Author's Note:This is my first foray into the world of Sherlock and you readers are awesome! Thank you so much for your kind reviews it was much appreciated. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like. As promised, here is the Saturday posting...

**Thank you to everyone that has read and/or reviewed this little piece of fiction! The comments have been lovely!

(Thank you for your continued support through reviews and views of the story. Hope you enjoy the newest chapter.)

PLEASE REVIEW:Since this is the first effort in a new fandom, if you enjoy the story and want to see it finished, please leave a review so I know. Cheers!

Disclaimer:Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

Sherlock's unanswered question has an answer coming...wait for it...

Chapter 6

Shadow

The medical side of his brain kicked in with a vengeance and John found himself barking orders to anyone within the hearing distance of his voice. He had spent too many years in the military barking orders to those around him to care how he came across. This included Mycroft…

"There is towels in the bathroom, soak one in cold water and bring it to me." His tone had the elder Holmes squaring his shoulders, almost like he intended on refusing and then re-considering. He simply nodded once and disappeared inside the small room, returning moments later with the soaking wet towel.

John laid it across Sherlock's fevered forehead and glanced up as the nurse finally made an appearance. She didn't immediately interrupt what he was doing, at least not until he addressed her. "Can you go get his attending physician?" It was softer than the way he'd addressed Sherlock's older brother, but no less powerful.

She nodded quickly and scurried from the room. John's attention returned to the task at hand. Sherlock had stopped convulsing, but his body was flushed and he'd stopped sweating, which wasn't a good sign under normal circumstances, and definitely not under the conditions the consulting detective now found himself in.

Mycroft had settled against the far wall, his arms folded across his chest, as was characteristic of him when he was assessing a situation, John noted. He had managed to wipe his emotional response, to what was happening and now stared, almost bored, at the former army doctor.

The doctor raised angry eyes and bit back the thoughts that were threatening to burst from his lips, unfiltered. This was entirely Mycroft's fault. Had he allowed Sherlock to keep John in the loop, it was completely possible that this never would have happened. He ignored the tiny voice inside his head that told him if he had gone with the detective he would not have met Mary…and that would have been a 'bit not good'. But this voice was soft enough that John ignored it. This wasn't about him; this was about the man lying in the hospital bed.

He was still angry with Sherlock, but nowhere near as much as he had been twelve hours ago. At this point John was just praying that he would not have to attend the man's funeral…again. He was fairly certain that would break what was left of his resolve.

Unable to ignore the elephant in the room any longer, he addressed Mycroft. "You did this." He ground out between breaths as he shifted the wet towel to another position.

Mycroft frowned. "I assure that I—"

"What? That you didn't mean for him to be tortured? That you didn't mean to put me through living hell for the last 2 years?" John glanced up at the taller man. "What exactly can you assure me of?"

The elder Holmes's blue eyes shifted to his brother's still form and then back up the angry gaze of Sherlock's best friend. "I never intended for him to get hurt."

The doctor's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "What the hell did you think was going to happen? You sent him, head first into a trap set by the most cunning and manipulative man that England has ever seen. How can you be so smart and yet so stupid at the same time?!"

Mycroft squared his shoulders at the insult before taking a deep breath. "You do not have all the facts, Dr. Watson."

Another set of convulsions pulled John's attention back to Sherlock. He didn't get the chance to answer the other man before the attending assigned to Sherlock's case burst into the room along with two nurses. The man's brown eyes shifted between John and Mycroft. John didn't know what expression he was wearing, but it must have been something dangerous... Because the physician didn't immediately shove the army doctor out of the way, as was his right, and take over. Instead he nodded, a professional courtesy, allowing John to be the one to take a step back relinquishing the care of the man in the bed to the attending.

John watched with sharp eyes as the assigned medical staff moved to replace him at Sherlock's bedside. All he could do was now observe and pray that he got the chance to make this whole thing right. That the last words he uttered to Sherlock Holmes weren't in anger nor colored by hurt.

He didn't say anything to Mycroft as he moved to stand next to the taller man. John watched the medical work to lower Sherlock's temperature. Ice packs were placed along his sides and under his arms…well, pretty much anyplace a major artery was near the surface of the epidermal layer. It was the quickest way to reduce a fever and one that John has used in the field on several occasions.

His mobile vibrated inside his jacket pocket. It was a text, from Mary.

*How is Sherlock?

John scrubbed his hand down his face. The stress of the day was starting to take a toll on him. He could feel his nerves starting to fray and he was tired. So very tired. He quickly typed a response.

*Honestly? He's a mess.

She typed something on the other end. John watched the little dots that indicated she was responding. They flickered in and out on the screen of his mobile; he found his mind wandering only to be pulled back by the vibrating mobile.

*Can I do anything?

God I love this woman. John thought as he responded.

*Not really. He's in good hands.

*I meant for you, love.

John considered her question before he responded. Was there anything anyone could do for him at this point? Probably not… *I'm okay.

*You're really not. If you need anything, let me know. Love you.

*I will. Love you too.

He placed his mobile back inside his jacket and returned to staring at the scene in front of him. Watching Sherlock cling to life made him wonder what exactly he'd been so angry about earlier.

221B 221B

Sherlock's fingers shook as he grabbed the railing that lined the upper balcony above the long staircase. His eyes widened at the roaring sound that seemed to be reverberating throughout his mind palace; drowning out everything. It almost sounded like a waterfall. But while he knew he was losing control of this place, he was absolutely certain that he hadn't taken a page out of a Batman comic and built his mind palace over a cave with water and bats. He cast his gaze about looking for his friend. Sherlock was sure at what point he'd lost track of the blogger and now he wasn't sure if he could find him again.

The rooms that had been assigned to the army doctor were now nothing more than an empty white stage. There was nothing left of the methodically stored facts that had been there only hours before. He was no longer able to pull up the massive archives of information, it was almost as if…his mind was tearing itself apart in the real world…burning up…scorching his memories from his brain. Stupid transport. He thought irrationally.

"John?!" He called down into the darkness. He couldn't find his friend. At some point, John has disappeared and the only place left to look was down in the depths of what Sherlock considered, the basement…the catacombs…the graveyard. His eyelids dropped closed and he inhaled an unsteady breath before he began the slow descent into his own private hell.

The rushing sound of water was nearly deafening. The risers of the steps became increasingly less sturdy as Sherlock approached the end of his journey. "John Watson? Where the bloody hell are you?" His voice broke on the plea. He knew that what he was searching for was nothing more than his own conscience. John represented the part of himself that was able to feel. And Sherlock was in great need of that power right now. He needed to feel something beyond the pain or the loss and despair. He had been locked in here for too long and he could no longer see his way out of the darkness.

He couldn't see his hand in front of his face it was so dark. Sherlock's foot slipped between two rotten boards and he hissed as his ankle twisted painfully.

"You shouldn't have come down here, Sherlock." Moriarty's voice flooded every sense and the detective could do nothing but ignore it. His entire body quivered with hatred for the man that had cost him 'everything'. "You don't have anything to say?" The voice shifted as Sherlock stumbled to the final landing. "My my my…you do realize I'm your shadow?"

Sherlock finally found his voice, though he didn't venture away from the bottom of the stairs. "Shadow?"

The figure had yet to turn around. "The dark little thing that follows you every time you find yourself standing in the light. The antithesis of Sherlock Holmes…I'm you. Or I'm what you could have become had you applied yourself a little harder."

This wasn't the first time that Sherlock had considered that outcome. He knew that if he'd applied his skills in another way he could very easily have become what Moriarty had…a consulting criminal instead of a consulting detective.

He blinked several times and his eyes finally landed on a small candle burning in the distance. The flickering yellow light cast a shadow over a person seated cross-legged on the stone floor. Sherlock leaned heavily against the peeling plaster on the wall and gathered his reserves. He couldn't face Moriarty otherwise. The last time he'd gone up against the criminal genius, Sherlock had had to fake his own suicide just to survive the encounter.

"Where's John?" Sherlock's voice was steady despite his inner turmoil. He had no intention of letting his maniac see him sweat.

"Your loyal foot soldier?" Moriarty laughed and it was a hateful sound, full of rage and emotions that the detective didn't fully understand. When he'd first started dueling with the consulting criminal, Sherlock had thought that the man was cleverer than anyone he had ever met. And he was…brilliant. But he was also ruled by his emotions, something that the younger Holmes brother had struggled to control his entire life. He had no intention of being one of those irrational lunatics that allowed the fuzzy lens of emotion to influence his life. Apart from John…the army doctor could elicit an emotional response from Sherlock without really trying. It was both incredibly frustrating and refreshing at the same time.

"Come closer, Sherlock." His voice had a sing-song tempo to it and it made the hairs on the back of the detective's neck stand on end. "Come on…I'm not going to answer your question until you do."

"Why should I?" Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. He didn't have a choice and he knew it. Something was happening to his physical body on the outside and whatever it was had trapped him inside the rapidly reducing walls of his mind palace. The only solace that he'd been able to find had been in the memories of his friendship with John Watson; at least in the version that he'd created inside the safety of his own mind. Now he'd had that taken away from him as well.

The figure on the floor sighed loudly. "Because I asked nicely."

Sherlock frowned. There was something in the way that Moriarty answered that scared him. The consulting criminal knew something that he did not…and the man was dying to tell him. He ignored the voice of reason (it sounded an awful lot like John) and slowly made his way through the pressing darkness; toward the figure and the single flame candle. The rushing water almost became a background noise that could be ignored…almost, but not quite.

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked again as he closed the distance in several long, if stilted, steps. He stopped about six feet from the seated figure. Moriarty had certainly seen better days. His hair was shaggy and he was extremely dirty, the straightjacket that bound his arms to his chest was stained and smelled like spoilt milk.

In one fluid motion Moriarty was on his feet. He twisted so that he was facing Sherlock; an unsettling smile spreading from ear to ear. "Closer, Sherlock." The chains that encircled his feet rattled as he shifted his weight and tilted his head. "Just a few more steps."

Sherlock ignored the inner voice that urged him to turn and run. Go back to the empty rooms upstairs, they were far safety than where he now found himself. But this was for John and he couldn't leave his friend (imaginary or not) to the ministrations of Moriarty. He took a step. The immense pain in his physical body was nothing compared to the shock when suddenly Jim surged forward and slammed his shoulder into Sherlock's chest knocking him backwards. His head cracked against the stone flooring and he immediately saw bursts of light as his body went rigid, like a seizure or something.

"I told you I'd burn the heart out of you." Moriarty knelt beside the concussed man. "I never told you it would be literally. He reached out with his right foot and knocked the candle over. The flames burst forth, and spread as if there had been a petrol spill.

Suddenly Sherlock found himself completely alone…just him and the fire that was now licking its' way along the edge of the walls. He could feel the heat as he watched the blurry fire begin a slow crawl toward him.

Without warning his ability to breathe was cut off. He rolled onto his side and tried to force his resistant transport to do what it was required to do…breathe, despite of the fire trying to sear his lungs from his chest.

221B 221B

John sat in the small white chair against the far wall, watching everything. He knew that he didn't need to keep a constant vigil over Sherlock. His doctor's and nurses were well aware of the precarious edge of life that the detective was now balancing upon. But John couldn't leave. He had tried, but the blogger hadn't even made it to the lobby before he was rushing back toward the room.

The lights had again been reduced to little more than a dim glow. John could hear the staff bustling around in the hall outside Sherlock's assigned room. But his attention was completely focused on the man in the bed. He couldn't count the times that he'd heard Sherlock tell him 'breathing, breathing is boring'. But after watching the consulting detective's heart stop, twice, John was convinced that breathing might be the least boring thing in the history of the world.

He pulled in a long slow breath and turned toward the small bathroom. He isn't going to die if you take a piss. He thought to himself before slowly standing and stretching to pop the kinks out of his back. John hurried to relieve himself and then quickly washed his hands. As he stepped from the bathroom his attention was called to Sherlock's bed. And his eyes widened at what he saw there…standing above the consulting detective's bed was a man...

TBC…

Author's Note: Please take a moment and let me know if you're interested in the rest of the story.