Author's Note: Hope that last chapter made things a little more interesting. It's just going to get more intense from here, so yeah. Try not to kill me! This will be a pretty long chapter, and a bit OOC. I tried my best to keep it believable though, but the literary quality of this chapter might be lower than it ever will be. I sincerely apologise, and it will definitely be up to standard next chapter!

Chapter 3

There was yelling. So much yelling coming from all directions and it was deafening. John had no idea where he was or if he could even feel the rest of his body. It was an agonising effort to even open his eyes. Once he did, he took a short glance at his surroundings. It's not like it helped. Everything was blurry and tinted red. He wondered if this was one of Sherlock's experiments. After a few moments, he attempted to stand. A bone-shattering cry filled the room and everything went silent for a moment. Everything hurt more than he'd ever felt before. Panic set in and he tried to struggle out of his bonds, to no prevail.

"Sh…" he tried to say, his throat burning with a fire that he'd never felt. He tried again.

"She… Sher…Sherlock…" he said hoarsely. Once he knew he could say it, he tried harder, ignoring the pain.
"Sherlock… Sherlock!" He cried. Over and over he shouted out the name, barely hearing the laughter around him, mocking his helpless pleas. A sharp blow silenced him, and he coughed hard. Blood dribbled down his chin and he gritted his teeth. He made an effort of staying quiet and listening. There was men surrounding him, four? No, there was only two. John shook his head as best he could. He was seeing doubles, and he spat out the fresh blood that was pooling in his mouth. The men left the room and slammed the metal door shut behind them, leaving the sound to ring through John's ears and make him cry out in pain. It was an effort to even think.

Despite that effort, he let his thoughts wander to Sherlock. He wondered if the Consulting Detective even knew he was gone, or even cared. Sherlock probably thought John was with his girlfriend, which was bollocks, considering he didn't even have one. This sparked a small anger inside him.
Dammit, Sherlock. You're smart enough to see it's a lie! He thought. He suddenly found himself feeling guilty. It was not Sherlock's fault. It was John's. Maybe if he'd just told his flatmate the truth, this wouldn't have even happened. He started feeling weaker, and he closed his eyes. Breath getting shallower, balled fists releasing to droop down, John's mind went soft, not even having the energy to panic anymore. Regret flooded in, and the doctor let out a short sob.

I'm going to die. I'm going to die right here and my best friend won't even know. He won't know where I am. He'll probably think I've run away. No, he's smarter than that. I don't want to die yet. Please god, let me live…

…..

Sherlock and Lestrade spent the remainder of the night trying to trace the sender of the gruesome email. They traced nearly every possible sender in all of London. Still nothing. Sherlock was getting more and more determined every moment and it was almost beginning to scare Greg.

"I just don't know. There's got to be something!" he said, frustrated. Sherlock grunted.

"Well, if I knew, I would have tried it, wouldn't I?" The detective mumbled. Suddenly, a message popped up on Sherlock's laptop. It was a video call request with a blank host. Without even thinking, he accepted. The new window opened up to show the same image as the first. After a moment, a face popped into frame, and the man walked around to stand behind the chair. The face was masked, so well in fact, that Sherlock couldn't even deduce an identity. The man put his hands to John's head and forced the Doctor to look dead on at the camera.

"Say hello," the man taunted. The mask was fitted with a voice changing device, so the voice sounded higher and more manic. John forced his barely conscious eyes half open and let more blood drip down his chin.
"She… Sherlock…" he stammered. Sherlock let out a short gasp and covered his mouth with his hands. The man patted John on the head patronisingly and walked around the front to swing a fierce punch that hit Watson square on the cheek. Blood sprayed from the Doctor's mouth on impact. Sherlock gripped the desk hard, his short nails leaving deep scratches. The man struck a few more blows and left the room, leaving the camera running.

"John! John can you hear me!?" Sherlock shouted at the monitor. Lestrade didn't know what to do, and stepped behind Sherlock in case something was to happen. John didn't register his friend's shouting until Sherlock had nearly screamed the building down.

"Sherlock… God, help me…" John said hoarsely. Sherlock heard every word loud and clear, as if the microphone was right next to John.

"John, talk to me! Are you all right? Answer me! Where are you? Who is there?" Holmes shouted, his nails digging deeper into the desk.

"Sherlock…. I'm... not all right. I don't… I don't know…. Where I am… Who… It smells like blood…. and fuel… pineapples…. Help me Sherlock…." The ex-army doctor coughed violently, and the camera went dark. Sherlock and Lestrade had enough time to hear a gunshot before the call ended and the window closed.

"Sherlock, I'm sure they didn't. Sherlock, please," Greg tried to calm down the Detective. Holmes stood, and pushed the laptop off the desk aggressively, letting it crash to the floor before storming out. It was morning, and employees were already arriving at work, but Sherlock didn't move for them. He only stopped when confronted by Anderson, who made some snide remark about the tears forming in the Consulting Detective's eyes. Sherlock cut him short with a spiteful crack, and walked away in silence as other employees tried to help Anderson clean his bleeding nose.

…..

Molly Hooper collected her charts and walked briskly back down to the mortuary, intent on finally completing a few more examinations. She swiped her ID card and pushed the large white door open with practised ease. Setting the stack down, she hummed lightly as she opened a chemicals cupboard, retrieving a few samples and placing them onto the desk. The two bodies were already laid out for her, and she only needed a few syringes to begin. Still humming, Molly walked around the large stainless steel benches and tripped, dropping the papers she had picked up to look over, and falling onto the floor. A large, pale hand was held out to her, and she looked up to find Sherlock Holmes sitting under one side of the bench, tears pooling in his enchanting grey-blue eyes and rolling down his cheeks. Molly's eyes widened in confusion.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" the mousey girl asked, her voice laced in genuine concern. Sherlock was quiet and Molly took the trembling hand in front of her. The detective lightly tugged her closer and she sat beside him, quiet. There was no point in asking if Sherlock wasn't going to tell. He never did anyway. Molly was content in sitting under the steel bench beside the Detective while he stared blankly into nothing.

Finally, Sherlock spoke
"Molly…" he said, his voice cracked, though barely audibly. Molly looked at Sherlock with a reassuring look.

"Yes Sherlock?" She said softly.

"Something's happened to John…" he said, his voice cracking much more on the last word. "He's been captured. He's…. He's nearly dead. They sent pictures and a video…" He said, and Molly swallowed hard, tears lightly forming in her own eyes.

John was a friend of Molly's too, and the news hit her hard as well. She sobbed once and tried to regain herself for Sherlock's sake.

"God, who has him? You'll be able to find them, I know you can," she said, trying to be strong. Sherlock balled his hands into fists, clutching tight to the fabric of his trousers at his knees.

"I can't. There's no possible way of determining where he is, or who has him. They know what they're dealing with. They… The camera…" Sherlock admitted shakily, more tears filling his eyes. Molly couldn't help but think about how strange it was to see Holmes crying.

"What about the camera? You can tell me, Sherlock," she said, placing a hand on the detective's arm to show sincerity.

Sherlock tilted his head back and breathed in a few quick breaths. He was actually sobbing. Molly's heart broke at the sight, but she dared not show it.

"When the screen went black, there was a gunshot. I don't know what after that. I… I don't know anything, Molly. I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore. Look at me, I'm crying! It's pathetic! I just want to know if they… If John is…." He cut himself off with a loud weep. He was scared, and he didn't know why his emotions were falling apart. He'd never been like this. It was too… human. And it was so far out of his character that he questioned his overall sanity.

"They couldn't have. They wouldn't have," Molly said, her voice reassuring, yet holding a slight firmness as if to assert her opinion. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he looked at her. "How would you know?" he said, a little angry.

"Because they want to hurt you obviously. If it was just John, they wouldn't have sent pictures and videos. They're trying to get to you. They're going to make it agonising. John isn't dead, Sherlock. You have to try though. You have to push through and solve this case like you solve every case. You're brilliant, and John is counting on you," Molly looked away for a moment and Sherlock sniffed.

"You're…. you're right," Sherlock whispered, slightly awestruck, "How could you have known that? How didn't I see it? There has to be evidence, but what… God, these… emotions are getting in the way. Arghh! It's so hateful!"

Sherlock slammed his fist onto his knee. Molly pulled her legs up to sit with them crossed. "It's because you care," she said. Sherlock didn't respond. He didn't know how. He only stood from under the bench and regained his composure. Molly stood also and grabbed a tissue from a box on a nearby bench. She handed it to the tall man and leaned back against the bench.

Sherlock leaned forward and actually hugged Molly. The act surprised the woman into silence, and she wrapped her arms around the detective. When Sherlock pulled away, he looked her dead in the eye, not commenting on the bright pink blush that had crept up her cheeks.

"Thank you. You're not normal at all, you're much brighter," the Detective quickly kissed her tiny hand and headed for the door. Molly stood alone in the mortuary, trying to compose herself. Had Sherlock just complimented her? It was all so out of character, but she didn't mind. She knew that Sherlock could find John. That he was the only one that could find John. Looking down, she noticed that the papers were still all over the floor, and she picked them all up, continuing on with her work, hoping and praying that John would be found soon and found safe.