Hello everyone! I'm pleasantly surprised how quickly I got this update finished. First off, thanks to everyone who reviewed; I love you all! I'm still kind of writing blindly with this story, but I'm having fun figuring it out as I go. Anyways, enough rambling, enjoy!

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

He immediately became aware of how quiet it was around him. He couldn't hear anything; it was total silence.

He was lying flat on his back and noticed he was lying on a pile of clothes; luggage and bags were strewn around him. As if he had just had freezing water thrown on him, he jumped to his feet and his heartbeat rapidly increased. Sherlock hardly ever felt panicked but this situation was definitely an exception.

He quickly realized that he was in the cargo hold and the memories of what had happened prior to the crash came flooding back to him. After he left John and Greg, he had walked to the back of the plane and quickly came to the conclusion that there weren't any people interesting enough for his time. Disappointed, he had started walking back towards his seat when two security guards had grabbed him and taken him to the back of the plane. He remembered trying to put up a fight but they had covered his nose and mouth with a rag soaked in chloroform. Consciousness escaped him and that's the last thing he remembered.

He pulled himself out of his memories and looked out of the opening of the plane where the plane had broken in half. The water on the beach moved back and forth peacefully, as if everything was as it should be. His mind snapped back into survival mode, survival had to be his main objective. He began to search the bags that were surrounding him for anything useful. He grabbed a large suitcase and dumped the contents out; that's what he would use to put everything in. He found a few lighters, some books, a couple shirts his size, some sweatshirts, a blanket, a few first aid kits, and a knife.

He packed all of his treasures in his suitcase and walked out of the cargo hold onto the soft sand. The heat hit Sherlock suddenly as the sun poured on him. He pulled of his overcoat and stuffed it into his bag, it was too warm to wear it, but it might come in handy at night when it got cold. He untucked his button-up purple shirt from his pants and rolled up his pants so that they went to his knees. He turned back to look at the plane and his eyes drifted toward the upper level of the plane, where the passengers were. He felt of pang of conviction; there could still be people alive in there. With his face set in grim determination he started climbing up to the main level of the plane. The plane had crashed tail end first so it was downward sloping, making Sherlock stumble as he stepped onto the surface.

The first thing Sherlock noticed was the lack of movement in the plane. There were lots of bodies though. Slowly, he made his way through the plane, stopping at each person and checking their pulse, just in case. Finally, he had made it to the last person. No one had survived; except for him. There was only one explanation for everything: Moriarty. Momentarily, Sherlock felt confused. If Moriarty wanted to kill him, why try to ensure that he survive the crash? It took only seconds for him to realize why. It was all a game. A sick, twisted game of survival. Who could last longer before the other died. Anger burst through Sherlock as he looked at the lifeless bodies around him and as he realized the cause of their deaths. It was all so pointless, so stupid. That thought turned his thoughts to John and Greg. His stomach dropped as he wondered if they had survived or had ended up like the rest of the people on the plane. No, he said to himself, if Moriarty ensured that I would survive the crash, surely he'd do the same for John and Greg. But uncertainty crept into his mind. He shook his head and decided the only way to find out for sure would be to find John and Greg, dead or alive.

There was only one last bit of the plane to check. He walked through curtains that revealed the area where the bathroom was located and he was pleased to find the food cart lying on its side with food scattered around it. He was slightly disappointed to find that there were only small bags of peanuts and cookies for food, but there were cans of soda and, more importantly, bottles of water. He rushed back into the main area and looked around until he found a small bag and emptied it's contents. He ran back to the food cart and stuffed everything into the bag. Pleased with his find, he climbed back down out of the plane onto solid ground.

Sherlock was finally starting to feel hopeful. He was going to find John and Greg, they would be alive, and then they would finally kill Moriarty. A smile crept at the edge of his lips as he grabbed his luggage and set off on his new mission with a new found determination.

John didn't want to open his eyes. The sleep that he had been forced into had been so peaceful, so calming. He had dreamt that he was drinking champagne with Sherlock, Greg, Mary, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson at 221b Baker Street and he and Sherlock had just solved a case. It was one of those dreams that you never want to wake up from. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to maintain a firm grasp on sleep and he was slowly waking up. As his eyes opened, he immediately felt immense pain from the wound on his damaged shoulder, which was now bleeding, and where the cut above his eye was located. The second thing he felt was immense confusion; he was standing upright and his back was against something very hard. He tried to move his arms but he couldn't move them an inch. In fact, the only thing he could move was his head. His arms were tied around a rather large tree and ropes held the rest of his body secure against the tree as well. He looked up and saw that a still unconscious Lestrade was in the same situation across from John, about 20 feet away. John was startled to see that fresh blood looked like it was soaking through Lestrade's shirt.

A loud voice broke John's concerned attention from Greg. "Finally, you're awake!"

The large man who had knocked John out came lumbering toward him and he seemed even more menacing than before.

Stupidly, John struggled against his restraints again. The man just laughed.

"We're in a bit of a predicament here," The man said with a sigh.

John lifted his chin and looked the man in the eyes. "And what would that be?" He was trying to sound braver than he felt.

The man returned John's gaze. "Well, boss says we're only allowed to take one of you to him, but we can't decide which one to take and which one to leave tied to a tree."

John's breathing hitched and his eyes widened as he looked back over at Greg and saw that he was now awake, listening intently but still clearly in pain.

Obviously Sherlock was still out there, or else Moriarty's men wouldn't be looking for him, but was he even alive? If John went with Moriarty's men and left Greg, would Sherlock find Greg or would he die from blood loss? If he let them take Greg, he would probably receive some medical attention and John would probably have a better chance of getting himself free from the tree if Sherlock didn't find him and he could try to rescue Greg.

"Well?" The man barked at John.

"Well what?" John said with the least amount of fear possible.

"Which one of you stays and which one goes?"

John quickly thought it over one more time and glanced at Greg. Greg looked back at John, as if he already knew what John was going to decide.

"I'll stay," John said sternly, still looking at Greg.

The man laughed harshly. "Thought you'd say that."

Two men with knives cut John free of the ropes that bound him to the tree and re-tied his hands in front of him.

It took a moment for John to register what was happening.

"No, no, I told you, take Greg, leave me here!" The volume of his voice was rising.

John started pushing against the two men, who were know holding his arms.

The large man didn't say anything in reply. He walked up to John and tied a bit of rope to the rope tied around John's hands and started walking away, pulling John with him.

The two men let go of John and he violently pulled against his restraints as the large man kept walking, pulling John away from Greg.

John wrenched his head around to try to look at Greg, who was watching the scene with a mix of alarm and pain.

"Greg," John hoarsely yelled and his voice faltered, "I'm sorry...I'm so sorry,"

Greg tried to look as consolidating as he could at his friend, but it was only mere seconds before John was dragged away from view. Greg felt numb with shock as he looked down at his blood stained clothes. He knew some of his stitches had ripped and he was bleeding again. He prayed that John would be okay, but the realistic side of him knew that neither of them were going to be okay if they made it out of this alive. And, at the moment, Greg was highly doubtful that he would be alive too much longer. He realized that his last hope for survival was Sherlock Holmes.