area - feeling the walls, the floor, the ceiling (which is an inch or two above his head) - and all he's found is a vent that's approximately ten-by-fifteen centimeters across, a reinforced steel (air-tight, locked) door (with no knob or keyhole on the inside), and twenty-four small, simple mobile phones. Each is identical, and all are prepaid with exactly thirty seconds left. He's tried calling Sherlock, the Yard, anyone he could think of, but the devices are (apparently) only able to receive calls, not make them. Everytime he's tried, he recieves a text, mocking him. He can't reply.

Sweet John, you have to wait for Sherlock to figure it all out. Your life is in his hands.

-JM ;)

By the time he finds it, the consulting detective can feel his temple throbbing methodically in his ears. Don't bother asking him how he did it, just that it took him an eternity to do it. Sherlock sighs heavily and glances at the people around him, looking over produce and such. The piece of paper between his fingertips flutters as he holds it up to the light.

Good job, Sherly. You found the first clue! Isn't this fun? For each clue you find, you get one phone call to John, for thirty seconds. Now run along and finish our game. No more help from me, now you need to rely on the good doctor's memory and deductive skills.

On the back is a number. He doesn't hesitate to dial, and practically flies out of the market. It rings once, twice, three times. Sherlock is biting his lip now. Then-

"Sherlock?" a panicked voice whispers from the other end.

"John!" he very nearly yells in reply. "Where are you, what's happening, are you alright?"

"I- I don't know."

"Are you hurt?"

There's a small pause. "Well no-"

"John, listen to me, tell me anything at all that can help me find you- quickly!"

"Like what?"

Twelve seconds now. "John, anything," he pleads into the phone. It's almost as if the doctor can see the heart-wrenching expression on Sherlock's face. He takes a moment to think, judging by the weighted silence on his end.

"I'm obviously underground, and the place is sealed tight. There's absolutely no way out from the inside. There's a vent, but I assume that's simply there so I don't run out of air too quickly - there's no flow as of yet. The air is stale, and the entire room is four by four meters, from what I can tell. It's pitch-black, Sherlock and-"

He waits for the doctor to continue, but he doesn't. "John, what is it?" Twenty-one seconds. No response. "John!"

"I'm..."

"John, tell me. What? Are you alright? What's the matter?" he asks, tone growing soft instead of sharply desperate.

He hears John swallow, tongue clicking in the back of his throat. "I'm scared..."

Twenty-six. Sherlock's eyes widen, and his tone switches to sooth. "John, it's going to be alright- I'm coming for you, it will all be-"

The call ends. It just bloody ends. One moment, John feels almost alright, with Sherlock being so uncharacteristically concerned for him. Telling him it will all be okay. The next, he's back to the silence and the inky-black of his prison. He almost feels like he could have a cry, but he won't. Not yet. That's below his dignity.

"God, Oh God..." He's really in deep this time. Especially if Sherlock is relying on him. "God," he repeats, trying to steady his shaking hands as his breath hitches in his throat. John finally manages to focus on one thing and one thing only.

I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you...

Was that still mean? Another cliffhanger? Aw, I am mean... But it was longer this time, yes? A little better with something resembling a plot?

I'll try to keep this speed going and keep posting every few days. If I don't, send me hate mail. Stay tuned, my lovelies, I appreciate all that you do.

Next up, Mycroft joins in. What fun!