Hello everyone! It's been a long time... Sorry for the wait. Especially those of you who have been waiting ever so patiently this past year. It's just life decided to catch up to me and now I'm trying to catch up on everything else. Well here is chapter 4. Finally. Please let me know if while you're reading there are any gaps between this and other chapters. It has been a while. And just plain old comments are always welcome too. Thank you all for being ever so patient with me! Enjoy!

Chapter 4

John dropped his arms to his sides and nearly let loose of the papers. This couldn't be happening. Why would someone do this?

"Oh God. This is all my fault," John began to shut down and go into a state of panic ", How am I going to find him? I can't talk to Mycroft or Greg. I'm going to guess that by saying no Greg that means no cops at all. I already talked to Mrs. Hudson and she doesn't know anything. Ung. What am I going to do," he ran his hand through his hair, much like Sherlock, trying to think. He quickly remembered ", That! That's something I learned from Sherlock! Maybe I can do more than I think."

He reread the letter trying to find possible flaws, finding a few. Then read it once more and highlighted these sections:

You don't know me but I know you...

boyfriend(misconception due to news paper articles and fans)

your God

I shot you

(Sherlock) found me

destroy what you love like you did to me

not end well for you(yay for me)

Lestrade(must know him from the arrest)

brother(knows about Mycroft)

"What could this all mean put together though?"

John thought on it for a good long while. What would Sherlock do? How would he process all this information? The answers were there, he just had to find them.

He had to have been from the war, that part was obvious. "Your God" pointed to a non-Christian. Most likely a native. Could be atheist though. He filed that away for later. Need more data, he thought, much like a certain consulting detective. He kept going.

He started to monologue out loud much like Sherlock would now and again ", Ok. So. He says I destroyed something of his and I don't remember ever coming under friendly fire. But whatever I 'destroyed' must have been a person or involving a person because he took Sherlock. But I don't remember anything that would... wait. Might have been one of the renegade groups that attacked us the one time in camp. I guess I could have possibly shot a brother or cousin maybe. That would explain why he wanted to shoot me and try to kill me. And kind of why he took Sherlock. We are really pretty close friends. He could have been fighting for the terrorist cells though and not the renegades because he 'knows me', and the terrorists almost always knew the names of most of the captains and generals. Oh. I think I know why he might have tried to shoot just me though while I was there. It must have been when I was the only commanding officer when we were attacked the one time, that was before the next battle that sent me home. Makes a little more sense to think of it that way.

Hm... I'm going to also take a guess and assume that both Greg and Mycroft were involved in this man's arrest, as well as Sherlock, because he at least seems to know of both of them and their general line of work. Oh! The idiot!" John lept with joy ", He said Sherlock caught him! So it's likely that it was in the paper! Oh, this is good. Maybe I can find a picture of this guy. And I also know the roundabout date of when it happened. I could probably find it in the archives or something at the library. Oh! Or even maybe Sherlock's personal records he keeps of all his arrests. This shouldn't be too hard. Though I am a little concerned about the 'not ending well' part. Don't like the sound of it. Obviously the end result, no matter what, is supposed to be a terrible end for me. As long as I can get Sherlock out of this mess unscathed, I don't care."

The doorbell down stairs suddenly rang, though it didn't really register in his destracted brain, knowing in the back of his mind that Mrs. Hudson would get it.

John had, since his ramble, sat down in his chair and looked much like the detective when in thought. He didn't even twitch when he heard the quick footsteps coming up the stairs.

"John?"

The doctor nearly jumped out of his chair when he heard the voice ", Greg! Umm... how are you," he asked raising out of his chair quickly to great the other man.

"Fine. And what about you? You look like you've seen a ghost mate."

"Uh, yeah. Just not feeling very well. Think I might have caught a cold or something," he lied blatantly. John tried to calm himself down, tried to act normal.

"I'm sorry 'bout that. Hope you feel better. Well, sorry to bother you, but I was wondering... is Sherlock back?"

John could feel his stomach lurch, the words "no help from, Lestrade" echoed in his head, and he thought he was going to vomit", No. he's not back yet."

" Did he text you or anything? I hate to pry but I have a question for him," Greg was starting to get really worried. John had paled to a sickly green, except for bright pink blotches on his cheeks.

"Nope. Haven't heard anything yet. I'm sure he'll contact me somehow before I go to bed later if he's still not back…" at that point, the doctor was hoping Greg would just leave already. He had a hunch that the kidnapper probably had someone watching him right then. Or maybe the flat was bugged…

"Ok. Well just tell me when he comes back. I have a case for him to look at. Just want to see what he thinks about it."

"Ok. No problem."

Greg coughed nervously. "Well, uh, see you later then. Take care of yourself, John."

"I will. Thanks again Greg," John nearly pushed the DI out of the flat and down the stairs.

After shutting the front door, John leaned up against the door as if trying to keep the whole world from getting into the flat.

I hope that, that wouldn't be considered 'contacting' Greg. That was completely unexpected. He thought to himself.

Sherlock cried out and began to cough a little more violently now as a sixth punch, out of a succession of hits, made contact with the flesh just above his navel. The last cough revealed a small amount of blood dripping down his chin.

Since the first encounter with the knife, a single light had been turned on, revealing many things. One thing that Sherlock thought rather odd was that he was tied to a, quite nice, Victorian chair. It looked much like an arm chair that was to sit at either end of a dinner table. It seemed to be a bit of an antique due to the carefully worn, woodwork and the original fabric that adorned the back and seat of the chair. The fabric itself reminded the detective much of the wallpaper in the flat.

Why would someone want to ruin a glorious chair such as this one with blood, he wondered irritably, mainly to distract himself from the pain in his abdomen. He just opened his mouth to verbalize his opinion when his thoughts were interrupted by a curious sound.

It sounded of a violent rattling, much like the surgeons carts he'd heard so many times on the tiles of Bart's. It soon became visible in the dim light. His rational thoughts were replaced by an underlying fear once he saw the source of the noise being wheeled into sight. This couldn't be good, he thought with slight panic.

The cart was left next to the chair where the detective could clearly see its contents. As he looked over to quench the thirst of curiosity, Sherlock's blood quickly ran cold as ice. There, in plain view, was a tray on the cart holding a full array of nasty looking objects that did not look very friendly. Sherlock didn't like the look of it one bit.

As much as he tried not to, Sherlock couldn't help but swallow hard before he spoke. "About to have some fun are we? I don't think that those are really that necessary. I'm quite sure if you ask nicely I can give you whatever information you might need on whatever or whomever."

The presumed mastermind finally came out of the shadows ", This has nothing to do with information. We already have that. And, Mr. Holmes, are my eyes deceiving me, or are you a trifle more worried about your situation?" the man asked with a knowing grin.

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Fantastic, what will we be starting with?" he asked trying to turn his fear into sarcasm. "Ah, but first, why exactly are you doing this? I'm quite sure you're aware that you'll never get any information out of me. If you even wanted any at least. If you don't want me for information, what do you want me for anyway?"

"I'm well aware that you won't, and excellent question, by the way. I'm going to destroy you." Those words rang in Sherlock's head, and he suddenly remembered the last time he had talked to Jim with terrifying clarity. "Oh, don't look so surprised. We're–well, I–am only doing this to torture your little boyfriends soul," the man said putting a sarcastic emphasis on the word 'boyfriend'.

"Excuse me!" Sgerlock shouted in what felt like anger. "First of all! He's not my 'boyfriend'! Second, how the Hell do you expect that to work? You can't torture his soul with me."

"That's what you think. All in good time my friend. First though," he walked over to the tray, "what shall I start with? The scalpel: delicate cuts and precise movement, or the knife: rough like the doctor's emotions and painful like the war?"

Sherlock looked at the man ", Do I actually get a choice in the matter or are you – as they say – pulling my leg? Because if I get a choice, I would prefer the scalpel."

"Of course you get a choice," the dark faced man said with a sick cheer ", And you made a good one too," Sherlock could sense the sarcasm in the words and cringed on the inside ", Knife it is."

Sherlock couldn't help but start to close his eyes in anticipation as the man walked in front of him holding the knife skillfully in his hand. When would this end?