Here is Chapter two by the lovely miss RainyDays-and-DayDreams. Hope you enjoy her writing.

Disclaimer: Neither one of us own Sherlock.

To say John was worried about his flatmate was an understatement. John was really, really, worried. He knew there was something going on, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. He was a doctor, for God's sake, but he couldn't figure out what was wrong with his best friend. He tried to assuage his guilt, thinking, /It's Sherlock Holmes, for God's sake. If he wanted to hide something from me, it would stay hidden./But he still felt horrible that he couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. He had noticed how his flatmate was slowly losing more and more weight, how he always wore long- sleeved shirts now, even on the days so hot John could hardly move without feeling his entire body protest. John had tried to to confront Sherlock, he really had, but every time he would start with "Sherlock, we really need to talk about this-" Sherlock would cut him off by leaving the room or giving him a stony glare. If John continued talking, Sherlock would just ignore him and sit still, barely moving even to breathe. Eventually John would leave, a defeated look in his eyes, and before he turned away he always thought he saw something in Sherlock's eyes as well. Sadness. Regret, maybe. John thought it was his imagination.

John slowly walked up the stairs, carrying the Tesco's bag. As always, they had needed milk, but they were running low on other supplies as well. Ever since Sherlock had been rescued from Moriarty three months ago, Mrs. Hudson, bless her soul, had done most of their shopping for them, but she was out of town visiting her sister, and they really needed the food. The oatmeal John had forced Sherlock to eat that morning had been the last item of food in their house. As if on cue, John's stomach growled. He ignored it and pushed open the door, eyes adjusting to the near darkness of their flat. "I'm home, Sherlock," he called out, before reaching for the lights to turn them on. "Please don't tell me you've been experimenting with fluorescent worms again," John called out, only half-jokingly. Once all the lights were on, and the groceries put away, John sat down on the couch and sighed. He suddenly realized he hadn't heard anything at all from his flatmate, and sat up again, slightly nervous. Sherlock should've given at least some indication of his continuing presence at the flat by now.

"Sherlock?" he called out. "Are you there?" Not hearing anything, John fought down a wave of panic. Calm down, Watson, he told himself.

Sherlock's probably experimenting with something right now, and can't hear me. That still didn't calm him down. John couldn't help it. Ever since Moriarty's abduction of Sherlock, John had had minor panic attacks every time he didn't hear from Sherlock. "Sherlock?" John called out again, a slight note of panic in his voice. He went down the hall to where Sherlock's room and the bathroom was. He saw a light in the bathroom.

Oh, thank God, he thought, before beginning to rap his knuckles on the door. "You okay in there?" he asked. He heard some shuffling noises, and Sherlock's slightly muffled voice saying,

"I'm fine, John. Go away."

"You sure? Because-"

"I'm fine. Please go now."

John sighed and leaned against the door. Yes, there was definitely something wrong with Sherlock. And all John knew was that it had started with Moriarty's abduction of Sherlock.

The two weeks where Sherlock had been missing were a literal hell. John had returned the flat one night to find him gone, but he didn't really start to worry until he didn't show up the day after. Still, he didn't call anything in, because he knew that Sherlock would often be gone for hours and hours for a case. This one was just probably taking longer than usual, John reasoned. When he still wasn't back by the next day, John called Lestrade and Mycroft to ask if they knew where he was. That's when he received the first clue. Moriarty left a message on his phone, telling him with no small amount of glee in his voice that he had taken Sherlock, was holding him captive, and had to solve his riddles if he ever wanted to see his "precious detective' again. "Come and get me, Johnny- boy," Moriarty had cooed, before relaying the first clue.

The next two weeks were spent desperately trying to solve the madman's riddles and puzzles, which was no easy task. And every time they finished a riddle, another one appeared. Eventually, they found their way to the place where Moriarty had been holding Sherlock. The last note had read, "I've had fun playing with your toy, but I'm afraid he's a tad… broken now. Good luck." When they arrived and found Sherlock, John saw a sight he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would never forget. Sherlock had been passed out strapped to a table, nearly naked and covered in cuts, bruises, burns, stab wounds, and many other things John didn't wish to identify. His hair was matted with blood, and John could see that nearly all his fingers, and many other of his bones were broken. Moriarty had even written "FREAK" in large letters on Sherlock's chest with a knife, and had cut one of his cheekbones in such a way that John knew it would scar. That wasn't the worst par, though. The absolute worst was when Sherlock had woken up screaming in pain, begging for them to kill him. John felt his heart shatter into a million crystalline shreds right then. He knew his friend wouldn't okay, not ever again, and he hated Moriarty for it. He vowed revenge. But first thing was first- he had to help Sherlock heal.

Review and more will come!