A/N: Ugh. I'm terrible, I know. But I've had a sleepover every weekend and a huge pileup of tests and homework. Also getting sick doesn't help. Anyways, here is your (belated) update! Onwards!

Sherlock sat behind a desk, cluttered with pictures of empty buildings and map with scattered red dots, in Scotland Yard. It had been about a week since John was taken, and Sherlock had barely slept or ate in that time. His skin was pale and stretched over his protruding bones. Every second was devoted to tracking down invisible trails and he faced countless dead ends.

Sherlock's phone chimed. The caller ID said he had received a text from an unknown number.

There were no words in the message. Attached was a picture, and Sherlock tapped it, hoping it wasn't what he thought it was.

After a moment of loading, the picture popped up. It looked like a jail cell, except it was much smaller and filthy. Instead of a bed, there was a lumpy, thin mat on the floor in the corner. Various stains colored the grimy walls and floor – some were colorless, indescribable, while others were a reddish-brown color, and looked alarmingly fresh. Brown water was dripping from the ceiling and seeping through the floor.

Sherlock's fingers tangled through his hair. He closed his eyes until, a few moments later, the phone chimed again.

Sherlock clenched his jaw as he forced himself to look at the next one. This time, it was a picture of John himself. He was tied up against a wall, and someone outside of the picture was holding a knife to his chest.

The third picture was of John's back, littered with purple and brown bruises and bright pink cuts, an even mixture of jagged gashes and straight, clean wounds. There were no signs of infection, which suggested they were attempting to make sure John didn't die before he was supposed to. Someone had recently carved the word 'freak' over John's shoulder blade – it was still dripping a dark liquid.

The last one was John's face. His eyes were open, but they looked… dead. As if his soul had been beaten out of him. A clean gash ran down his face.

The last text was just words.

He was the last one. Come get your pets now, Sherlly! -JM

Athelney burst into the room. "Sherlock? I followed that lead you for me about, and this looks promising!"

Sherlock sighed deeply, closing his eyes. He turned off his phone and stood up, ignoring how it seemed to spin around him. Forcing down the lump in his throat, he turned to face Jones.

"I'm ready."

OoOoOoO

John was being kept in Northern Ireland. Some factory had been abandoned, and Moriarty had taken it over. That night, someone had called into the police, saying they heard screaming. The report was immediately sent to Scotland Yard, where it caught Sherlock's attention.

Sherlock and a crowd from Scotland Yard had been flown in quickly. As the police car Sherlock was in drove up to the factory, SWAT arrived. Tires screeched, men in black ran behind cars, and weapons poked their noses out of every nook and cranny. As the men spoke urgently into headsets, Sherlock inhaled a deep breath and closed his eyes, preparing himself.

Sherlock stepped out of the car and into the cold.

It was about to begin.