Thank you so much for reviewing,InsideYourDreams24, SherlockFan, and Sherlocked Girl on Fire! It really helps a lot! :)
/\/\/\/\
6:12 a.m., September 18
John woke up in pitch darkness with uncomfortable weight around his wrists and feet and a blinding, pounding headache. He groaned loudly, shifting himself up from the floor he had been sprawled over, and rubbed his head. As he lifted his hands he heard the soft clinking of metal, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark he gaped in shock at the thick chains that were binding his wrists and ankles to the floor.
No way this was happening.
This was some kind of morbid dream.
But this was much, much clearer than any dream he had ever had, and the acute pain in his temples weren't helping the theory. He gazed around his surroundings, finding himself in a damp cell-like room. He could make out one large, thick steel door in front of him, where the faintest shaft of light was just barely managing to sneak through the crack at the bottom.
Okay. Okay.
This was real.
John vainly struggled to recall what had happened the previous day, but his head was too fuzzy to recall anything other than a few vague details. He started to panic, heart racing, gasping for breath.
Okay. Calm down. It's okay.
That was the fourth time he had said 'okay'; his vocabulary was having a tough time reloading in his brain. He steadied himself.
Start with what he knew.
He closed his eyes and forced his brain to work.
He had been having a fight with... Sherlock.
Just that thought sent calming waves over him. Sherlock. If this was anything bad, he knew that his friend would be on the case immediately. Sherlock would rescue him.
Until then, he needed to figure out what was going on.
He had left the flat in a rage - he remembered that - then was walking... he had gotten lost...
His eyes flew open as he remembered completely. Someone had been following him. Then white-hot pain, and -
This.
John touched his side and immediately felt a spike of pain jolt his body - he looked down to see a bandage wrapped around his middle.
He had been shot?
Was somebody trying to kill him-?
No, if they wanted to kill him, they would have done that already.
Someone had meant to bring him here.
This knowledge made him gulp. He leaned his head against the wall his back was resting against, taking deep breaths and relaxing. He needed to have a clear mind if he was going to look for an escape.
Just as he had thought this, he heard footsteps in the hallway outside his cell. There was muffled conversation, a loud laugh, and the sound of scraping. The door swung open slowly, bright light shining through. John was temporarily blinded, and he put his hand to his forehead to shield the excess light. When he blinked and his eyes began to adjust, he could make out the silhouette of a large, thick man standing in the doorway. He was unfamiliar and quite an intimidating sight.
"Good. He's awake," he grumbled, his voice a deep bass. Another one appeared behind him, and they seemed like almost carbon copies.
"So we get to knock 'im out, then?" the other one said cheerily, his voice a bit higher and cheery, with a hint of a cockney accent.
"You can do the honors, I've a bit of a hangover," grumbled the thicker man, and the second guard chuckled coldly as he advanced towards the army doctor sitting in the cell.
John tried to scrabble away from him with his legs, pushing back, feeling very helpless and pitiful as the guard advanced towards him with a large, cruel smirk plastered across his face. He opened his mouth and tried to speak, scream, anything, but his voice wouldn't work, and all that came out was a small little whimper before the guard lifted a thick club and smashed his head over with it. He crumpled to his side and, once again, the world faded to black.
/\/\/\/\
7:39 a.m., September 18
Sherlock didn't know where John was. He didn't know what Moriarty wanted. He didn't know how to find him, or what to do once he found him - he didn't even know if John was alive or not.
The only thing he knew for certain, in absolute conviction, was the fact that he really, really wanted to punch Sally Donovan in the fact at that moment.
"I told John something like this would happen if he stuck around with you," she was muttering coldly, sending pointed glances Sherlock's way. He was struggling to ignore her, knowing that losing his temper would not be helping them find John any sooner.
After having found nothing of use at 221B, the police station had spent the night searching the streets and sending out 'Missing Person' notifications. Now, they were examining Sherlock's phone, trying to trace the call back to its location.
Sherlock didn't understand the point. They already knew it came from John's phone, but Moriarty wouldn't be stupid enough to let them know his location. He was sure to have prevented any sort of tracing to be done.
Sherlock, Lestrade, and Donovan were now in Lestrade's office, trying to come up with any sort of lead.
Donovan was being a bit less than helpful.
"But he didn't believe me. And now look where he is," Donovan continued, her thousandth variation that day of the same message - You're a freak, and this is all your fault. This was a fact Sherlock was well aware of and did not need to be reminded of. His fists clenched angrily, and Lestrade could sense his anger.
"Donovan," he reprimanded shortly, "Enough of that. Make yourself useful."
She glared one more time at Sherlock before whirling on her heel and marching out of the room.
Lestrade turned to Sherlock. There was a brief pause. "So, any ideas?"
"None," Sherlock snapped in reply, spinning and starting to pace. "Moriarty didn't give any kind of clue, there was no background noise, nothing to signify where the hell he might have been - something very odd of him. He likes to play the game, he likes to 'watch me dance'. But this time there's no game. There's nothing for me to dance to." Sherlock breathed in deeply, running his fingers through his hair.
"So... what do we do?" Lestrade was obviously disturbed by the consulting detective's panicked state.
"I don't know." Just those three words sent waves of panic up and down Sherlock's spine. He collapsed in a chair in front of Lestrade, staring blankly at his desk. "I just don't know."
There was silence between the two before Sherlock spoke again.
"We wait, I suppose. Wait for a clue."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Really?"
"Sooner or later, he'll give us something," Sherlock said, noting the hint of desperation in his own voice. "...he has to."
Lestrade was looking at him with concern. "Listen, Sherlock... if you don't want to be on this case, I understand. It has to be really hard for you to -"
"What are you talking about? Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock snapped, his head whipping up to glare at the Detective Inspector. "Of course I have to be on this case! This is my fault John's gone, anyways, and by God if it's the last thing I do I have to make sure he's safe!"
This sudden outburst was met by an awkward silence, and Sherlock suddenly realized he was standing. He sank slowly back into the chair.
"I'm... sorry. That was -"
"Do you really believe this was your fault?" Lestrade interrupted in disbelief. Sherlock peeked up at him again incredulously.
"I don't believe so. I know so," Sherlock said simply, hiding quite well that this very fact was viciously tearing out his insides with every breath he took.
"Well, that's a silly thing to think," Lestrade said, leaning forward. "Dr. Watson was - is," Lestrade corrected with a wince, "a very intelligent man, Sherlock. He knew what he was getting himself into, being around you. And when we find him, he's going to be the first to tell you not to blame yourself."
Lestrade was being logical, of course, and Sherlock could just see John rolling his eyes at his flatmate in exasperation. "Of course it's not your fault, Sherlock. Don't tell yourself that."
But Sherlock didn't believe him.
He didn't believe either of them because he knew that what he was saying was true.
This was his fault.
Sherlock cleared his throat, mumbling a noncommittal affirmation, before standing.
"I'm going to go... get... water," he muttered vaguely, sweeping out of Lestrade's office distractedly.
But all he ended up doing was leaning against the wall in a somewhat vacated hallway, staring into space and forcing his mind to work harder than usual. He tried to remember every single detail about what Moriarty had sounded like, but nothing unusual stood out. He had already recorded every word the evil mastermind had said and analyzed them repeatedly.
Well isn't this delicious. Grown attached to your little pet, have you?
Sherlock shuddered, recalling the absolute cruelty soaking Moriarty's tone. He usually never let things like that bother him, always keeping up his emotional wall to stop himself from getting overly invested in the case. But this...
...this was John.
Sherlock couldn't imagine losing him.
Just that thought sent unearthly shivers down his spine. He shut his eyes, willing the thought away.
He couldn't lose John.
He wouldn't lose John.
He stayed there for a while, racking his brain, trying in vain to come up with any sort of lead. It was quite a bit later before Donovan burst into the hallway, her eyes widening in relief as they focused on Sherlock.
"You! I've been looking for you," she called, jogging towards him.
"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped with hostility.
She glared at him, but didn't stop talking. "You need to get to Lestrade's office." She was panting slightly, as if she had been running around searching for him. "Moriarty's sent us something."
He stared at her disbelievingly.
"A clue."
/\/\/\/\
Chapter 3 should be up very soon ~
