Author's note: Hello, my friends.

This is what I was working on.

One year ago, I published my first fanfiction, and when I thought about how to celebrate this I found the answer surprisingly easy – by starting a new multi chapter story.

And then I decided to give you several chapters at once to mark the occasion.

I love AUs – as my faithful readers will know – and I thought it would be fun to send John into one.

I don't own anything, please review.

John Watson knew that sighing, standing up and dusting oneself off wasn't the reaction most people would have to waking up in an unfamiliar place with no idea how they had got there.

Most people, however, didn't live with the World's only consulting detective. John had long ago grown used to being knocked unconscious, kidnapped and threatened on a daily basis.

Although he had to admit that waking up in a dark alleyway when the last thing he remembered was going out to get groceries in plain daylight was disconcerting.

Especially since he certainly happened to regain consciousness in a part of town no one would like to frequent alone after nightfall.

That wasn't his first thought, though.

No, his first thought was Sherlock.

The consulting detective had been very protective of him, ever since he returned, and he would certainly be worried about him.

That he hadn't found him yet – that Mycroft hadn't found him yet; John might have problems understanding the elder Holmes' reasoning for betraying his brother, but he still respected his power – was not a good sign. He had been gone for – John quickly checked his watch – more than ten hours; even if Sherlock had been busy with an experiment or a case, he would have noticed his absence by now.

He quickly checked his pockets.

His phone, his wallet, his keys – everything was there.

Which meant, even if Sherlock should have failed to find him (which was unlikely to begin with) Mycroft should have tracked him by now.

Furthermore, Sherlock hadn't texted him once – hadn't tried to call him – there was no indication that the consulting detective had noticed his absence.

Before Moriarty, before his disappearance, this would have been normal. Even now, his best friend didn't realize when he left their flat most of the time. And yet – and yet, ever since Sherlock had come back, he had been more considerate; John couldn't remember when he had needed more than three hours to realize he was gone and demand instantly via text where he was. His watch might have stopped – which John only realized now when he looked at his left wrist to check the time – but he had definitely left the flat in the late morning, and it was night. Sherlock would have noticed he had disappeared by now.

Something was wrong.

He managed to stand up, but only by supporting himself against the nearest wall; his knees were weak, he had a headache (so they, whoever they were, had probably knocked him out through a hit in the head) and he desperately needed a glass of water.

He immediately tried to call Sherlock, but didn't get a signal. He would have to walk through the streets until he found one.

Of course, there was no security camera in sight either, so he couldn't contact Mycroft.

John sighed. He felt weak and didn't know exactly where he was (although he was sure, without being able to say why, that he hadn't left London) and he certainly wouldn't enjoy running around, hunting for a signal. But it couldn't be helped.

Just as the thought that kept coming back to him couldn't be helped.

Had something happened to Sherlock? If someone had managed to kidnap him, or knock him out at the very least (for why would someone kidnap him only to leave him in a street where anyone could stumble upon him? It didn't make sense) without Mycroft noticing –

What had they done, or were planning to do, to Sherlock?

He had to get home. He had to warn his friend.

Thankfully he still had enough money to get a cab. If he ever managed his way out of this alleyway, that was.

After a few metres, he had stop and regain his breath, leaning heavily against the wall. Maybe they had drugged him, too; he would ask Sherlock to run a test on his blood. He had to get home in order to do so, however, so he pushed himself off the wall and continued down the alleyway, albeit very slowly.

The next street didn't look better than the last, and John was about to drag himself down the next –

When he saw a phone booth.

And one that still used coins and didn't require a card, thank God.

John immediately went in. He dialled with trembling fingers.

First he tried Sherlock's mobile.

There was no answer; no tone to indicate that the line was occupied, no voice that told him that the number was temporarily not available, nothing. It was as if the number didn't exist.

He was most definitely worried now.

He tried Mycroft; then Greg; Mrs. Hudson; Molly; and, finally, because he didn't know who else to call, he attempted to reach Mike.

Each and every time he got the same result.

But how could that be? He had long ago memorized the mobile phone numbers of his friends – living with Sherlock, losing one's phone was always a distinct possibility – and he couldn't be wrong about every one of them.

He had to get home as quickly as possible.

If only he knew the city as well as Sherlock. All he knew was that he was definitely in a rundown part of the town – he couldn't even decipher the street signs because they were so dirty – and that he desperately needed to find a cab.

He was exhausted, he was thirsty, he didn't know where he was, and he had to warn Sherlock.

All in all, it wasn't an unusual day.

And yet he would take this over the three years he'd spent waiting for Sherlock any time. He didn't want to live through this again. He couldn't live through this again.

Another reason why he had to find the consulting detective.

At least he felt better with every passing minute – if they had drugged him, whatever drug they'd chosen hadn't been very strong – and soon he was able to walk without the support of a wall. At least he'd get home quicker now.

If only he could find a cab, or a street with a security camera, or meet someone who could tell him where he was, exactly, because in whichever unsavoury part of town he ended up, he had the feeling that he was only getting more and more lost with very turn.

How he wished he had Sherlock's ability to memorize every street in London. The consulting detective would know where he was by now.

John prayed with all his might that Sherlock was safe, wherever he was. If something happened to him while he was still trying to find his way home –

No. There was no use in panicking. Maybe the phone booth had been defect. Of course it had been defect. There could be no other reason for his being unable to reach anyone. Even if someone had somehow succeeded in kidnapping Sherlock without Mycroft realizing it – which was unlikely to begin with – they couldn't have taken his, his brother's and all their friends' phones and destroyed them. If Sherlock had been here, he would have told him how utterly ridiculous he was being. The thought made John smile briefly.

Only briefly, though, because he was still walking down a dark alleyway, had no idea where he was, and had no way of reaching Sherlock because his mobile phone still refused to get reception. Why couldn't he get a signal? He was in the streets, for crying out loud, not hailed up in a cellar.

Hopefully, that was. He might just be hallucinating –

He was well and truly panicking, John realized, and forced himself to calm down. He had lived through a war; he could get home. He could find Sherlock. And then they would catch whoever was responsible for his aching head and disorientation.

Knowing the consulting detective – knowing all he had done for him, before and during and after he had been gone (he hadn't told John much, but what he had was more than enough) – it would probably be better if John got to them first. At least they stood a chance of survival then.

If Sherlock was alright, that was.

No. He couldn't think about Sherlock injured, or kidnapped, or both; he had to get home. He had to concentrate on getting home.

God he was tired.

He had to lean against another wall. He was still desperately trying to catch his breath when suddenly, somewhere near him, several people started shouting.

John forced himself of the wall and listened.

The shouting continued, and he heard something that sounded suspiciously like punches being thrown and bodies falling too.

And he didn't have his gun or any reception.

He had to help, though, or at least try, so he staggered into the direction the noises came from.

Two alleyways later, he found himself in a cul-de-sac. He couldn't make out much – almost every street lamp he'd past had been smashed, probably years ago – but as he forced himself to stand still, breathe and look over whatever was going on in front of him, the movements of the group slowly started to tell him what was going on.

There were three assailants and one victim. Judging by their groans and the shouting John had heard earlier, they were all men.

The three assailants were currently kicking the victim, who was curled up in ball. It looked like he was still moving, though.

They hadn't noticed John yet, and the doctor was grateful for the opportunity to gather his thoughts. He had to help the man, but he didn't know how. He didn't have his gun, he couldn't call the police, shouting wouldn't serve any purpose in a neighbourhood like this and he was too weak to fight.

But he had to try, if it was the last thing he ever did.

Deciding that standing around wasn't going to do much good and that he wouldn't come up with a better plan, no matter how long he thought about it, he rushed forward crying "Police!"

They stopped kicking the victim, which was the intended outcome, but instead of running they rushed at John, which most decidedly was not.

He managed to hit them once or twice, but knew it was hopeless; he could barely stand, and they were three against one.

And then the man they'd been beating John one of them from behind.

At least John thought that was what had happened – he couldn't be sure, dizzy and disorientated as he was – but he heard someone, hopefully one of his attackers, moan and threw a punch in that direction.

Somehow, they managed to fight them off without hurting each other in the process. Just as John was sure he couldn't stand up any longer, they took flight, and he staggered against the nearest wall, relieved, breathing heavily.

He was still trying to catch his breath when he heard the man he'd helped turn around and leave.

He hadn't said a word, and it certainly didn't seem like he was going to get help.

"Wait" John managed to get out. He didn't know if the man was still there – he couldn't hear him breathe, and he definitely wasn't moving – but he had to try.

"Please" he croaked. "I – I don't know where I am. I need help".

Nothing.

The man had run, just like his attackers, and had left John alone.

Right after he had come to this conclusion and was wondering how he was supposed to get out of the cul-de-sac he heard something that sounded suspiciously like an annoyed sigh.

A moment later he was yanked to his feet, the other man only grabbing his arm when it became clear he couldn't stand on his own.

He mumbled something John couldn't understand, although the voice seemed eerily familiar, as did something else about the man the doctor couldn't quite put his finger on.

The man half-dragged, half-carried him through the next few streets, occasionally mumbling to himself, sounding annoyed, and John didn't know what to think of it. He couldn't tell much about the man, only that he had the strange feeling that he'd seen him before and that he was thin, tall and unwashed.

He was at least slowly regaining the strength to stand on his own legs.

The man seemed to noticed it too, because he slowly loosening his grasp on John's waist.

Finally, they arrived in another small abandoned street. This one's streetlamp worked, at least, and John breathed a sigh of relief.

He turned to look up at his weird companion.

His breath caught in his throat. It was impossible. His mind was playing tricks on him –

Somehow, he managed to stammer one word.

"Sherlock?"