I don't own Sherlock. If I did, it would illegalize all slash.
Sherlock sat bored, pondering the holes in his walls. He had played his violin, shot of all his gun rounds, yet he still found no satisfaction. He opened up his laptop, not knowing what he'd do. Sherlock decided it would be most simple to hack into John's blog. Once guessing his password in 2 or 3 tries, he explored the bloggers private messages. As always, he had 1 from Sherlock that sat undeleted. But this time he had a message from Anthea.
"Sup. Are you free at 7:00?- Anthea"
He didn't find a response. So eager to find out what his response was, he went on and hacked his phone account. Seeing a call to Anthea, he could automatically infer that he said yes. If he said yes, he wouldn't have been so conscious on his reply.
Sherlock would smother this in John's face.
"JOHN!" Sherlck hollered.
No reply.
"JOHN!" he yelled once more.
No reply. Looking at his watch, it was 7:12. John had left and Sherlock hadn't noticed. This wasn't odd, in fact it was normal. The only disappointment was that he couldn't rub it in his face at the moment.
London was dark. It was only 7:00, yet it looked like midnight. Due to the lack of light, most of Baker Street was asleep. Sherlock normally wouldn't fall asleep for a while, probably not within this week. Yet he felt drowsy. This was odd, because Sherlock had only skipped 1 night of sleep, but he could usually hold up for weeks. He looked to his water he only took a sip of, and saw a disolving tablet. It was finishing it's act of disoulution when Sherlock captued it's presence.
"Shit", he exclaimed, before falling on the table.
Sherlock awoke with something covering his head. He could tell it was a bag, and he could tell from the pain in his wrists that he was tied in a wooden, uncomfortable chair. He could not see through the bag, because it was a dark black and there wasn't much light. Sherlock could feel he was outside. London was cold and he could feel the brisk air like sharp needles on his skin poking out of his robe because the sleeves were crinkled up to his elbows.
'Damnit' he thought.
His sleeves were up. Any normal human being could have just assumed that it was a coincidence that their sleeves were rolled up. But Sherlock wasn't average. He could easily infer that will out of consciousness, the criminals could have easily injected anything into him.
He heard voices from wherever. They were covering in a rapid forgein language. Latin? Italian? Sherlock came to the conclusion that it was Dutch. He could tell because he could not understand a lick of it and Dutch was one of the only languages he was too lazy to learn. The only other language he didn't bother to learn was Polish, and this definitely wasn't Polish. He regretted his procrastination and laziness.
Sherlock had the bag ripped of his head violently. It licked the under right-side of his neck. He was introduced to a young, pale, plump man in large, baggy jeans and a sloppy shirt. He was accompanied by a second man, with neater attire. Both held small handguns in a threating manner. They held up a poster, comparing it with Sherlock's face. It was obviously a poster, offering a bounty for the detective.
He saw a needle be inserted into his wrist, giving Sherlock a reason to writhe in his seat. Sherlock felt his eyelids start to droop, although he was fighting against the effects of the drug. As soon as soon as the moment came when his eyelids dropped, but he was still conscious, he could hear his to back chair legs scratch against the floor. For the first time, Sherlock was actually scared. He hoped that whatever drug was in him, it wasn't in John. For he was his only hope in friendship and life. If John was okay, he would be smart enough to save him. Sherlock was only imagining where he was going.
