Sherlock stared at the people in front of him, they were all asleep in various positions and places in the living room, they all got tired after about two hours of worrying over John and had fallen asleep. Donovan was still hugging Sarah on the couch who was flinching in her sleep. Anderson was sprawled out on an arm chair that he had pulled up to the sofa and currently had his hand on Sarah's head. The sun had come up an hour ago but annoyingly, Sherlock still hadn't found any other leads to where John had been taken. He would just have to go out to the police station to see if any other links had been found. Sherlock put on some black cargos and a white, short sleeved shirt, along with some black convertibles. He spared a last glance at the small group; they were still sleeping, and set off. He eventually made it to the police station by walking as there were hardly any cabs about on this island. He sauntered into the reception area and asked the man at the desk if anything that may be linked to the recent murders has happened. After a few minutes of looking, the man came back with four files explaining that
each one is about a missing person and that Sherlock should take a look at the crime scenes. As it was early in the morning, Sherlock didn't get the other three to come, mostly because they'd most likely beat him to death. Instead he walked again to the nearest crime scene, as far as Sherlock knew none of the places were linked this time, or the people murdered. He ended up at 34 Reacore road, a small terrace house, nothing unusual about it from the outside, Sherlock thought, but apparently there's something on the inside. He made his way through the
wooden door into a spacious yet crowded room, full of police officers. On the far wall, inscribed in what was supposed to look like blood, was the word 'sept', French for seven.

The room was filled with the first lights of dawn; John could now make out the area he was incased in and the people surrounding him. The room was like John would expect a dungeon to look like, it was entirely made out of stone and stretched high up, about five times the hight of an average person. There was no-one to John's left but six, including Lestrade, to his right. After Lestrade, everyone was in an awful state. He could see Dough in the corner, blood streaming out of the long wounds of torture he had received, inevitably staining his clothes. He suddenly noticed the person next to Lestrade, a child! They'd taken a child! No more than twelve! John calmed himself; he would have to check up on them later. Everyone was asleep, the ones with wounds were probably used to it, but John had stayed awake, the swelling and redness on his leg had gone up and even started to go black around the edges of the gash. He was going to check up on the bruises on his stomach when the door opposite him swung open and smacked against the wall. A group of strong men dressed in black trooped in, blocking all exits and surrounding the small group. Everyone immediately awoke, starring at the men that would soon torture them. Non of them screamed, John noticed, even with the men brandishing their weapons in the victims faces, they had learnt that no one was coming. Everyone stood up except for John, who had no idea what was going. One of the men dragged John to his feet, causing him to screech with pain and the others in the group to give him sympathetic looks. John didn't see what happened next, he had his eyes closed as he wouldn't be able to stand the sight of torture. He could hear awful screams of unalloyed pain and suffering, the ones further away from him went on for longer 'it gets worse from there' how long until someone dies? That was the last thought that went through John's mind before a needle stuck into his arm and it all went appallingly black.

According to the other officers, all the other crimes scenes had numbers in French (Sebastian's language, Sherlock had found out) written on the walls, going down to 'quatre'. Sherlock immediately wanted to go to the house, for once trusting the police that there wasn't much else to see -he decided he didn't actually trust them and would search them later, the idiots couldn't observe properly anyway- and set off home to check John and Lestrade's rooms. He arrived to find the other three had beaten him to it, hey had all gathered in John's and when Sherlock came in they all shouted him in. The room had not been touched but on the bed, written in strong dark red paint, was the word 'deux', French for two. "What's it counting down? Three is in Lestrade's room." Sarah began.
"Yes, I figured that. Untouched?"
"Yes, nothing to go off."
Anderson described, leaving to show Sherlock the other man's room. He followed, interested in where this psychopath was going. Lestrade's room was the same, only with the number three written in French on the ceiling in that same blood red paint. There was still nothing to go off, he must do this with more care than the killing, probably enjoys that more.

He and the rest of the group set off to the other crime scenes. Sherlock was very irritated by the end of it, even Anderson kept his snide comments and insults to himself. All of the houses were perfectly clean and no traces remained from the culprit -only some paint on the window ledge but Sherlock had already been through that deduction. Before they went back home, Sherlock insisted that they go to the police station to ask about Alistair. They again ended up walking even though several taxis passed them, it took them about twenty minutes all together and everyone except for Sherlock was worn out by the quick pace. The doors swung open as Sherlock store in as if he owned the place and approached the officer at the desk. "Any news on Alistair Golton?"
He asked, arm rested on the desk casually, Anderson, Donovan and Sarah stood behind him.
"He has moved out but there are no records of him leaving the island yet."
"Any idea where he might be staying."
"No, no one's heard anything of Alistair. Although there is a part of the island no one goes, it's been said to be off limits but it isn't real."
"Oh well, do you have a map we could use?"
"Yes I'll just go and yet it for you."
And with that he was off. They all waited surprisingly patiently together for ten minutes until the man padded back into the room, map in hand and they all hurriedly set off, wanting to get to Lestrade and John as fast as they could.

Pained groans brought John back into consciousness. By his side Lestrade gripped a new bloodied wound on his hip, his trousers stained with the stuff. John appeared to have no cuts but the drugs they had given him were strong and they fogged his thoughts. He could hardly fit the words together when he asked "arre y-you alrght?"
Lestrade looked up at him from his slouched position; he looked as though he had been given weaker drugs than John as the pain from his gash was evident on his face. "Yeah, it hurts like hell though, even with the drugs."
"Let m-me luk."
John mumbled as he lent over to inspect the wound on Lestrade's left side. It was covered in blood although it didn't look to bad but John needed to clean it up. He looked around the room for someone with a jacket, then he noticed a new figure to his right. Those bloody evil... He started to think when the person moaned and started to come into consciousness. "Lestrade! Look!"
He hissed to the DI and pointed to the new victim.
"What the hell do those guys think they're doing? You can't torture a pregnant lady, it's down right evil!"
The woman fliched and wide, panicked eyes opened, studying the area wildly and turning ridged next to John. "Are yoolright? Did the hurt you?" John tried to say calmly but his mind wouldn't let him speak properly yet
"N-no, no they didn't I'm fine, where are we?"
She asked, scared stiff
"Wu don't know. But is nowhr gud."
"Are you ok? You sound drunk or something."
"No, the thu drgs the've givn me are really strung though. I'm John by thu way, whts ur name?"
"Connie, I haven't been drugs have I?"
She asked worriedly, feeling her womb, she was about eight months pregnant.
"No no, yu seem fine, I'l luk aftr yu though, am a doctur yu see."
John comforted her, squeezing her hand, he had to focus hard to do so though. He then suddenly took off his shirt, this seemed to confuse Connie abit until he turned round and used it to wipe blood off of the wound on Lestrade's side "Yeah, thu wound ain't that bad, Just keep this pressed on it." he ordered the man who now seemed to be looking less paler. At that point he explained to Connie what was going to happen - the drugs were starting to wear off so he could speak better- and tell her that he wouldn't let her get hurt or drugged. After that small conversation, he studied the other's wounds. No one's wounds seemed life threatening although he ordered them to clean the cuts as best they could. John was mainly concerned about Doug, who was barely conscious. But Abbey, who was currently next to him, assured John she would clean his cuts. "John! What happened to your leg?" Connie exclaimed, pointing at the infected wound, it was getting quite bad now, they must have been knocked out for a few hours, he thought as he inspected the black and red swelling. "One of them did it to me when I was trying to help my, err, friend Sarah escape. The guy got me instead."
he explained, using his now bloody pyjama top to wide up the foul puss producing from the agonising gash. Connie winced, a cut like that would become fatal when not treated and his leg could be amputated if they got out of here. If.

When the door smashed open John new exactly what was going on, he stood up, trying not to collapse from the waves of needle sharp pain coming from his leg. Like the last time, he closed his eyes shut and waited for the cries of suffering. This time, he would join them. A heavy leather grip lashed at his bear chest, John could feel the sticky warmth of blood slowly dripping down his body, like drool from a dog's mouth. He only just managed to stay on his feet, now resting all his weight on his left leg. As more horrific caterwauling echoed from the other ends of the room, a syringe was jabbed carelessly into his arm. He prized his eyes open from the comfortable blackness he had preferred and was just in time to see Connie having a needle being prepared in front of her. John managed to make himself focus enough to smack the needle out of the dark man's hand, smashing it against a wall and bringing all attention in the room to himself. As the strong, armoured men gathered around John, their anger practically splattering the walls, he summoned a "l-leeeve hur b-be." before weapons were being flashed in front of his now pale face. He felt a sharp knife ever so slowly and carefully trail from the middle of his ribs to the top of his cargos, the people left conscious in the room cried out at this action and John felt skin tear and produce warm liquid making his skin form in to goosebumps. His breathing quickened. His senses darkened. He let out one last, heart wrenching, agonising whimper. Then there was nothing.