Sherlock kept his eyes squeezed shut as John's bloodcurdling scream ripped through his ears. Fresh tears stained his pale cheeks and he was quivering. This is all my fault, he thought, John is dead because of me. He started crying in earnest now, sobs racked his body and he felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him. But there was nothing that would comfort him now, it was all his fault. If only he had been a little more clever. John's scream continued to ring in his ears even after it had stopped and it cut him to his core. All my fault, all my fault.

Suddenly Sherlock's eyes flew open, a thought had just occurred to him: if John was screaming then he couldn't be dead. He frantically fixed his gaze back on the screen, but the stream had already been terminated. Desperate, Sherlock checked Mycroft's inbox and saw a new message. He clicked on it and waited impatiently for it to load. After what seemed like an eternity the message had finally appeared.

Come turn yourself over to us Sherlock, or I'll aim for the head next time. Is all it said.

John opened his eyes; he seemed to be floating in a huge black cloud. All around him there were little pulses of light, some red, some blue, some were every color of the rainbow, and some were just white, but they all winked out of existence as soon as he focused on them and came back once he looked away. He started to panic, where was he, what was this place, how did he get here, and how could he get back to Sherlock?

He sighed and examined his surroundings further. There was no up, down, left, right, forward, or backward in this mystical place and it was both disorienting and, surprisingly, extremely peaceful. Against his will John felt himself start to relax. Everything about this place had a peaceful vibe to it, from the mysterious colorful whips of light to the vast emptiness of it all. And, if he listened really hard, he could even make out the soothing sound of music playing somewhere in the distance. Very, very slowly John relaxed, he felt his concerns melt away, one by one. He let out a sigh of content and went completely limp in the dark mist that surrounded him. What was it that he had been so worried about? Groggily he tried to remember his concerns. There had been something about a man, and a gun, and someone named Sherlock. Hmmmm... Sherlock. He rolled the name around in his astonishingly vacant mind. The name sounded so familiar but what did it have to do with him being concerned? Ah, never mind, he thought after a moment of concentration, it doesn't matter now. He let the name slip from his brain and he lapsed into a comfortable doze.

John felt at peace. He continuously came in and out of sleep and was feeling fresh and rejuvenated. He had never felt this good in his life. Every time he awoke from his doze he would try to remember what it had been that was troubling him so, and every time he could remember less and less. Now he could only remember one thing: Sherlock. That one name was the only thing still left and he clung onto it, he felt that if he forgot that name then he would forget himself in this mysterious mist.

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. The name kept circulating in his mind. The mist seemed to be beckoning to him, just let go it seemed to say, let go and forget. But he refused to give in. He struggled desperately to remember who Sherlock was, remembering was the key. The mist no longer seemed welcoming and peaceful, now it held a sinister and evil feel and it almost seemed to constrict around him. He struggled for breath and frantically tried to remember: who was Sherlock? The darkness pressed against him and the flashes of light burned his eyes. He thrashed and pulled at empty air, trying to break free of the gas that was constricting him. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock? He racked his brain frantically reaching for just one tiny scrap of information that would help him remember. The black mist was crushing him, he cried out as his right leg suddenly flared with pain. WHO WAS SHERLOCK? Then it all clicked. All the memories of Sherlock came rushing back. All the times they spent together, running after some criminal, solving crimes, watching some stupid program on the tele, even that time they had played Cluedo. All of these memories and more came flooding back to him and he was filled with an immense joy. This was the man he loved. The mist stopped its intolerable pressure and he could breathe again. He took a deep gulp of air and tried to regain his breath. Now he remembered, he was John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes was the man of his dreams.

The pain in his leg gave a particularly horrific stab and his eyes opened with a start. There was no mist, no flashing lights, and he remembered everything. There was a woman kneeling next to him pressing a cold cloth to his forehead.

"Good you're awake." She said to him as she stood up and brushed off her jeans.

John tried to sit up and found that he was strapped to the hard, uncomfortable slab he was currently lying on top of. He tried to move his feet and was rewarded with a stab of pain from his right leg so excruciating it almost made him black out again.

"Don't bother." The woman said to him. "Those straps are stronger than anything."

John turned his head to the right and looked up at the mysterious woman. The first thing he noticed about her was her eyes; they were a vibrant blue that contrasted heavily with her dark brown hair; hair that was currently pulled back and held in place by a strip of gray fabric, the rest hung down in smooth waves that collected at her shoulders. Her clothes looked dirty and crumpled and her t-shirt was a plain mossy green, but somehow she managed to make this dismal outfit look stylish. She seemed to be around the age of twenty-five.

"Who are you?" John asked after he noticed his gag had been removed, his voice was hoarse from disuse.

"No one of conscience." She responded as she turned away, taking the cloth with her. She walked over to a small counter with a built-in sink in it and a pile of strips of cloth on one side. "But you can call me Sylvia."

"Alright then Sylvia," John began hesitantly, "where am I and what's going on?"

Sylvia turned back around with a new cloth held in her hands. "Do you really think I'm about to tell you that?" She asked him with a smirk as she dabbed his forehead with the cool cloth.

"No but it was worth a try." John said with a shrug. "Can you at least tell me why you are putting a cold cloth on my forehead?"

She glanced down at him in amusement. "You are extremely sick and are burning up. Isn't this what most people do when they are trying to break a fever?" She asked sarcastically. "I honestly didn't think you we're going to wake back up after you blacked out. At the beginning you were thrashing around a lot but you seemed to relax after a couple of hours. That was what worried me, at least when you were thrashing about we knew you were still alive. Your breathing had slowed to an extremely slow pace and your eyelids barely seemed to flutter when the cloth was put to your head. But when I accidentally bumped the table by your leg you finally opened your eyes." She paused for a second. "Did that answer your question?"

John blinked at her. "Yes, I suppose it did."

"But?" She asked expectantly.

"But, what happened to my leg?" John asked nervously. At the moment he couldn't feel anything in his right leg and it was seriously concerning him.

"Grin shot you." She responded nonchalantly as removed the cloth and turned to rewet it once again. "And we numbed it so you wouldn't black out again from the pain. It looks like the bullet might have hit the bone."

"Sorry, who shot me?" John asked.

"Grin," Sylvia responded as she replaced the cool cloth on John's burning brow. "That's his name. Well, that's not his real name; he won't tell any of us his real name. No, we call him Grin on account of all the creepy smiling he does."

"So you work for him? Grin I mean." John asked, trying to get as much information out of Sylvia as possible.

"Not exactly, Grin is second in command." Sylvia responded readily, she seemed delighted to be able to actually talk to someone.

"Then who's first?" John asked curiously. If he knew who was responsible for all of this it might be easier to find a way to escape.

Sylvia smiled at him. "I couldn't tell you even if I knew."

"You mean you don't know who you're working for?" John asked in surprise. "How is it that you don't know that?"

Sylvia shrugged, "No one knows. All we know is that Grin takes his orders from him, and anyone who is able to give orders to Grin is someone you don't want to make cross."

"That seems awfully suspicious to me." John said softly.

"Yeah well that's life." Sylvia laughed. "Why am I telling you all this anyway? I'm not supposed to be talking to you at all and here I am giving you all sorts of inside information. No more questions."

"Fine." John said. "…Just one more?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, waiting.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

Sylvia smirked at him. "Two days."

A/N: Thanks again to everyone who is reading my fanfic! All of your reviews, favorites, and follows have been really encouraging!