One foot in front of the other, Sherlock kept telling himself.

He had felt hopeful when he left the wreckage, suitcase full of supplies, water, and food in hand, but the more he walked, the more his hope started to fade. And the longer he walked, the more he realized that he really had no clue where he was going.

So, I am on an unknown island, but I have no idea the size of the island. Presumably, John and Greg are still alive and somehow I'm supposed to wander around trying to find them. Then, when I finally do find them, we all set out to find Moriarty and finally bring him to his demise. Sounds so easy!

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. He had to stay focused. This island was already starting to get into his head.

He stopped and looked behind him. A long expanse of beach stood between he and the wreckage that he had come from, which was now a spot in the distance. He turned away from the wreckage and continued walking. To the left of him was the seemingly infinite sea of water and to the right was a seemingly infinite sea of trees.

Before leaving the wreckage, he had tried to calculate approximately where the other half of the plane would have landed, but it was difficult. He didn't know exactly where in the sky the two halves of the plane had been separated. Still, he gave it his best guess, which is always better than most, and made his way, one foot in front of the other.

He stopped again, getting the feeling he needed to change direction. He turned to his right and, with a deep breath, headed into the forest.

Greg's breathing was getting more and more shallow. Every breath brought a new wave of pain over his body and he sagged limply against the ropes binding him to the tree. He could tell that the sun was coming up because there was some light around the edge of his vision.

Or maybe I'm finally dying and the light means I'm approaching heaven.

He managed to force his eyes open a bit more and was dismayed to find the same hopeless surroundings as before.

Wishful thinking. Come on Sherlock. It's now or never.

And with that his vision turned dark again.

Sherlock trudged on and on, pushing aside branches with one arm while lugging the suitcase around with his other. He felt like he was in a trance, pushing forward, desperately clinging to the hope that Greg and John were still alive. He inhaled deeply and suddenly stopped, head snapping up, alert.

Smoke.

It was faint, but he could smell it. It had to be the other half of the plane.

With a renewed vigor, he set off at a half jog toward the smell; it got stronger and stronger until he caught a glimpse of something shiny not too far ahead of him.

He set of at a sprint until he reached the other half of the plane. The crash had created a large clearing in the thick forest. Parts of the plane were strewn all around and smoke was coming from one of the planes engines. He dropped his suitcase in his excitement and ran to the back of the plane, where it had broken off. Adrenaline was now pumping through his veins and he could hardly breath. He was so afraid of what he might find, but he had to know, one way or the other.

Nimbly, he jumped into the plane, instantly aware of the fact that there was no one alive in the plane. Like he did with the other half, he surveyed the whole plane in great detail until he was certain that John and Greg were no where to be found. He stood at the front inside the plane, and something started to nag at him. He was the only one alive from the other half of the plane, and, it seemed, that Greg and John were the only survivors from this half. He wasn't sure how, but Moriarty obviously wanted the three of them alive.

For now anyways.

Sherlock exited the plane, grabbed his suitcase and surveyed the outside of the wreckage. He walked around the perimeter of the plane when he noticed an area of grass that was flattened, like someone had been laying on it. He kneeled down and upon closer inspection, found that there was a small amount of blood on the flattened area of grass.

Either John or Greg was thrown from the plane and landed here. From the size of the flattened area, I'd say John. Hurt, but from the amount of blood, not fatally.

He stood up and was able to track the footsteps of John. He stopped when he came across a tree with blood on it and a piece of jagged metal laying on the ground.

Stopped to lean against the tree. Probably to gather his bearings and address his wound. The location of the blood on the tree suggests the metal was in his shoulder. By the lengths of the piece of metal, and the fact that his back was probably against the tree, it must have gone all the way through his shoulder.

Ouch. Sherlock cringed.

He walked further and came across John and Greg's makeshift shelter. Sherlock instantly observed that there had been traffic through this area.

Unwelcome visitors?

He followed the tracks and became aware of a still figure in the distance, he could barely see through the trees. They appeared to be standing but not moving. He approached cautiously, but his cautious steps turned into a sprint when he realized it was Greg tied to a tree.

"Greg!" Sherlock exclaimed, rushing to his friend.

Greg was unconscious and Sherlock checked his pulse, becoming aware of the large amount of blood on Greg's shirt.

Alive but barely.

He untied him from the tree and slowly lowered him to the ground, leaning his back against the tree.

"Sh'lock?"

"Greg!" Sherlock knelt in front of him. "God, Greg."

His eyes wandered down to Greg's stomach. He slowly peeled up Greg's shirt and saw that the large gash across his abdomen had, at one point, been stitched and cleaned.

John.

Sherlock started rummaging through his suitcase in search of the first aid kit. "You've lost a lot of blood, but you'll be alright," Sherlock said as he addressed Greg's wound.

He was just finishing up when his mind drifted to John.

"Greg, what happened to John?"

He suspected what Greg would say, but he had to ask anyways.

Greg took a shaky breath. "They took him. They tied us both to a bloody tree, said they could only take one of us, and they took him."

Sherlock, now sitting cross legged in front of Greg, stared absently into the distance, lost in thought.

He was abruptly pulled from his daze when Greg let out a gruff laugh.

"They even asked John which one of us would go and which one would stay. Of course, he said I should go, assuming they would give me medical treatment to keep me alive."

He trailed off, looking away from Sherlock. "Bastards..."

Sherlock looked up at Greg and was surprised to see a tear rolling down his face. Somehow the sight of this set a fire in Sherlock like never before.

He placed a gentle hand on Greg's shoulder and looked him the eye with a steely gaze.

"Don't worry, Greg. I've got a plan."

Greg returned his gaze and managed his best grin. "Knew you would."