Okay, so I lied unintentionally. It's been about a week... (cough, cough) I've been busy? (cough, lazy, cough cough) My apologies. (So here's a short chapter to hold you off until I can write a damn good one.)

We're diving into the deep end, guys. Angst, feelings, and oh-shit moments imminent. Prepare yourself for the next couple chapters, the game has begun.

Don't own Sherlock, and I love you all for sticking around and your amazing (but still too kind) reviews. Also, welcome back Silverstar-to-Ennien! Two weeks is a long time...

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Sherlock twitches in possibly the deepest sleep he's ever had, shivering from a mysterious draft. "John," he grumbles, beginning to come to, and buries his face in something hard and cold, eyes closed. "Did you forget to close the bloody window?"

Something isn't right, and the cogs in his brain start turning. Slowly, he opens his eyes and sits. His vision is blurry, but he can see unfamiliar shadows and outlines, illuminated at intervals by the ongoing storm. Jesus, how long has it been? Squinting, he checks the watch he doesn't remember putting on. It just hit midnight.

"What the hell?"

As his eyes adjust to the gloom, lines become sharper and shadows become shapes. He gets shakily to his feet and brushes his hair out of his eyes as he turns full circle, observing his location from every angle. His shoes (he doesn't remember getting fully dressed in his normal attire...) click softly against the cold concrete floor as he walks around the heavy machinery and conveyor belts, scrunitises the barricaded windows and doors, and glares up at the labyrinth of catwalks. The moon makes a vain attempt to shine through the skylights roughly nine meters (thirty feet) above him, but storm clouds quickly cover it completely. Dust swirls freely around him as he calmly stalks the perimeter of the abandoned factory.

He should have known. How could he not have? It was only a matter of time...

There's an annoying buzzing sound from the floor beside the bed, and a blind hand fumbles for it. Yawning, John holds the phone to his ear. "Hello?" he answers, voice clogged with the three hours of sleep he managed to get. He feels cold for a moment, and when he looks over his shoulder Sherlock isn't there. Must have gotten up already, that man never sleeps, he thinks absently.

"Hi," a familiar voice singsongs from the other line. John's blood runs cold and he can almost feel every vertebrae in his spine snap as he sits up.

"Moriarty?" he manages to spit out, incredulous. Red sparks before his eyes, but he reigns it back. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The bastard chuckles, making John's stomach churn. "Oh, John, I'm calling to help you. You see, Sherlock is in a bit of a pickle..."

The doctor chokes momentarily. "Sherlock-"

"Yes, Sherlock. Have you noticed he's not at the flat yet?" Jim asks, and John can almost see the smug grin on his face.

John leaps out of the bed and pulls on his jeans from yesterday as he runs downstairs. He looks everywhere, the sitting room, the kitchen, the detective's bedroom - but he's gone. Sherlock is gone.

"Where the hell is he?" the short, but rather menacing man demands. "Where the bloody hell is he, I swear if he's hurt-!"

There's that chuckle of his. "John, you're getting ahead of yourself. Sherlock is fine," the consulting criminal soothes, and the doctor actually does feel a tad better at the thought of Sherlock safe. Missing and safe is better than missing and dying - or worse, dead. "I do promise you he's safe, John. For now at least."

"What the hell do you mean 'for now'?"

There's a long pause, and John imagines Moriarty pacing wherever the hell he is, all pompous and pleased with himself, staring at his smart shoes as they click on the floor. John's ears prick and his attention is suddenly recaptured as the other man begins talking again.

"As you might have guessed, this is a game. And, at least in my opinion, this is the best game you will ever play." John snorts derisively, but Jim continues. "You see, I have your little 'genius' locked up with nowhere to go, and you, my dear friend, have to find him before the clock runs out." Dark eyes widening, the doctor feels bile rising in the back of his throat. No. He can't play this game. Not like this. This is Sherlock's area, not his.

"Ninety minutes," Moriarty sings in that god-awful voice. "Ninety minutes to find Sherlock. And big brother Mycroft can't save you now, all of London is out of power. But, I will give you a tiny bit of help, John. I know as well as anyone you can't figure it out on your own."

No. No no no-

"You can use any means you wish to find him, however, there are three rules. I like to stay consistent, you know," he adds. John growls low and long into the phone before the bastard goes on. "One, get a single thing wrong and the game is over. Two, no one can get Sherlock for you - because God knows Lestrade will want to take over, or maybe even the Ice Man will too, if he finds out. Three, if you find out where Sherlock is, you must come alone and unarmed. I will be waiting there for you to arrive."

John feels his heart hammering in his chest (or is that his throat?), though he tries to remain calm. Panicking is going to help nothing.

"Well, good luck to you John. The game will officially begin when Sherlock comes to. Don't bother starting before the countdown, I have men watching your flat. And remember, go over the ninety minutes, or screw up, Sherlock dies."

The doctor opens his mouth to scream something - though he doesn't quite know what - but the call ends before he can.

Climbing the narrow metal stairs to the main catwalk, Sherlock rubs his arms, caressing the black material covering them. Even though the thought of his thugs - or worse, Moriarty himself - touching his coat makes him cringe, the detective wishes someone would have had the mind to at least bring it along. Bright blue eyes search every crevice as he climbs before they land on a sheet of paper tucked into a power box about four and a half meters (roughly fifteen feet) to his right. As he approaches, he begins to look around his surroundings more closely, in case there are other notes scattered about.

There are none. (At least that he can see from here.)

He opens the note. All that is inside, scrawled in spidery handwriting, is "Call me" and a number. Inside the power box lies a plain, prepaid cellphone. So he calls.

Sherlock shoves a hand inside his pocket as the voice he was expecting to hear comes onto the line.

"Sherlock! I've been expecting your call! Awake are you? How did you sleep?"

"Rather well, thank you," the detective replies, and begins a slow walk around the suspended metal walkways.

Jim snickers. "Good, good. Anyway, down to business. I see you've found the phone-"

"Obviously."

"-which is just brilliant. Because you'll have to find the others so John can find you. Or, well, to prevent John from finding you..."

This gains his proper attention. John is supposed to find me? "Why would I want to prevent him?"

Another snicker. "You see, John has ninety minutes to find you before one of you dies. If the good doctor doesn't get to you in time, you meet your end. Well, that's at least what I told him. In all actuality, if he shows up to save you, he dies. He doesn't know of course, but isn't that the beauty of it? Because he will come. And then what will you do... Sherlock?" That Irish lilt suddenly rises in a manic laugh. "The game starts now. Hope you're ready."

New chapter coming out ASAP. No promises about time, just know I'm not giving this one up.

I REGRET NOTHING!

By the way, I got the conversions about right, right? Ah, and I realise this was REALLY short. But that's because the next chapter is going to be long. Like, long. The longest chapter yet and will contain the entire game, since this one was basically setting everything up. Plus, I can plan everything even more! Aha, all the evil I can generate now... (manic grin)