Author's Note: Here's some from John's perspective! Oh, and for any of you curious readers? There really is a private website called CSI Baker Street. You have to be a member/be invited for access. It's not been very active lately, but it's super cool. It's like a private social site for the characters of BBC 1's "SHERLOCK". Sherlock mostly uses it to antagonize Donovan and Anderson. There's some anonymous users on there, too, like the mysterious "Stalker". Anyway, that's why it's mentioned so much in the story. I didn't make it up. :)

John was on the flight back to England. Half hour until landing.

Drumming his fingers on the comfortable armrest of the luxurious leather seat, he checked his watch. Twenty-nine minutes until landing. He glanced out of the window. England still hadn't come into view.

The phone hadn't even been tracked yet. When he'd texted Mycroft about having obtained the tracking info, Mycroft had called to forbid him passing it on to Mycroft or Lestrade over the phone. Mobile phone signals were far too easily intercepted, and heaven knew how many criminals were keeping tabs on John's phone calls. Letting whoever was listening know Sherlock's tracking information would be A Bit Not Good.

John refrained from cursing aloud at Mycroft and hung up, rather stiffly. Next he called Lestrade.

"Greg! I got the stuff."

"Great. Give me."

"I can't. Meet me at the airport in London soon as I land with a team and a laptop. We'll start as soon as I touch down."

"Listen, John, hurry. Have you seen CSI Baker Street lately?"

"I've been a bit occupied to be socializing online, Greg. Why?"

"Well, Donovan actually did something smart. Anderson suggested just texting Sherlock. I didn't allow it; I didn't want the text coming at the wrong time and the kidnappers finding his phone. So Donovan had the brilliant idea to check the website for any attempts at communication. We found some stuff. You should take a look at Mycroft's profile, John. We need to hurry it up." Greg sounded grave.

"Right. I'm leaving now. Be there soon's I can. Remember; a team ready at the airport. I'll be coming off Mycroft's private jet."

"Right. We'll be there."

John hung up, and quickly pulled up CSI Baker Street. Why hadn't he thought of that? Donovan figuring something out before him…if Sherlock ever found out –John stopped and corrected himself- when Sherlock found out, he'd never hear the end of it. John's heart dropped into his stomach when he saw Sherlock's last comment left on Mycroft's page.

I think I might be dying. I'm afraid. Please. Find me soon.

Now, as he checked his watch again, (fourteen minutes until landing) John couldn't stop thinking about that. It didn't sound like Sherlock. But there was no code in it, John was sure. He'd thought of nothing else for the last eleven hours of flight. Sherlock had been drugged, John knew, when he was kidnapped. Who's to say they weren't still drugging him? That would explain the bazaar uncharacteristic vulnerability of Sherlock's message. John's jaw hardened.

Sherlock was scared. That was enough to put John's protective instincts as a friend and his fighting instincts as a soldier at an all-time high.

When the wheels touched down on the runway, John could see a fleet of five or six police cars waiting. Lestrade had taken care of security; John rushed down the stairs from the plane two by two and slid into the back seat of the cruiser. Lestrade was driving, Donovan in the passenger seat with a laptop.

"Password?" Donovan asked, urgently, as Lestrade turned on the lights and siren and pulled away, the rest of the cars following. John even spotted a black government car tailing them. Apparently Mycroft deemed his little brother's safety at least worth a trip out.

"Ab uno disce omnes," John replied.

"Latin?" Lestrade asked.

"Means 'from one, learn all'. It refers to a single observation pointing to a larger truth. I looked it up. I suppose though with him it could have a double meaning, knowing his ego."

"Fits him, doesn't it?" Donovan said. John noticed she looked like she'd been crying. What on earth? The woman who called him "Freak" every day to his face crying when he was missing. John was inexplicably angry.

"Have you got a location yet?" Lestrade asked, "I don't know where I'm going."

"Yes. But it can't be right."

"Come on, Donovan, give it!"

"It's…it's at St. Bart's."

"What?!" John and Lestrade asked in unison. Lestrade pushed the button on his radio to speak to the other cars.

"We're headed for St. Bart's guys; lights and sirens on the way but shut them off when we're close."

"Copy, sir."

John was dialing Molly's mobile number.

"Molly, this is John."

"John? Hi!" Molly said, sounding as if she wondered what this phone call was about.

"Where in the hospital could somebody hide?"

"Hide? What do you-"

"Sherlock's missing, Molly. We're on our way over with the police; we tracked his phone. He's being held there."

"He…he could be in the basement…I guess…we were told a crew from a college was renting space down there to conduct some studies and experiments. I never go down there; it hasn't been used in ages."

"Alright. Get out of the building; we'll be there in a minute." He hesitated. Molly sounded upset. "It'll be okay Molly."

"Okay. Okay, John." She hung up.

"Basement. He's probably in the basement," John said. Lestrade spoke into the radio again. "Jennings, get Hospital security to get everyone out from the ground level up, in case there's gunfight. Leave the basement. And tell them to be as…normal as they can about it."

The tires screeched as the police came to a stop outside of the hospital. A crowd was gathering outside, both of curious spectators and of hospital staff and patients who had been evacuated in preparation of the police's search. John was out of the car before it stopped completely. Molly was waiting outside the door.

"John-"

"Molly. Show us to the basement," Lestrade ordered. Molly nodded, flustered, and hurried inside. They ran across the lobby, and she took them to an out-of-the-way stairwell.

"It's right down there."

"Stay here," Lestrade ordered. "Guns ready, guys," he shouted to the rest of the team. Seven or eight policemen, at least. John pulled out his army pistol.

"Is there anything I can do-" Molly started.

"Call Mrs. Hudson and tell her what's going on. Be right back, Molly," John said, "We'll get him out of there."

And they started down the stairwell.

Lestrade and John led the way. When they reached the bottom of the stairwell, they were confronted with a short hallway, with several doors leading to three more hallways. Three of them.

"Split up," Lestrade ordered, "Radio if you find anything."

John took the one to the left with two officers.

"Check the doors on both sides," John said, "I'll take the door at the end."

He ran to the end and through the door…to find another, short hall. This one only had two doors. One was just a bathroom. The other one…John peeked in through the little window in the door before entering.

The room was dim; almost dark. Sherlock was there though. Was he…? No, he couldn't be. John refused to entertain the idea. He was strapped to a table, with at least two IVs in him and several other sensors. There were lots of other people in the room...John didn't want to risk going in alone. They might just kill Sherlock.

John cursed under his breath. He had no radio. And he didn't dare leave to get the others for fear of what might happen to Sherlock in the meantime. He continued to watch while he tried to decide what to do.

Sherlock moved. Thank God, he moved. Not much, due to the restraints, but his whole body jerked. His chest rose and fell dramatically a few times; John couldn't see his face in the dim light. He wished he could. The jolt came again, and Sherlock uttered a sharp cry. John's eyes widened. They were shocking him. Any thought of waiting for backup flew out the window.

Kicked the door in and threw the switch on, flooding the room in bright white light. The startled assistants turned to face him, squinting in the sudden illumination. John pointed his gun at all of them in turn.

"Get down! Get down, all of you! On the floor, now!"

Obediently they dropped to the floor. John rushed to Sherlock's side.

"Hey, you okay? Can you hear me, Sherlock? Come on, wake up!" Sherlock didn't really respond, and John was horrified by his appearance. He looked…he looked very dead. Aside from his rough, shallow breathing. John could tell from the pattern that Sherlock was in pain.

A young oriental woman stepped from behind a nearby wall. John hadn't noticed her through the observation window. He pointed his gun at her.

"What's wrong with him? What have you done to him, why can't he hear me?"

"He's hallucinating. Inside his own mind. They both are." Chi-Sung motioned to Dr. Manson, who was also lying, apparently passed out, nearby. He was hooked up to similar equipment to Sherlock's, John noticed.

"Why are you shocking him?"

"He wasn't cooperating with Dr. Manson's project, and it was the method of stimulation I was instructed to use." She seemed upset. John ignored her.

"Forget it. I don't even want to know at the moment what this stuff is for," John spoke quickly and motioned to the equipment hooked up to Sherlock, "but untie him right now. And stop bloody shocking him!"

Chi-Sung nodded, biting her trembling lower lip. She pulled the plug on the computer connected to the sensors, and gently removed the white strip from Sherlock's head. She clamped the tubes on the IVs and deftly removed them; John noted angrily that there were bruises on both arms where the IV had been repeatedly removed and reinserted.

"Are you John?" she asked, quietly, undoing the straps and using a key to release the metal cuffs.

"Yes."

"He's talked about you. When he was asleep."

John was taking Sherock's pulse, noting how burning hot his friend was. Dangerously so. He glanced up at Chi-Sung, and noticed the tears in her eyes for the first time.

"I didn't want to do it," she whispered.

John was surprised, but his face relaxed the slightest bit and he nodded once.

"He'll be waking up in a minute or two," she said, turning her attention back to Sherlock, "His mind…he's not…we hadn't succeeded yet in penetrating his consciousness, but he might have ripped his own mind apart from the inside, trying to keep us out. He might not know you."

"He'll know me," John said, with a confidence he didn't feel, "Help me get him to sit up."

Carefully he pulled Sherlock's limp and unresponsive form into a sitting position on the table. John firmly clamped his arm around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him that way, so that he was leaning against John. But still Sherlock didn't react.

John still had the gun in one hand; he didn't trust Manson's assistants.

"What've you been giving him?" John asked, nodding toward the discarded IVs.

"It was a hallucinogenic drug Dr. Manson formulated to-"

"A what? How much of this has he been given? For how long?"

"Almost since he first got here. He had a strong resistance to it. By now…we've probably given him enough to overdose four normal people. I've been monitoring his reactions, but I was told not to stop until the job was done. I'm…I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean…"

Sherlock stirred, bringing an abrupt end to the conversation. A shudder ran through his body, and he began to shiver. His breathing changed, becoming much more uneven and labored.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Mmmm," Sherlock mumbled.

"Sherlock, you can hear me?"

"John."

"Yep. Yep, I'm here. Sorry it took so bloody long; Mycroft and his notions, you know. Had to travel half-way 'round the world- you okay?"

No answer.

"Sherlock, I need to check you over. Make sure you're okay. Can you tell me how many fingers I'm holding up?"

Sherlock didn't open his eyes.

"No, John."

"Sherlock, you're not even looking."

"No."

"Alright then," John said, shaking his head and tucking his gun into his belt so he could grab a penlight with his freehand. He adjusted his arm around Sherlock so he could open one of his eyes and shone the penlight in.

Sherlock gave a sharp cry, and twisted his head away. With one hand he grabbed John's hand with the light, and with the other he seized John's jacket for an anchor. But John had seen his eyes. Quickly he turned the light off. Sherlock slumped against him again, worn out completely.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know you'd react that way," John said, disturbed. Sherlock hadn't loosed his vice hold on John's jacket, though his other hand had fallen back down to the table.

"Oh," Sherlock moaned, his voice quavering a little.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"I'm thirsty. Where's Lestrade? Why aren't we getting out of here?"

"He's coming. He'll be here soon," I hope, John added in his mind. But he didn't say that. Sherlock was not doing well. He'd never seen him this vulnerable.

"I don't care, but where's the rabbit?" Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"N-nothing, I don't know why I said that," Sherlock said, sounding confused. "I don't think a bedpost can be charged with first-degree murder, technically speaking…what am I talking about, John? I'm…I'm not working right, am I?" he asked.

John's heart beat faster at the weakness in the detective's voice. He sounded…scared. Hurry, Greg, Hurry, Greg, Hurry…

Author's Note: Yeah, so this is the bit where Sherlock is really out of character, if you know what I mean. But from personal experience I can tell you that drugs can weird you out so much...you don't act yourself at all. I've never taken hallucinogenics or any recreational drugs, (Ha! Worried some of you for a minute, didn't I?) but I have woken up from a few surgeries before. And. Was. WACKY.So not to say that Sherlock would ever act like this: I still think he's out of character and everything, but for the purpose of the story this was what I was thinking. :D