John awoke in the morning from a peaceful, long sleep refreshed and ready for the challenges the day would hold. He had all ways been able to sleep through the worst of things bombs, guns, death, he wasn't surprised that a missing Lestrade wasn't any different, although he was a friend; John had been to tired to worry over him. But it was all flooding over him now, questions of panic for his lost friend raced through John's mind: Where have they taken him? Why are they doing this? What are they going to do to him? And a question for the rest of the group made John shudder, who's going to be next? The mist of questions that surrounded his mind slowly thinned out as he saw Sherlock, asleep, on the couch. "Sherlock! What are you doing there? Why aren't you in your bed?"
A sleepy groan and a sigh was his reply as Sherlock sat up, his holiday clothes creased where he had slept. "My bed was too far away for me to walk when I got in."
"When you got in? Does that mean you went out again?"
John was told off for asking such a stupid question and that Sherlock had gone to the police station, just about the only place open at that time of night/morning, and inquired whether Alistair's real last name is Golton. Sherlock was informed that Alistair had changed his name last year, Golton is now his proper last name, but what was interesting was what Alistair's original last name had been. Golmore. Also, the police had no records of a Sebastian Golmore every being on the island. "So there's a missing founder. What do you think this has to do with the murders?"
"Well if you're a descendent of a founder of an island, then your bound to have the families' wealth. But if the founder's never been herd of..."
"Then the descendants going to want to get that wealth by getting the founder known. But why would Alistair kill to get renown?"
"That's another thing the police told me, Alistair's been bugging them for fame because some one they don't even have records of helped 'find' this island. They've been denying him any sort of renown."
John went over it, it does make some sense, but Alistair must be a bit funny in the head to go around killing people. Sherlock confirmed this thought, saying he went over Alistair's medical records.

The day had been a lot less productive than yesterday, Sherlock had dragged the whole group (minus one ) around the island looking at every persons shoes. They had gotten many strange looks for this; small children asked their parents if they were the shoe police, John was starting to think that half way through the day. Eventually Anderson persuaded (I say persuaded... More like threatened to punch him repeatedly until the smartness was smacked out of him and burnt to ashes) Sherlock to instead take them to Alistair's shop. When they got to the shop though, they found out Alistair had closed it down, much to the disappointment of Sherlock. This had taken them back to the house at about four o clock, Sarah suggested they all go out for a meal as they hadn't had much to eat that day. Sherlock stayed, saying it would be much more productive to try and find a lead, this left four of them.

It was now six o clock and they were at a beautiful restaurant by the beach, seats that looked out on to the sea had been reserved for them. The place was quite formal so each person in their small group was wearing something smart. Anderson was wearing a shirt, tie and black suite trousers, no jacket, John wasn't surprised though, it was even warmer than last night and he suspected Anderson would have his sleeves rolled up by the end of the meal. Donavan was wearing a denim skirt, leggings and a no-sleeved t-shirt. Sarah, who was sat next to John, wore a tight, colourful, long top and some three-quarters. John himself had changed into a short sleeved shirt and some cargos; just about the most formal thing he had brought that wouldn't cause him to sweat excessively in this heat. The meal was very nice and the evening had been filled with interesting conversations about life out side of the cases and occasional light banter. They all got home at about eleven to find an irritable Sherlock pacing the living room. "No leads then?"
Sherlock grunted which John took as a 'nothing yet'. They decided it was best to just leave him be or he'd get annoyed with all of them.

John awoke in the night to the sound of the window sliding smoothly shut. He jerked up, suddenly realising Sarah wasn't in bed. He quickly grabbed the hardest thing at arm's reach, a lamp, and looked out of the window. Just as he had feared, a man too far away for John to see was carrying a brown sack that looked worryingly like Sarah was running further away into the darkness of the night. As soon as John saw this, he violently wrenched up the heavy window, lamp in hand, and ran in the direction of the mysterious man. Rocks cut into his feet as he sprinted along the road, the gap between John and the man was closing and soon he saw the familiar body-shaped bag. The area surrounding the holiday home was very peaceful so no one saw when John threw the lamp as hard as he could into the man's head, a satisfying cry of pain and shock coming from his mouth. John did not know this man, he wore White top and black cargos, his hair was short and dark brown, it was sticking to his face with sweat that was dripping down his face. John attempted grabbing the sack that contained Sarah from the man's strong grip but was kicked hard in the legs and fell to the floor. John was then repeatedly kicked in the stomach before the man ran off again with Sarah. Ignoring the awful pain as he had been trained to do, John set off at full speed towards the thief, he's not going to lay a finger on her without getting punched in the face, John thought to him self as he rugby tackled the man, knocking him on to the floor and Sarah a metre away. He flinched as he herd Sarah scream, she'll be fine, he told himself, your going to capture this thief and bring him to Sherlock for questioning and it'll all be fine. It wasn't. John thought the man had been knocked out but he hadn't checked properly in his haste to get Sarah out of the bag. Now there was a ten centimetre long wound in his right leg, bleeding horrendously. Again he attempting to push the pain back, pulling open the sack at the same time to find a rather shocked Sarah "Run, you have to run." he told her as he turned to hold off the man now looming over them, she had the common sense not to argue and she ran off in her pyjamas back to the house. This was the last thing John saw before something hard smacked into his temple and blackness in his vision showed he was unconscious.

Sherlock woke up in his room to the sound of Sarah screaming at the top of her voice "THEY'VE TAKEN HIM! THEY'VE TAKEN JOHN!" Sherlock was immediately up, he wasn't frightened or worried, he wasn't sure what he felt, but it was something. He was soon joined in running down the corridor by Anderson and Donovan and eventually came to the living room. Sarah was sobbing like a waterfall, the tears stained her face and she was hugging her self, for comfort, Sherlock thought, he knew that this was the point when someone would put an arm around her and say something comforting. Sherlock didn't do comforting, but he didn't have to when Donovan did it for him, satin in a low voice that they would find him whilst gesturing for the two boys to take a look at the room. Sherlock left without question, he was never very good with emotions, he was still confused about how he felt about John being stolen, and they had been friends for some time but Sherlock didn't necessarily feel sad that John had been taken but he certainly didn't feel happy. His trail of thought disappeared as he entered John and Sarah's room. Sarah must have supposed to have been taken, that was obvious as Sarah wouldn't have gone after John because she would have been asleep. Sarah sleeps heavily, Sherlock found this out when he had played violin last night and he only got complaints from Anderson and Donovan - that didn't stop him though- John had slept to, but he tends to wake when there's real danger. So Sarah had been captured and John had gone after them through... The window! It was thrown up at such force it had stayed there; John must have taken a weapon, the lamp! Before Anderson could say anything, Sherlock was out the window and wandering away "Sherlock! What are y- Ugh!" and then Anderson was out the window following him. Sherlock ignored the darkness of the moonless night; soon he found the spot where Sarah had got away. There was blood, a lot of it. Where ever John is now, he must have been hurt badly. "Did you have to do that?" temptation to roll his eyes was over taking Sherlock but held back and answered "We've been through this before Anderson, must I spell it out to you? Your. Face. Blocking. My. Intelligence." Anderson's turn to resist an eye roll. "Anything?" Anderson asked impatiently, Sherlock shook his head; this scene was annoyingly clean of clues. Sherlock decided a look when it was day may show something better.

Pain. Consciousness came to John slowly and the wound in his leg and head were agonising, plus the spot where the kicks had been applied to were blossoming into one painfully big bruise. John let out a groan and a figure next to him in the darkness shifted " John? Oh, thank God you're awake!" At first John struggled to remember the voice but he got help from the person "It's me, Lestrade. How are your wounds? I can't make them out in this bloody darkness." He was right, it was pretty dark and the only light came from three small holes in the roof of the tall room that moonlight drifted down. John suddenly realises he hadn't answered Lestrade and the DI is looking concerned. "Errr... There's a deep gash in my right leg, I've been kicked in the stomach and, errr... Oh yeah, something hard hit me in the head and caused a cut."
"How are you feeling?"
"Confused."
"Ah, well, you've been drugged, as has every one else in here. They come in here and drug you, then the next time they come in and beat you then drug you. And it gets worst from there, you'll be able to see every one else when it's morning."
Drugged! Of course! Why hadn't he noticed it?
"Are you ok?"
"Fine they haven't been in since they brought you. I expect next time I won't be so lucky. Everyone else has been through at least one of the beating stages, Doug at the end is in a pretty bad way, maybe you can help in the morning."
John decided he could probably make out Doug's wounds in the dark and slowly pulled him self up against the cold stone wall behind him. When he got up he noticed something digging into his right ankle. A chain, probably attached to the wall, John hated what drugs did to your mind. He slowly started to feel the pain in his cut leg as the drugs wore off and John cried out, clutching his bloody leg. Lestrade managed to catch John before he smacked his head against the uncomfortably cold floor. "What is it John?" Lestrade asked, panicking
John cried out again before answering " My leg, they've done something to it! It could be infected." The last part was barley more than a whisper as John rolled up his pyjama leg, he could make out Lestrade squinting to make out the damage done, John did the same. The skin around the wound was swollen badly and the cut was still open, puss staring to come out of it, there was also a painful, warm redness around the wound. It was defiantly the beginnings of an infection.