Day One:

John Watson was many things. He was smart, but not brilliant, he was brave, but not full of bravado, and he was desperate. Sitting on the plane to America, he had a great many things running through his head, most of them revolving around the address of 221B Baker Street. He took a deep breath and looked out the window of the plane. The tickets had cost him all the money he had saved in the last year, but he didn't care. The small, expensive jet was the only thing that got him to his destination fast enough.

His phone buzzed once, and John tried to ignore it, tucking it into the pocket of the chair in front of him. It buzzed twice, and the doctor set his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. It buzzed a third time, and he finally lost his patience. The number was familiar. He put it to his ear.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said evenly. "How long have you known?" There was a silence on the other end of the phone. As the quiet settled, John could hear the noises of computer keys clicking in the background and something being printed.

"John, this is not the best ti-" the older Holmes was abruptly cut off.

"No, I'm not listening to any more of your lies! I know he's alive. And you didn't tell me. You let me believe…" John trailed off as he noticed that he was raising his voice, disturbing the woman across the aisle. "You let me believe that my best friend was dead." Mycroft gave an audible sigh.

"He told me not to tell you. It was in your best interests, I assure you." John looked at the roof of the plane and counted to five before responding, his voice no more than a hiss.

"I need all the information you have on Sherlock."

"Why, John? I have tried looking for him, and I have not succeeded. He does not want to be found." John looked out the window at the ocean far below the plane.

"Because I've gotten into a game, Mycroft, and I need all the help that I can get."

It started with a simple text. John had looked at his phone distastefully and kicked it under the couch. The stupid thing reminded him too much of his dead flat-mate. It was maddening. As a doctor, John knew that it was just catharsis. Every time he saw the phone, he remembered the man who had shown him an entirely different way of thinking. It was painful, but at least Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be forgotten; John believed in Sherlock Holmes. It buzzed again, a new text message. And again. And again. John sighed and fished under the couch for it. Maybe it was a call that surgery needed more back up. Maybe it was Mycroft checking up on him again. John opened the first message to see that it was a picture. He furrowed his eyebrows and downloaded the image. After a moment of loading, a picture popped up on his screen.

Without hesitation, he threw his phone across the room and jumped to his feet, ignoring the sudden, piercing ache in his leg. "No!" he roared at the phone. The phone buzzed again. John turned away, shaking his head. Sherlock was dead. He knew that much. After a moment of deliberation, he picked up the phone and opened the newest text.

Would you like to play a game? –JM

John blinked and stared at the screen. He looked out the windows of his new flat and glanced around to see if there was anyone out on the road, looking up at him. There was no one, but an old, decrepit dog wandering down the small street. John's hands were shaking violently. He texted back laboriously,

Who is this? –JW

There was no hesitation when the next message came back.

James Moriarty. Don't you remember me? Or are you just dull? –JM

John let out a shallow breath and flipped open his inbox. He pulled up the picture he had received. In the middle of the grainy image was tall figure with curly, dark hair. He was mid-step, wearing dress pants and a red, button-up shirt. John's heart skipped a beat as he dared to hope that maybe this wasn't a joke.

Would you like to play a game, dear doctor? –JM

What game?-JW

John was quickly dubious. He was brought back to his senses with a glance to the skull he had place on his mantelpiece, the only thing of Sherlock's that he had taken from the flat. And the skull was glaring at him. It was like it was accusing him of being stupid.

"Don't be ignorant, John," he could have sworn he heard Sherlock say, his voice coming from the skull. John shook his head. Sherlock was dead and someone was trying to play with him. Or maybe it really was Moriarty. But whatever the case was, Sherlock was gone, dead.

Well, Doctor Watson, I will give you twelve days to find Sherlock Holmes. If you don't find him, I get to kill you. –JM

The scenario was so twisted and wrong, but John's breath was catching in his throat with excitement. He looked around his empty flat. His life was boring. Every day he woke up, headed to the surgery, headed back to the flat, ate, and slept. He often considered heading to the roof and following Sherlock's steps.

I know you're bored. –JM

And it was true. The ache in John's leg had come back with crippling vengeance, often making walking unbearably painful. And his hands shook, often making texting difficult and writing even more so. Life was struggle. He was sick of it.

Sherlock is dead. –JW

You can believe that. But I know you still want to play. –JM

The worst part was, it was true. The cold adrenaline sifting through John's veins was clearing his mind, dulling the throbbing in his leg, and steadying his hands. It was like a drug.

And if I don't find him?-JW

There was a moment of silence. John was beginning to start planning everything out in his head. The picture looked like it was taken in Florida, maybe. America was a good place to start, anyway; a former comrade of his who had moved to the deep south owed him a favour or two. And he knew that the man had access to a lot of good sources. Maybe he could use that to find Sherlock.

But then he reminded himself, Sherlock was dead.

Then I get to send him the photos of your disembowelment. Are you interested? –JM

And even though he was panicking, he typed,

Yes. –JW

He didn't know what he was typing. He didn't know what he was thinking. As soon as the small message popped up on his screen, informing him that the message had been sent, the skull began to hurl abuses at him.

"What are you thinking, John?" he heard it demand in Sherlock's voice. "Moriarty is just trying to find an excuse to kill you!" John turned to the skull with a calm expression.

"Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you that I don't want to live anymore?"

And so Moriarty set the rules. John had twelve days. He wasn't allowed to try to hunt down Moriarty, and the countdown began that night. Sherlock would not be harmed if John failed, but John would be killed. And Sherlock would be sent the gruesome proof. For some reason, John didn't care. It was a distraction. So, John bought the over-priced tickets to Florida and invested in over-seas minutes for his phone. When the clock struck twelve-midnight, John received a text.

Eleven more days, dear Doctor Watson. -JM