This chapter has been under way for so long I fear some of you may have completely lost hope of its existence. But here it is!

Chapter 12

A shot is fired and suddenly all hell is loose. Sherlock is running, Mycroft is freeing him, and everyone is dodging bullets. Then John feels something his leg, it's painful, but not like a bullet. He yelps, gaining his comrades' attention, and as he looks down he sees an odd shape sticking out of his thigh. It looks like an old fashioned poisonous dart. And then he loses his balance. And then his torchlight goes out. Or maybe he does. It's pitch black either way.

"John!"

When nightmares becomes so real that you wake up and for a moment wonder if peace will forever be lost to you, you experience an incredible relief when your mind catches up with reality. And then sometimes, you wake up and realise that the true nightmare is reality itself, and all you wish for is to fall asleep once more, to re-join the demons that are only of your mind.

He gasped, throatily, and as if oxygen was something rare to his starving lungs.

"John?" rustling of clothes, lights blinking and loud- much too loud- beeping noises, that seemed to pierce through his brain like daggers. "John, can you hear me?" the voice stood in so stark contrast with the mercilessly high-pitched beeps that he almost sighed in relief from listening to it. "You're safe," it told him. But what did they know? Safe? He wasn't even sure if he was hunted or hunting anymore. He wished to open his eyes, but he wasn't sure he could. There were lights, he could register as much, but did he see them through closed eyelids?

Moments, minutes –time- must have passed as he tried to recollect his wits, remember what has happened and regain rule of his body. And then finally he could recognise the voice. "Sherlock-," he breathed, and now he really wanted those damn eyes to open, to confirm that he could indeed see the infuriating detective sit there and speak to him. "I'm here. Take it easy," he murmurs. And John wants to yell profanities at him in several different languages because, easy? How many times did John question whether he was even alive during the last few hours? Countless. He was certain. He forced his vision to return, the outlines of heavy curls and slender shoulders finally coming to him. "Bloody idiot," he croaks weakly. Sherlock smiles. Or smirks. Or that thing he does that is just in between. "It is good to see you too," he greets back.

John vaguely registers that every single atom of his being seems aching and sore, and he lies heavily in the bed in which he seems to be placed. "This is displeasingly familiar," he murmurs, blinking until his vision slowly sharpens, Sherlock's ever-mischievous eyes finally being more than just dark blobs on his pale face. "I wasn't even kidnapped and I end up in the bet? That's unfair," he is aware he slurs his words slightly, but what is he to do than simply wait it out? Sherlock's nose and lips are now separated once more, and John takes a moment to breathe out contently as the familiar face is now completely in focus. And there. Actually right there in front of him, attached to a neck, a pair of shoulders and a body that seems to be in one piece. Sherlock chuckles at him, which causes him to cough lightly but not in an alarming way.

"To be fair I ended up in a bed as well," he admits, his voice soothing John's assaulted head as he speaks. "I simply didn't stay put." John groans quietly at the other. "You're getting increasingly dumber," he mutters half-heartedly, and he smiles weakly when Sherlock only chuckles more at that. "I wished to make sure you were all right. And then I found a chair and I stayed here," he says simply, as if that was a perfectly sane excuse for fleeing from his sickbed. "That's adorable. And now you've got sixty seconds to tell me what happened to you or I will scream for a nurse to put you back," John says matter-of-factly, lifting his brows at Sherlock in a daring manner. Sherlock rolls his eyes at him and snuggles up in the blankets he seems to have herded for himself in his chair. "Yes, yes, all right," he says. "It seems you have worked out the how, so to speak. I was indeed tricked to follow the feigned officers, in whose car I was drugged. It was a sedative of sorts, and it had me pass out until I awoke in the bunker in which you found me. I recall nothing between those two points," Sherlock explains. John listens intently and the screeching beeps from what his brain has now gathered must be monitors, seems to fade slowly while Sherlock speaks. "When I came to, I was drugged with something heavier, that had all strength stolen from me, and so I was not chained up when this person came to speak with me."

"What person?" John asks, frowning faintly. "I do not know," he says. "He didn't say? Not a name? Nothing?" Sherlock shakes his head. "And you didn't see?" John questions. Sherlock diverts his gaze for a moment, as if thinking, or simply avoiding John's eyes. "I was drugged," he repeats, and John was about to speak again when Sherlock cuts him off. "With actual drugs, not sedatives, John. What I do recall is a man not much taller than myself, no facial hair, dark eyes and light hair. But I need time to string together whatever remains," he says, speaking quickly. John mulled over this for a second, quietly. "'Actual drugs'?" he repeats. Sherlock nods as if it explained everything. "The kind of drugs you were addicted to," John both questions and concludes. Sherlock nods again. "Obviously," he says.

"Why is that obvious?" Gregory's voice seems to materialise out of thin air, and John turns his head to blink in surprise at the DI. "Oh, hey, John! You're awake!" He smiles with evident relief. "Who else did you imagine I was speaking to?" Sherlock questions Greg with a raised eyebrow. "Yourself, obviously," he retorts easily. John chuckles and Sherlock glares. Mycroft appears behind the Detective Inspector, and he wanders over to stand besides John's beside, a polite smile on his lips. "John. It is good to see that you have regained consciousness," he greets, and John nods. "Good to see everyone is alive," he greets back.

"Yeah, so, now that everyone has made sure everyone is alive, can you explain the obviousness in the fact that you were drugged?" Greg turns to Sherlock, who is still bundled up in plush white blankets.

"Credibility," he says, in that hopeless way that makes you feel like he just gave you the answer to a question you didn't understand in the first place. Mycroft huffs a breath that sounds suspiciously like a sigh. Sherlock repeats himself. "Credibility. Like one must have in ones profession. Like John and I must have to do what we do," he says, this time seeming sure that he has explained the entire mystery.

"Sherlock, from the beginning, and keep in mind that we are mere mortals," John says after a moment of silence. Mycroft chuckles quietly and turns to find himself a chair. "And when you're done, someone please remind me where we are and what happened to me," he adds.

I purposely made this chapter short, to promise you that it will continue soon! Some explanation will be done- worry not, John will make sure of it. Thank you for sticking around!