AN: The reason this took so long is because this chapter was originally supposed to be with Lestrade, but he refused to work with me and acted too much like John so I had to swap them. Sorry about the wait, Guys.

How do we get into these situations? John asks himself.

John looks around the small room they were in. It's a small room, likely to be a basement. It certainly smells like one. It's roughly ten-foot wide and twelve-foot long and eight-foot high, there's some stairs behind him, leading up to a door with no handle and locked from the outside, a very small window that has no chance of being open or broken (not that they could fit through it anyway), there's nothing in the room except for two chairs sitting opposite each other in the middle of the room that they are currently handcuffed to, a light hangs between the two chairs, making it extremely bright for those sitting in the chairs, it's very hot and incredibly stuffy, and it smells horrible. He suspects there's mould in the room somewhere, there's a sewer farm nearby, and a strong acid kind of smell, there's the smell of damp, dust and something so horrible he just wants to throw up.

He can't though; it wouldn't do anyone any good. He needs to be strong, for Sherlock, he needs to be strong because he's the only one that can be. He needs to be strong for Sherlock because of many reasons, for one, he's a soldier, he's trained to remain calm in these situations and to protect the people, he's supposed to be strong and able to handle these situations, another reason is because it's his fault they are here anyway, and the final reason, is because Sherlock is vulnerable and completely at their captors mercy.

Guilt creeps up on him and he pushes it away. The original plan was to take him and hold him hostage, ask for a couple of thousand grand, ask some buddies to be released and for a one-way ticket out of the UK, and John Watson will be returned safe and not dead. But at the time their plan commenced, he had taken Sherlock out with him to meet some friends so that the Consulting Detective could get some fresh air, Sherlock had protested majorly, but given in. The fact of that Sherlock was with him, was only an added bonus for them and a truck load of guilt for him.

He wants to reach out to Sherlock, but the handcuffs keep him attached firmly to the chair. He can't even talk to Sherlock; their mouths were taped shut the moment they were taken. Sherlock needs him; Sherlock can't stay in this horrible room for much longer. Sherlock was beginning to feel the effects of a migraine moments before they were taken, that's why he had taken Sherlock out to get some fresh air, fresh air can lessen the strength of a migraine. But the rough handling, the sudden change of scenery, the bang on the head from the handle of a gun, the smell, the bright light between them, everything! Is only making Sherlock worse.

He looks at Sherlock, squinting to see him through the bright light that sits between them (apparently there's a little turn dial up near the door, so their captors can make the light dull or make the light bright, like now.) and takes a mental note of what's wrong with him. He squints to look at Sherlock. Sherlock has that impassive mask on – their captors could return at any moment, Sherlock won't show them that he's in pain. The handcuffs keep scraping against the arms of the chair as Sherlock trembles. There's a thin sheen of sweat on his face making his curls stick to his forehead, his eyes are open, but they're red and he can see the slight pain that Sherlock can't hide, he keeps closing his right eye momentarily before reopening it. When was the last time Sherlock did that? It was when he had black spots in his vision. Sherlock can't see too well out of his right eye, hopefully it'll clear up soon, he remembers with a hard and supressed shudder the pain Sherlock was in when he lost most of the vision in his right eye, that's the indication of a bad migraine. The blood that was once trickling down the right side of his head has stopped, it's a good thing, Sherlock won't be dying from blood loss any time soon. He sees Sherlock swallow multiple times and near constantly. His heart skips a beat. Sherlock always vomits when he has a migraine, without fail, he will always vomit at least once when he has one, regardless of how much or how little he's eaten. He will always vomit. With the tape covering his mouth, he could possibly choke on his own vomit.

The doctor inside him must be trying to claw its way out, he's never put so much thought into recognising Sherlock's migraines. Then again, neither of them have been in this situation together before. They've done a lot of things together when Sherlock's had a migraine; they've been in a hostage situation together before, but never quite like this, never with a migraine. It must be why he put so much thought into recognising Sherlock's migraine signs, he normally looks at Sherlock, discovers the migraine, tries to get Sherlock to rest and then helps Sherlock through the pain using the ways he knows. They don't always work and some have proven to be more painful than helpful, but it's better than just standing around doing nothing. Or in this case, sitting handcuffed to a chair doing nothing.

He closes his eyes and breathes out slowly through his nose, his rising concern for Sherlock is only causing him to worry and panic. He needs to remain clam if they ever plan on escaping. Scotland Yard doesn't negotiate with terrorists and neither does Mycroft. As the moment they realised who Sherlock was they also sent a message to Mycroft, so if Scotland Yard doesn't help them, then Mycroft certainly would. Or so they believed. He's spent more than enough times in meetings with Mycroft to know that he certainly wouldn't leave his younger brother alone without help, no. He'll be sending someone soon, once he learns of where they are, and he desperately hopes that will be soon.

They haven't been left alone for long. He still has his watch on his wrist, but with the angle his wrists are handcuffed to the chair, it's hard to read. He can briefly make out where the hands are pointing, it's three twenty-five in the afternoon, they've been in here since two-thirty, and they were taken at what he thought to be one-fifty. The message was made at two-fifty; the Yard must have seen it by now. They must be formulating some kind of rescue. But how long will it take?

A muffled moan catches his attention and his eyes move from his watch to the person in the chair opposite him. He looks at Sherlock, he's now closed his eyes, his head is turned to the right, his face is pale and shining with sweat. He hears another moan; this time accompanied by a stray tear that made its way out of Sherlock's closed eyes. He looks away from Sherlock, feeling something gnawing at his chest, and looks down at his wrists. He pulls at the handcuffs holding him down, it's a futile attempt but he needs to do something that doesn't just involve sitting there.

He groans as he wakes. They've had an eventful few hours; it's certainly taking its toll on him now. His head hurts a lot, his ribs are protesting against each breath, and his stomach certainly doesn't feel right. He groans once more and blinks, trying to adjust his eyes to the bright light, which has only gotten brighter, between Sherlock and him. It makes his head feel worse than before. He tries to remember what happened. Sherlock forced himself to ignore the pain as his eyes had darted wildly around the room trying to find ways to escape. Their captors returned, stated that they wanted to "play" because they were "bored", which resulted in them both being used as a human punch bag when their captors got annoyed. Another video had been made, telling both Scotland Yard and the British Government that time is ticking, they need to hurry up if they want him and Sherlock returned alive. But something happened before he was hit around the head. But what?

He freezes in his seat as he remembers.

The light had been switched off, he remembers the relief he felt when the light finally stopped hurting his eyes and making his headache feel worse, the relief had soon vanished and became fury and hate towards their captors when one of them produced a torch and shone it into Sherlock's eyes. He had tried to struggle when that happened, resulting in the torch being hit across his head causing him to pass out.

He squints as he tries to look at Sherlock, he hopes the younger man isn't awake, but he knows how dangerous that can be if their captors were to return. Sherlock is awake, yes, he is certainly awake. Sherlock whose eyes are wide and dashing around everywhere, tears threatening to fall and stains from where previous ones had already fallen, there's sweat trickling down his face, it mixes in with the blood and tears, his curls are now plastered to his forehead, the trembling has grown stronger. His head remains in the same place the entire time his eyes are moving, looking everywhere but ahead, away from the bright light that hangs between them. He's still trying to think of a way to escape, he's still determined not to show his pain, though he must be in agony. He breathes in through his nose and notices there's a new smell. One look at Sherlock's clothes confirms it, sometime after he passed out, Sherlock vomited over himself.

"Sherlock." He hears himself say. His voice sounds croaky and his throat feels dry, he doesn't remember the tape being removed, he doesn't want to know why it was either.

Sherlock shows no indication of hearing him.

"Sherlock." He repeats, clearing his throat out after.

"John." Sherlock says finally acknowledging him. His voice sounds pained, even though he clearly tried to hide it. His eyes remain darting around the room.

"Close your eyes, Sherlock." He says, closing his own eyes as he does so. That light is much too bright.

"No." Sherlock protests quietly, not wanting his voice to cause him more pain.

"It's hurting you, Sherlock." He replies softly. He wonders briefly if Sherlock really is stubborn and stupid enough to cause himself more pain.

"I don't care."

He breathes out heavily, groaning slightly from the painful protest his ribs make. He suddenly feels really tired, it's a huge effort for him to open his eyes and look at Sherlock who is now blinking rapidly, tears sliding down slowly against his will, looking back at him.

"Showing pain is what caused them to shine the torch into my eyes." Sherlock says sternly, finishing with a sneer.

"But giving yourself more pain means you can't think." He replies just as stern.

"We can't escape anyway." Sherlock says dismissively. "We have to wait for someone to rescue is." He says distastefully.

"Until then, you should keep your eyes closed." He says trying to reason with him.

"No." Sherlock repeats.

He blinks heavily once more and the next thing he knows he's staring at Sherlock who has quite clearly given up in his attempt to hide the pain. Did he pass out? He hopes not, but it's likely he had. He feels weaker than he did before; more tired too, his muscles are beginning to cramp from being in the same position for so long. He looks down at his lap and blinks multiple times, he feels really dizzy and his stomach is telling him it knows how to somersault. He wishes it would stop. He wishes it would all just stop. He looks back up, the light isn't as bright anymore, he's not entirely sure he wants to know what happened during the time he was passed out. He tries to focus on Sherlock, but it's proven harder than he thought. He can see that Sherlock's head is now resting on his right shoulder, he can see the bruises and blood on the left side of his face, he can see just how hard Sherlock's trying to keep his eyes closed, he can see Sherlock's mouth moving rapidly and if he tries hard enough, he can he Sherlock's desperate pleas.

"Stopstopstop. Make i' stop, please. Oh, God, please make i' stop. Stopstopstop. Hurtshurtshurts. Stopstopstop."

He opens his mouth to talk, but he gets drained out by a voice coming from behind.

"And Sleepin' Beauty awakens!" The voice shouts.

A moan comes from Sherlock; he opens his eyes and lifts his head slightly.

John turns his head, trying to look at the man walking down the stairs behind him.

"Took ya long enough, Watson." He says, walking slowly towards the older man. "Your buddy, Sherlock 'ere, has been tryin' ta escape, as ya can see he hasn' succeeded. He only removed the handcuff on 'is left 'and, he was tryin' ta remove the handcuff on 'is right when I found 'im. Good ol' bang to the 'ead put him in his place."

A hand is in his hair; it pulls at his hair and tugs his head back. He breathes heavily through his nose, determined not to show any pain, ignoring how his ribs protest and stomach flips. John looks from the man pulling at his hair to Sherlock. He pushes down the feeling building up inside him as he notices the fresh blood on Sherlock's forehead, the tightness of the handcuffs on his wrists, and the way he is so clearly in pain with his eyes barely open.

"You've only been 'ere for twelve hours, Watson. And we still haven' had a response from your buddies down at Soc'land Yard." He whispers softly, "Do ya know wha' that means?"

He doesn't respond. He can feel adrenaline building up inside him, the pain being quickly forgotten about. Maybe, just maybe, he can break that man's nose when he steps in front of him. He's too impatient to wait, though; he can feel the man pull back, the hand in his hair removing itself. It's the perfect time for him to throw his head back and hit their captor.

There's a satisfying crunch as he does this, an even more satisfying cry of pain when it happens, but a moment of heartbreak when he hears Sherlock groan in agony. He tugs at the handcuffs holding him down, adrenaline running through him, they're going to get killed soon if they don't escape, they need to escape, but given their condition, it will be very difficult.

He pulls harder at the handcuffs, he needs to break them, he needs to manage something. If he twists them slightly, would they break? He certainly hopes so. As he twists them, he realises there's no sound from the person behind him, he hopes that means the man's unconscious. He pauses when he hears a snap of metal. His eyes widen and he looks down at the cuff on his left wrist, he face brightens when he notices the small break where the cuffs connect. He tugs at it harder, pulling his hand away and trying to pick at the one on his right when it breaks.

As he picks at the one of his right hand, he turns his head to look at the man behind him. He isn't there anymore. There's some blood drops from the broken nose, but the man is gone. He speeds up his attempt to break the cuff on his right hand trying not to panic, looking towards Sherlock, noticing the other man trying to do this himself, not succeeding as well as him. Once the handcuff breaks off, he rushes towards Sherlock, his whole body protests at the movement, but he ignores it, he needs to help Sherlock.

A series of bangs are heard from upstairs, and they quicken their attempt to remove the handcuffs. It takes far too long, but they finally manage to remove the handcuffs, John slings Sherlock's arm around his shoulders and wastes no time in helping Sherlock stand. He forces himself to ignore the pained gasp, slight gagging and whimpers as they stand, choosing to think more about how they're going to make it out. John helps Sherlock towards the stairs on shaky legs; he tries hard not to notice Sherlock's pained breaths and the small moans, as they make their escape.

The banging has finally stopped, John's certain he doesn't want to know what started and stopped it. They enter a hallway, he's starting to feel nauseous now, dizziness is beginning to catch up on him as he looks around. There's a door on the far left and another door on the right. John takes the left, hoping that it's the way out, his adrenalin is starting to run low, the aches and pains catching up with him and he hears himself moan. They're going slower now, it's too much effort for John to push himself, his head's beginning to pound, the dizziness and nausea growing worse, it all starts to overwhelm him. He hears Sherlock's pained gasps in his ear, it usually helps him push himself to escape, but this time, it only causes him to fall.

Someone cries out in pain as they hit the ground, he doesn't know who it is that cried out, he believes it may have been him, but it could have been Sherlock, or both. John's eyes are barely open and he can feel Sherlock's hands on his chest, they're shaking him, trying to get him up.

"Come on, John. No' dyin' now, up you get. Come on, John. Upupup. Don' make me beg, John. Upupup." Sherlock says.

It's too hard for John to open his eyes; he doesn't have the energy anymore. He tries to apologise to Sherlock but suddenly there's a bang, a cry of pain, and something heavy lands on his chest which causes him to cry out as it hurts his ribs. He finds it in him to open his eyes a crack; he can see Sherlock's dark curls on him. There are the sounds of heavy footsteps, another bang, and John falls into the darkness.

It's bright when he wakes, it makes his eyes sting and he suddenly becomes aware of his aching head. He turns his head to the side and raises a hand to cover his eyes as he opens them slowly. The familiar beep is heard and he knows where he is.

"John." He hears a voice say.

John breathes heavily through his nose as he looks at the person calling his name. He can't feel the pain in his ribs, but he still feels nauseous.

"Greg." He says, his voice is still croaky and his throat is still dry. "Where's Sherlock?" He tries to ask, hating the way he's slurring his words.

"Sherlock's fine, he's only in the next room." Lestrade replies. "How are you feeling, mate?"

John groans softly, "Bad." He mumbles.

Lestrade nods and suddenly there's a cup in front of him, he drinks from it, relishing in the way the cool water eases his throat and stops the feeling of dryness. It's pulled away from him a moment later and Lestrade is then telling him of the injuries he's sustained – cracked ribs, minor concussion, bad bruising, but nothing serious. He's then told that Sherlock is in the same condition. He wants to see Sherlock, but he doesn't think he has enough energy and Lestrade is adamant that he stay in bed.

"It was Mycroft's men who found you two." Lestrade says, "We came in a few minutes later, but it was Mycroft's men that found you two first."

John nods, he had suspected that. The Yard are never so loud when they try to sneak into a building, it must have been Mycroft that had given him the private room.

"Sorry, John," Lestrade apologises looking down at his watch, "I need to go back to work. Feel better soon."

John waits for Lestrade to leave before he starts to disconnect the machines. He's spent more than enough time in hospital beds to know how to escape without anyone realising. He stands on trembling legs, a hand holding onto the IV stand for support, closes his eyes and breathes deeply as he waits for the dizziness to pass. He walks slowly out of his room, learning that his room is at the end of the corridor and the next room is on the right. He goes towards Sherlock's room, opening the door slowly as he enters. Sherlock's room his far dimmer than his own, which is likely to be Mycroft's doing, even the beep of the heart monitor isn't as loud. John walks forward, carefully closing the door behind him, he frowns when he notices what the heart monitor is saying. Sherlock's heartbeat is fast right now. John stops beside Sherlock's bed, the only part visible of the younger man is the dark curls on top of his head, they're barely visible under the hospital blanket. John smirks slightly and pulls the blanket back.

"Go 'way." Comes the muffled response.

John continues pulling the blanket back further.

"Piss off." This response is quickly followed by three fingers trying to tug the blanket back.

"You're not going to do yourself any good being under there." John replies pulling the blanket off until he's able to see Sherlock's face.

"Don' care." Sherlock grumbles, not opening his eyes or making any attempt to look at him.

John sits down on the side of the bed. "Head still hurting you?"

"Obviously." Sherlock replies a hand moving from under the blanket to rest at the side of his forehead.

John frowns slightly, "Can't you ask for something to stop it?"

"Ex-addic', John. They won' give me anythin' stronger."

"I thought hiding under pillows was more your thing."

"Nurses won' le' me." Sherlock grumbles, he goes to pull at the blanket once more but John stops him.

"And when did you start listening to nurses?" John asks, watching the way Sherlock's hand trembles as it clings to the blanket.

"Since their horrible voices make me worse." This is then followed by a groan of pain.

John leans forward, placing a hand on top of Sherlock's hair. "Try to sleep, Sherlock." He murmurs.

"Would if I could." Sherlock replies, shifting his head slightly to move closer to John's hand, but wincing as the movement causes him more pain. "Hurts too much."

John starts to gently stroke Sherlock's curls, threading his fingers through the mess. "This is why you need to eat and sleep properly."

He hears Sherlock breathe a soft sigh, his tense body relaxing slightly. "Is no'." He protests.

"It is." John replies, "Migraines can sometime be caused by poor eating and lack of sleep, you wouldn't be getting so many if you ate and slept like a normal person."

"Stop lecturin' me." Sherlock moans.

"Not until you start taking care of yourself." John replies.

John sees Sherlock lean a little more into the touch as he continues to stroke Sherlock's curls. It only takes a few minutes, Sherlock's trembling starts to slow, the whimpers of pain begin to stop, and Sherlock begins to relax and is soon sleeping. John stays there for a moment before standing slowly and making his exit. Trying his best not to think about how hellish Sherlock is going to be when he wakes.

AN: One question, who do you want to see in the next chapter? We've had one with Mrs. Hudson, one with Mycroft, one with Moriarty, two with Lestrade, one with Violet, and three with John. Who do you want to see in the next chapter? Or do you just want Sherlock on his own?

I realise I'm pushing Sherlock's character and making him out of character, but when a migraine hurts just enough, you really do just become a blubbering mess and beg anyone to make it stop.

I have no idea how this chapter became so long.

I hope you enjoyed it. Have a nice day :)

~Steffii