A/N: This fic follows on from Suspension and is part 4 in the Adriane Woodford series.

Warnings: Coercion across all of it. Restraint, sexual scenes.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.


Dinner is not quite what I expected. To be fair, Phil tries his best, but it is clear from very early on that what I am trying to tell him is freaking him out. I don't even have to go into any of my personal history. I tell him what I did last night, or at least an edited version of the facts. I can see he doesn't really believe me, so in the end I take the bandages off my wrists.

His reaction is predictably shocked, but he doesn't seem to be able to move on from it and keeps asking why I would let anyone do such a thing, and how anyone could even think of doing something like that in the first place. There are words that he doesn't say but which I can feel hovering at the edge of the conversation. I've heard them before – abuse, perversion, and worse.

In the end, I just say, "Look, it's what I do, OK. It doesn't happen very often. And I am in no way ashamed of it. Somebody is going to be convicted of a violent crime partly because I did this, and I'm proud of that."

Unfortunately, I can see there is no use to explain any more. I would like to tell him why I do this in the first place, what happened to me in the past, how this is helping me get out of a cycle of abusive relationships, how it is making me stronger. I leave it. I doubt Phil could cope with any of it. He goes home early.

I finish the bottle of wine I got for the occasion on my own. All I can think is how I want to be back at Baker Street, where at least I feel that whatever I am is acceptable and even useful. Because I have nothing better to do and am feeling sorry for myself I move onto the next bottle. Then, in a drunken haze, I send Sherlock a long and stupid text which may or may not have included references to snogging. He is quick to reply.

"You are drunk, Adriane. Go to sleep. SH."

I decide to cut my losses and go to bed.

I regret all of it when I wake up with a thumping headache in the morning. It takes me a while to remember what happened, but then I spend a frantic twenty minutes looking for my phone, which I find back under the sofa. I check my sent messages. The folder is empty, and on checking my settings I find I never asked the thing to save them. I can't quite remember what I actually said in my text. I am quietly dying of embarrassment. There's nothing for it. I send the text.

"Did I send you something inexcusable last night? A."

It doesn't take him long to respond.

"Yes. SH."

I groan. I'm glad I am halfway across London, and not having to endure this face to face.

"Can we pretend that never happened? A."

"Yes. SH."

I guess he is probably as happy as I am to forget the whole episode. I resolve to stop drinking.

-oooOOOooo-

A number of weeks go by. Work and routine take over and that's fine. I notice Phil is avoiding me but I can't get excited about it. After all, if he can't accept me as I am there really isn't any point. I am vaguely worried that he might start spreading rumours at work, but at least he has the decency to keep what I have told him to himself.

On Thursday night I get a text from a number I don't recognise.

"Just to let you know I am away on a course tomorrow and Sherlock is bored. Don't let him do anything stupid to you while I'm not there. JW."

John, I realise. I save the number down in my phone in case I need it, then text him back a thank you. It was nice of him to let me know, but I'm not really worried. If Sherlock hasn't got a case on I'm sure he won't need my services.

Friday shows just how wrong I can be. As I am winding down at work and beginning to think about going home, a text arrives.

"Hide and seek. All of London. You have a ten minute head start. Dinner is on the loser. Two hours. SH."

At first I think he must be joking. After a minute, another text comes in.

"One. SH."

With it is a picture of the Criterion restaurant. I've been past it, it's a posh place where ultra cool people go. I have nothing I could wear. It is also way beyond my budget. I am beginning to panic. I text back.

"Sherlock, I am skint. I could never afford that place. A."

His response is quick.

"Two. UCL pays its staff on the 28th of each month, which was two days ago. I very much doubt it. SH."

I haven't moved yet, and try once more.

"I am just about covering the rent. I can't afford it. A."

"Three. Then I suggest you hide well. SH."

I nearly swear out loud. He knows full well that I could never pass up the chance of what is effectively a date. It is an offer that might never appear again. On the other hand, he must also know that this place is well beyond my budget. I have no option but to play the game. I pack my bag in a rush and say a hurried goodbye to everyone in the lab. As I am walking towards the main reception, another text arrives.

"Four. I hope you are not still at work. That would be too easy. SH."

I'm running now. I have no idea where to go. On an impulse I head towards the nearest tube station. As I am on the escalator, another text comes in.

"Five. I will cover the drinks if you make it through one hour. SH."

I guess that's some kind of concession. I get the cheapest day ticket and jump on a random train. It's a Circle line service, which means that at least I will stay in Zone 1. I find a place to sit down and try to catch my breath as the train pulls away. My phone goes off with another text.

"Six. SH."

I look on the tube map. I'm not sure whether to just stay in the tube circuit. I figure the chances of him working out exactly which train I'm on should be pretty slim. As I try to work out if I would have to change at all or whether I could just stay on this train and go around in circles, another text arrives,

"Seven. I will consider staying on the tube as cheating. SH."

Well, that rules that option out. I guess I've been pretty obvious so far, but I haven't really had time to collect my thoughts. I decide to get off at the next station, and walk instead. After a minute or so the train stops. I get off just as the next message comes in.

"Eight. SH."

I've got off at Monument. I don't know the area all that well, but I can see some shops on the left at King William Street, and there are also some coffee shops on Cannon Street. Maybe I can just hide out in one of them for a while. I can't see how he could find me in two hours in the middle of London with nothing to go on anyway. As I leave the station, another text comes in.

"Nine. SH."

I'm not quite so nervous now. I have convinced myself that I've done pretty well, and that Sherlock's reference to the tube can only have been a bluff. While I make my way down Cannon Street the next text arrives.

"Ten. Coming, ready or not. SH."

Two hours, I think, this should be easy. I keep walking up the road, past McDonald's, and stop at the first coffee shop. I order a coffee and sit down in a quiet corner, where I can look out of the window. The place is empty at this time of the day, with everyone heading home for the weekend. There are a few office girls gossiping at one of the tables, and an old guy on his own in the opposite corner. I drink my coffee slowly, making the most of the time it is gaining me. My head is a bit calmer now that Sherlock's countdown has finished. I wonder how long it will really take for him to find me, if I just keep moving about every so often. London is such a big place, I could be anywhere.

I look on my watch before I leave the coffee shop. Twenty minutes have passed. Not bad, I think, as I cross the road towards the Thames. I really don't know the area at all, it's all big office buildings, but I have a good idea where the river is and I fancy having a look at it. It's a good a place as any, I reckon. There is nobody about, all the office workers having gone home, and everything is quiet away from the busy traffic on Cannon Street.

I am passing between two large office blocks when somebody steps out in front of me. It's a tall bloke, dressed in a dirty hoody and ripped jeans. He looks pretty muscular. I suddenly realise that wandering around a deserted office area on my own might not have been such a good idea. I look around me, but I am very much alone. Even the front desks in the offices are empty. I wonder if there is any CCTV recording this.

"That's far enough, I think," he says.

Run, I think, and I turn around. At the same moment another man, older than the first, steps out from behind the building at the side of me and blocks my way going back. I hesitate, not sure where to run. I seem to have seen him before, but I haven't got too much time to think about it. My moment of indecision has cost me dearly as I feel both my arms being grabbed from behind and pulled up.

Before I have a chance to call for help the man in front of me has covered my mouth with what looks like a grubby scarf and tied it behind my head. The taste of the thing is disgusting and I try not to think about what might be on it.

They forcibly walk me into a side alley. I try to struggle free, but all that happens is that my arms are forced further upwards until I fear that something might get dislocated. I am trying hard not to panic, and I can feel myself getting angry.

When we get halfway into the alleyway they stop, and the taller of the two ties my arms behind my back with what feels like a tie wrap. Then he tightens the knot on the scarf until I can barely move my mouth. Finally he walks in front of me and hooks one of his legs around my ankles, efficiently pulling my legs out from under me. He's holding onto me as I sink to the floor. It's a chance at least – I kick out with all the force I can muster and catch him squarely on the upper leg. He lets out a grunt as I think, Should have aimed higher.

I don't get a second chance, as he kneels down on my thighs with one leg and ties my ankles together. Then he rolls me onto my side, forces my legs upwards behind me, and ties my arms and legs together. Other than my head I can't move anything anymore. The position is hurting my back, and I lie motionless to try and alleviate the pain.

The men sit down either side of me. They don't seem to have any further plans, and I am wondering what is going on. I was expecting them to rifle me for my money or my phone, at least, but they seem content to just sit and wait. One of the men is playing on his phone, the other is just sitting humming to himself. The weirdness of the whole situation is getting to me. I'm wondering how Sherlock is going to find me now. I give the ties around my wrists a tentative struggle, trying to think what I can do. There is no getting out and I have to give up after a moment.

I'm still angry, firstly with myself for walking into a trap, secondly with Sherlock for forcing me into this situation in the first place. I wonder what will happen to me, and I try to suppress the memories of that horror night some five months ago when I ended up halfway across Norfolk. To stop myself from panicking I focus on my breathing, and look at my captors.

"Should be here any moment," the taller of the men says, when a text arrives on his phone. His companion answers, "Good."

I wonder who they are referring to. They don't say anything else, though. I am looking at the elder of the two men from where I am lying, and I realise that I did see him before. He was in the coffee shop. I am just beginning to put two and two together when a pair of very familiar black shoes appears in front of my face.

"Found you," Sherlock says.

Thankfully the gag smothers most of the obscenities as my fear turns to anger in an instant. I can just about turn my head so I can look at him, and his smug expression only makes it worse. I don't know how he organised this, but I cannot contain my rage.

After a few minutes he says, "When you have finished with that I will take the gag off. I might even explain."

I calm myself down only with the promise that I will keep some choice words back for when the thing comes off, and stop swearing. He just looks at me, raises an eyebrow and then turns to the old man. Not so easily fooled, I should know that by now.

"There you go, Stitch. The tying up may have been a little excessive. Good to see you took some notice of John's instructions though." He passes the man what looks like a fifty pound note. The man grunts.

"I wasn't going to miss out on fifty quid," he says.

Sherlock says, "Clearly," as he kneels down to have a look at me. I am still glaring at him, but he is ignoring me and just concentrating on the ties. He is running his fingers underneath to check how tight they are.

"Did you do these, Djingo?" he asks the man on my right.

The man says, "Yeah. Nearly got kicked inna fork for the pleasure."

Sherlock looks at him, then quickly over to me. He almost looks impressed. I continue to glare. On a better day I will take it as a compliment.

Sherlock stands up. "Thank you, gentlemen, neat work. That'll be all."

The men get up and walk off. Sherlock stays behind, looking down on me with an expression of amusement. He seems in no hurry. "Are you done?" he says after a while.

It's not like I have much choice in the matter. I nod. He kneels down again and undoes the scarf.

"Forty-five minutes," he says. "I believe the drinks are on you."

I don't trust myself not to swear so I say nothing. Sherlock produces a pair of clippers and cuts through the ties. I sit up and rub some circulation back into my arms.

"What was that?" I finally manage to say.

He's got up again and is slowly pacing about. "Homeless network," he says, looking very smug about it. "They're invaluable as a source of information. And even more useful since John gave a handful of them some training on restraining techniques. But they do need practice every so often."

I am still fuming. "You cheated," I say.

"No," he says, "I used the tools at my disposal to find you. That isn't cheating."

"Sherlock, I was terrified."

He shrugs. "You were never in any danger. They didn't even hurt you. John's trained them well."

I really can't get this through to him. I keep looking for some sign that he's joking, but he is clearly serious. As far as he is concerned, this was a useful training exercise, a diversion, and possibly a fun game. The fact that I ended up fearing for my life is irrelevant.

"They could have done anything to me," I say.

"No. I know where to find them, and they are aware of that," he answers.

Coming from anyone else, that might be an empty threat. But I remember all too well how he dealt with the men who abducted me some months ago. I realise that in an odd way he is being protective, even though it really doesn't seem like it sometimes. I wonder what his reputation is like with the homeless.

"Well," he says when it becomes obvious that I am not going to say any more. "Shall we go somewhere with a little more decorum?"

In my anger I had forgotten about dinner. "You're really going to go through with this, aren't you?" I ask. I'm not looking forward to going out somewhere posh, even though I'm hungry.

"I won the game," he says. That seems to conclude the argument.

"Sherlock, the Criterion is an amazingly hip place. I don't even have anything to wear."

"Wrong," he says, "you have a very nice black dress with a blue jacket that John bought you. I suggest we go and get it."

I get up and brush myself off. Sherlock is patiently waiting for me to sort myself out. "Shall we?" he says when I finish.

I'm still angry, but he's being all charm now. We walk back to Cannon Street and he hails a cab. He lets me in first and gives my address to the driver. Then he settles himself into the seat and looks at me.

"Well?"

I give him a blank look. "Well what?"

"I'm not going to apologise, Adriane. It was a fair game. I won. Are you going to spend the rest of the evening angry with me?"

I sigh, and say, "Probably." I can't seem put much conviction behind it, though.

He gives me a brief smile, and says, "Excellent."

It takes me a while to sort myself out when we get to my flat, but I think I look presentable when I finish. Sherlock has installed himself on my sofa and is looking through my collection of magazines. "I can't believe you read this stuff. How can you fill your mind with this rubbish?" he says as I come out of the bathroom.

"Trust me, it doesn't take up much space in my head," I say.

He rolls his eyes, and says, "But it's a waste of time."

I look at him. It surprises me a little that I am not feeling the immense awe anymore that I had when I first met him. Too much water under the bridge, I guess. I wouldn't ever underestimate him, but at least I feel I can talk freely.

"You could say that about a lot of things, Sherlock. Like dinner. We could just order a pizza."

He gets up. "That," he says with a glint in his eye, "would be too easy."

The Criterion is everything it is made out to be. It's a fabulous building just to look at, and I have to stop myself staring at the architecture. The guests in the restaurant are nearly as illustrious as the surroundings. There are one or two very famous faces, and many that I swear I have seen somewhere before. I feel completely out of place, but Sherlock seems quite at home.

We order. Sherlock insists on starters. Seeing as how he is determined to get the most out of this, I decide to go for the bankruptcy option and just order what I feel like. The wine list gives me a bit of a shock, but thankfully Sherlock orders something reasonable. I resolve to forget about the cost and enjoy myself. After all, this might be the only chance I ever get at this.

If I was nervous about spending an evening with someone who has perfected being silent as an art form, I should not have worried. Whether he feels responsible or is just in a good mood, Sherlock is on his most charming form. We talk chemistry for awhile, and for once I feel like I can hold my own. Then he spends some time unravelling the lives of some of the guests around us. He doesn't pick the celebrities, saying that they are too obvious, but concentrates on the ordinary visitors.

The married man taking his mistress out for dinner, making polite conversation with his wife on his mobile phone the whole time. The young girl taking her new boyfriend on an expensive birthday treat, desperate to impress. The group of single girls out on a hen night, even I could have told that. But then what I didn't see is the jealousy between the bride and her bridesmaid, who is already trying to start an affair with the groom behind her back; the gay friend who has had a crush on the bride for years and is now seeing her hopes dashed; the awkward childhood friend, just returned from a year in America, who is has been asked along out of sympathy.

I admire his eye for detail, the way he picks up clues in the wearing of a ring, a turn of phrase, subconscious movements, body language. For somebody who seems so emotionally detached he has an acute eye for the human condition, the things that drive people, their hopes and dreams, their fatal flaws, the silly quirks. It makes me wonder why it is so hard for him to show these emotions himself, why he refuses to love or be loved, what he is so afraid of.

I consider asking him straight out, but thankfully I haven't drunk that much yet and common sense prevails. As I listen to him it strikes me though that in his mind nothing could be worth the risk of clouding his reasoning, the thing that defines him. Anything that might come between him and his ability for analytical thought has to be a clear threat. It also occurs to me that with his level of understanding it would almost be silly to indulge in any emotional involvement, that it would never pass his constant self-analysis. An evening like this is easy, he can put on the charm like a disguise, but anything beyond that is unthinkable to him. I wonder how John has managed to break through that.

I must have gone quiet, because those ice-blue eyes are on me now. "Sorry," I say, "I was going to ask you something."

"Yes," he says. He's quiet for a moment, then continues, "But you have worked it out for yourself."

I nod, and say, "John is a very lucky man." He doesn't answer that.

We finish our main course, which is excellent. I had decided to skip dessert, but when the menu arrives I change my mind and pick something extremely chocolatey. Sherlock looks at me briefly, and says, "I do believe UCL are paying you too much."

I shrug and say, "I don't think I'll be back here anytime soon. Might as well make the most of it."

The wine is beginning to make me giggly and I decide to stop drinking before I do or say something stupid. "See, I'm working on my self control," I say.

Sherlock just raises an eyebrow. Then he says, "You didn't panic when Stitch and Djingo grabbed you and tied you up. Why not? You had every reason to."

The question takes me aback a little, it really hadn't occurred to me.

"I don't know," I say in the end. "I just got really angry instead."

"So I noticed," he says with a wry smile, and then, "Good."

I pick up the bill when we finish, and try not to flinch. I'm sure he's done the mental maths anyway, and to be honest I should have done as well. As I pay I wonder if it was worth it, and then decide that on balance it was. I've had a really good time.

Outside, Sherlock hails a taxi and lets me get in. He pays the driver in advance, then says through the open door, "Good night Adriane. Thank you for dinner."

Thank you for playing with me, I think, and thank you for draining my bank balance. However, I just say, "Good night, Sherlock."

He gives me a knowing look as he closes the door. I wonder how much of those last thoughts he picked up on. Knowing him, probably all of them.

Halfway home, I receive a text.

"I hope you are aware that John's course runs over four weeks. SH."