Sherlock opened his eyes. He couldn't remember how long he had been asleep. This fact was strange. He always knew exactly what time he did anything. It was his job to know. He scoffed at the smell of smoke. John must have been cooking again. The streetlights inferred that it was in fact past 21:00. The compelling sound of silence further deduced that they were in the faint hours before dawn. Sherlock stared at the mantle, waiting for the sign of the hands to come into view and confirm his hypothesis about the time of day. But something more disturbing about the clock caught Sherlock's attention. His trusted clock had stopped at 01:00, meaning someone, or something purposely tampered with the batteries. That or John had been at work when Sherlock had asked him to change them about four months ago. What a shame. No. There were obvious patches of dust missing from the sides of the timepiece. That and the excessive amount of smoke that was filling up the apartment meant something was askew.
"John." Sherlock mumbled. No answer. Yet the smoke kept building.
"John?" Sherlock was desperate now. His mind hadn't been this cloudy since the first grade.
He was drugged. Yes, all the signs were there; the haze, the paralysis, even the loss of memory. But who was smart enough to get a jump on him?
Where is John Watson? Sherlock groaned as he tried to lift himself up. No use.
"John, I need to know if you're here." Sherlock choked out as the smoke getting thicker. Whatever he was drugged with was meant to produce this kind of outcome. Meaning John and Mary Watson were in danger.
A male voice coughed from by the kitchen. John. It must have been. Sherlock tilted his head, angling his line of sight directly at his dearest friend. He was bleeding. It appeared to be coming from his right shoulder. Something about the wound jarred Sherlock into Déjà vu. He must have been there when it happened. He needed to get to John.
The mental fog forced his body down like chains, binding him to the couch of their once shared apartment. John was crumpled on the floor like a rag doll. A gunshot wound to his right shoulder put a hole right through one of Watson's favorite shirts. A small detail in the scheme of things, it doesn't matter. But it did. Why did it matter? The fire was slowly starting to spread now. Any minute and it would break free from the bathroom, and creep its way toward the two detectives. Sherlock kept pressing against the drugs in his system. The haze of chemicals squelching any chance of an adrenaline fueled escape.
How fitting for the man boasting to know everything. To die in a haze, never knowing what actually happened to him, or John. That thought alone bothered Sherlock more than the thought of death. Someone had beaten him at the game. But there was a thought starting to form deeper in his mind. A horrifying thought.
Someone wanted to play.