A/N: Due to some unforeseen (and annoying) circumstances (life happens, et cetera), this came along a LOT later in the game than was originally planned, so I'd like to thank my returning readers for their patience and my new readers for coming along for the ride. As always, I do not own the characters I have used in this story, but the good Sir Conan Doyle seems to be pretty cool with people borrowing his famous boys (so long as I don't make any money off of it, of course).

Secondary (more plot-relevant!) A/N: This is meant to be read as a sequel to my last story "I Can't Lose You", but for all my new readers, I'll give you the long and short. Watson would walk into hell itself for his friend, but Holmes wants him all to himself.

The first thing of which I was conscious as I slowly roused from my deep slumber was a delightful, delicious warmth at my back. Sleep still clung heavily about my mind, and so I refrained from opening my eyes. Since no harm was to come of it, I decided I should indulge in the little game I had put myself to from time to time since leaving the constant presence of my dear friend, and tried to deduce my surroundings without visual clues.

I had made up my mind that I must have fallen asleep while reading by the fire, despite having no memory of what I had been reading, when I heard a moan nearby. I must be at Baker Street, then, for it was a familiar, unmistakable voice which had set up such a clamor so near to the fire.

But I had learned over the years the process of matching theories to evidence, and my current explanation of the situation failed to cover a small subset of facts in evidence, chief among them the tugging of ropes at my wrists.

I shifted slightly, realizing as I did so that I was upright, and so was likely not sleeping on the Baker Street couch with a fire at my back as I had so hopefully imagined. No, I was in a chair with my wrists lashed to the arm supports. The chair was either backless, or else someone had found a manner of heating the cushions with the result I have already described. I opened my eyes.

I realized as I did so that I had ignored entirely another factor which should have at once shattered the pleasant dream I had concocted for myself: the smell. I was in some dank room somewhere, and it was entirely to cool for there to be a fire anywhere in the vicinity. I wondered briefly how it was that after all the time I had spent with the great and inimitable Sherlock Holmes, I had managed to acquire so little of his skill of deduction. As I looked ahead, unwilling at the moment to turn my head, I saw stone walls. The damp chill in the air combined with the smell gave me the deep and abiding conviction that I was, in fact, underground.

I knew immediately that I would not come to such a place of my own will, and even if I were of the persuasion, would not have been left alone, tied up. But I was not alone, and that fact seemed to answer so many of my questions. I was with Holmes, for surely it had been his voice sending up the deep groan of only a moment ago. Holmes had gotten me into some fresh mess from which I would be forced to extricate myself, likely along with him.

The realization also explained the warmth I felt at my back, relished only a moment ago, now filling me with a strange cocktail of resentment, anger, and fear. I was underground, in a small, cold, windowless room, likely with one door which I could not at the moment see, tied to both a chair, and to Sherlock Holmes.

'What have I gotten myself into?'

I searched my memory, but could find nothing of substance save those things which I knew as facts, but for which I had no evidence. As an example, I knew without question that I had not seen Holmes in days, but, as to how many, I hadn't the foggiest idea. I tried to focus my mind on my abduction, but came back with a similar lack of certainty.

From where could anyone possibly take me that I should be in such a state of disarray? My shirt was only half-buttoned, missing both cufflinks and necktie. My pants were horribly stained, likely ruined, by a dark, mottled mess which—. Blood. My trouser legs, up nearly to the waist, were covered in blood.

Certainly it could not be my own, else I would likely have never woken up. A quick examination led me to the conclusion that the stains had originated from two separate sources, the bulk of it dried in and soaked deep into the fabric, while some smaller amount was still quite fresh. As I watched a drop fall into the fresh puddle pooling in my lap, I amended my theory; perhaps some of the wretched stains could claim me as a source, after all. But that blood which had long since dried could not be my own.

That left for two possible scenarios. One, there had been another with me during my abduction who had not been so fortunate as I to be taken alive. My mind went immediately to Mary, and, just as quickly, I dismissed the idea. That left the second option, that I had taken some piece of my attackers, as there had likely been some few sent to take me, rather than being quietly dispatched. I feared the former, but to put my faith in the latter gave me a measure of both satisfaction and hope.

A thing occurred to me then which filled me with dread. I attempted finally a turn of my head, but succeeded only in sending a shooting pain through my skull. I waited a moment for my vision, clouded by the pain, to clear, and as I did so recalled with a sinking heart that horrid groan which had first commended my friend's presence to my attention. It was not a thing I should ordinarily have disregarded so off-handedly, but I was not so much myself at the moment as I may have hoped.

I swallowed hard, attempting to send some moisture down into my throat, gone hot and dry for fear of the answers my next question would draw. "Holmes," I began quietly, half-hoping he would not hear me, "are you quite all right?"

I am coming back from a long time-off. Let me know what you think if you have an suggestions. Otherwise, I should have something to follow-up in about a week.

-fmapreshwab