It would be fitting that Moriarty had a castle. Complete with moat, drawbridge, those pointy things, towers, and the dungeon that John was currently captive in.

If Mycroft thought Sherlock was dramatic, then what would he call this? Was there even a word for this?

It was a little bit disappointing that there were no skeletons still chained to the wall for John to look at, as he was getting a bit bored.

Moriarty had tortured him for a bit before throwing him down here, with actual medieval torture devices, breaking his arm and multiple fingers, but he had eventually grown tired of John's minimal reactions. Which led to John's current predicament, which wasn't all that bad. He'd been in worse before.

(That hound incident, getting shot, jumping into the Thames to rescue the unconscious Sherlock, getting shot again... it went on and on.)

This was rather tolerable.

Sure, he didn't know how long he'd be here for, or what else Moriarty might do, but he was rather confident that Sherlock would find out where he was sooner than later.

So he set about exploring and looking for something to splint his aching arm. Left one too. Figures. It was a bit dark for him to see anything too clearly, but it was all too bright for some things. He could have done without the sight of the rats eating a dead one of their kind.

He made his way around the perimeter of the dungeon, seeing more tiny bones than he would have been comfortable with, and not failing to hear the scurrying.

He finally came across a bit of an old board, who knows what it had once been, but it would do. He struggled to tear his t shirt into strips without taking it off. Once done that, he pulled the strips tight with his teeth to secure his arm to the board.

Not bad.

John was rather tired, which he realized very suddenly. It made sense. Long day. Sort of.

Well, not long but... busy. Yes, rather busy.

He got up, went out and did the shopping, Sherlock yelled at him for getting the wrong kind of rubbing alcohol, John retorted that he could do the shopping, he played his violin, blew up an experiment in the kitchen (small explosion, Sherlock blamed John, or rather, the alcohol that John had gotten) John stalked out for a walk, didn't remember much after that, likely drugged, transported for several hours, ended up in this bloody castle, got tortured, broken arm, fingers, thrown roughly into the dungeon where he was now contemplating the turn of events that led him here.

It made his head hurt. He reached up to absentmindedly rub it with his hand, but forgot about his broken arm. He hissed, noting that it scared off the rats, which was good, although unintended.

Sleep. Some sleep would be good.

Yes.

His head hurt very much. And he was tired. Did he sleep?

Hard to tell.

No sunlight managed to get in, so telling time of day through that would be useless.

And any other ways... he was too tired.

Perhaps he had a concussion. That would explain the headache and the exhaustion. Being a doctor, John knew that meant you had to stay awake with a concussion. But really, that was just for Sherlock. John couldn't count the number of times he had sat with Sherlock while he was concussed, using any and every method to keep him awake.

Speaking of Sherlock, where was he? It must have been at least a day. Did he not know that John was sleepy here with a concussion?

A bit not good.

He supposed he slept again for a while until the sun burst in his face. Or something like that.

The sudden bright light made his head scream, but he managed to squint at the top of the stairs and make out a familiar figure.

Sherlock rushed over to John's side, checking him over, poking him, questioning him.

John missed most of that, as he was too busy muttering something that Sherlock could only make out as "my knight, shining, rescued me" or something of the sort.

When John woke up in the hospital the next day, arm and fingers casted, recovering from his head injury, he relayed to Sherlock this strange dream he had about a knight and a castle.

A knight in shining armour coming to rescue him.

Sherlock smirked, told John to go back to sleep and that he would explain it later.