Chapter One: Snatched
Sherlock was reading the newspaper. The flat was dark as the sun had not yet risen, and Sherlock was far too lazy to turn on any of the lights. He was stretched out on his well-worn sofa, newspaper held just inches away from his face. It was really dark, and Sherlock was getting irritated because his eyes were not adjusting as he had hoped they would by now.
"John! Come quickly!"
There was a muffled cry from John's room, and a few moments later, John stumbled into the living area, hair tousled and eyes wild, gun in hand.
"What is the matter Sherlock?" He flipped on one the lights, and squinted through the brightness, looking at Sherlock with a worried expression drawn across his face.
"Ah. Better." Sherlock ruffled his paper and began to skim without another word to John.
John stood in the doorway for a moment before the situation dawned on him.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock. Did you call me down here at five in the morning so I could turn on the bloody light for you?"
Sherlock grunted. "Yes. You've done beautifully." He paused before adding, in what he thought was an appreciative tone: "You may go back to bed if you wish."
"I 'may go back to bed if I wish'?! Jesus Christ, you are insufferable!" John shook his head and huffed back to his room, muttering a few choice words under his breath.
Sherlock tensed up when he heard John's door slam. What was the matter with him? There was always something. Sherlock sighed deeply, and shook his head.
He turned back to the paper and settled back into the sofa. It was a rare occasion to see Sherlock Holmes reading the Daily Post, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It had been nearly three weeks since Moriarty had plastered the entirety of London with his face and the words "Miss me?", and Sherlock still had no lead. Nothing. No move from Moriarty. No murders, no kidnappings, no giant explosions. The air felt stagnant, and Sherlock was beginning to fear that Moriarty was truly dead after all.
He flipped to the last page of the paper. Ah, the funnies. Sherlock had forgotten about their existence. He had never gotten any pleasure from reading them as a child, and he had neglected them ever since. Sherlock took the paper and wadded it into a ball, tossing it across the room in frustration.
Sherlock heard the creak of old wood. He sat up and swung his legs forward. The room was much brighter, but the dimly lit corners were making Sherlock uneasy. He rose from his seat slowly, scanning the room and listening very intently. Another creak. Someone was definitely in the room, trying (and failing) to move quietly.
The overhead light flipped off. Sherlock's head jerked in the direction of the switch. In the hazy blackness, he could see at least one figure moving around.
"Who's there?" Sherlock's voice was level and his heart rate was slow and steady. It was not his natural response to be frightened.
No reply. Another creak.
"I have a gun!" Sherlock lied. He fumbled around on the coffee table, feeling for John's boomerang. (It had been a gift from Mary years ago. She had gotten it overseas.) He held it up like a gun, pointing it helplessly in the direction in which he had last heard a sound.
Two pairs of unfamiliar hands seized his body. In a whirlwind of motion, one of the men grabbed him by the shoulders and forced him onto the sofa again.
The other roughly stuffed a damp cloth into his mouth, causing Sherlock to gag and choke. Both men were brawny, hairy, and unknown to Sherlock.
Panic rose in his chest as his robe was snatched from his body and thrown aside unceremoniously. His bare arms were now exposed. Sherlock grunted in pain as a sharp needle punctured his skin. The liquid squeaked as it was injected into the bloodstream. Sherlock tried to cry out for John, but the cloth prevented him from making any noise. He thrashed his limbs and tried to rip the cloth from his mouth, but the two men were so much stronger. One of them smirked as Sherlock bucked his hips, trying to free himself from his soon-to-be captors.
The anesthesia took effect, and his body went limp like a rag-doll, his vision blurred, and the sounds that had been so clear were now muted. His racing heartbeat slowed, and he closed his eyes as the world began to spin and tilt. His hands were yanked and twisted behind his back before being bound tightly with a strong cord. There was nothing he could do. He was as helpless as an infant. He moaned in protest, but was terrifyingly unable to form words. Then, just before he passed out entirely, he caught a whiff of something that smelled very familiar: cologne. Jim Moriarty's favorite expensive cologne.