She opened her eyes and gazed around her small closet-like room. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she lay there, staring at the deep scratches that ran down the door. For a moment, she was taken back to the time when she had first been thrown in this dark space; she had clawed at the door for hours in attempt to get out but only managed to reduced her nails to broken slivers.

She slowly sat up and was careful not to bump the yellow bruises that blossomed across her ribs. In one respect she was glad for them; as long as they were visible enough that makeup nor sheer cloth couldn't hide them, she wouldn't be forced to perform.

For the past few months, she was kept as a dancer to perform in a heroin den. At least, she thought it had been just a few months. She wasn't really sure of how much time had passed; only allowed to come out of her room at night and for an occasional bathroom break.

She was a prisoner, forced to dance for the entertainment of junkies in return for escaping her past. In the early days, she had refused, completely unwilling to dance at the will of others, but after a few rounds of mild torture, she gave in.

Looking around her small space again, she paused at her small table cluttered with thick makeup and costume jewelry. Her costumes were hanging next to the table, shimmering and sparkling in the half-light. Oh, how she hated the red lipstick and sequins she donned almost every night.

She hated the makeup, the clothes, the way her hips swayed and the way, the once joyful sound of music, became a form of torture. She hated everything.

Early on, she had learned to get dressed slowly, taking her time before her performances to give the druggies enough time to become pleasantly high, making them much less grabby.

Some nights though, she was the one becoming drugged, causing her to black out. When she woke up, she was often bruised and in various states of undress. She was never sure what happened during these nights and she refused to acknowledge the ideas that crashed against her skull, preferring ignorance.

Sighing, she decided that stretching would not agree with her bruised ribs and rolled back onto her thin mattress.

Two Days Later

"Fifth body in the last two months. Heroin overdoses, all of them. There has to be some underground drug ring we have yet to uncover."

"Well, obviously." Sherlock huffed under his breathe, a look of undisguised boredom artfully clouding his face.

"Sherlock." John Watson warned before turning back to the Sergeant. "He'll look into it."

"Why?" Not really caring for the answer but rather for the sake of aggravating his flatmate and companion, Sherlock tilted up his nose like a spoiled child dramatically.

John have him his usual I disapprove look and repeated, for both men: "He'll look into it."

"Thank you." The man got up and walked down the stairs.

"People are dying because of some secret, illegal business. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"Not when the victims are the cause of their own death. Not everyone can handle heroin but many try to." Sherlock ran a long finger across the inside of his elbow in remembrance. "But if it will shut you up, I'll keep my eyes open."

"Good. Well. I'm off to the market. Care to join me?"

"I suppose I will. You never buy the right kind of milk." Sherlock wasn't complaining, just stating a fact.

"Of course I don't." John shook his head and bit back a smirk.

Grabbing his coat and scarf, Sherlock led the way out of the flat and onto the sidewalk of Baker Street, stepping out into the darkening evening.

She could hear men beginning to fill the large basement room down the hall through her door.

Pulling an outfit from its hanger, she looked down at her body. Regrettably, her bruises were losing their sharp hue. She slipped the dress over her head, noticing with distaste how it hugged her body; Sheer material flowed around her long legs and revealed panels of skin around her waist. If she looked closely enough, she could see a hint of yellow through the material around her ribs, but the low lights would hide it.

She put her makeup on in a numb state, not caring how smudged it may look.

Hearing the door being unlocked, she turned away from her defeated reflection to face one of the few henchmen trusted to escort her into the den.

Although the man had never said anything since the first time he was given the job to guard her, she could tell he enjoyed watching her lose her fire-y spirit. So far, all the men in her life had.

Positioning herself on the raised platform, she felt the few lights focus on her.

"Gentlemen, turn you attention to the gem that is Opal." The words rang out over the plush couches, coming from the center of the room. Without looking, she knew her one of her two employers was the source of the introduction.

Almost every pair of eyes fixed on her exposed flesh. Gritting her teeth, she didn't move even after the music had started until she locked gazes with her employers. Dark eyes flashed warningly, forcing her hips to sway or else.

She had learned to keep her face neutral, not responding to wolf whistles or suggestive looks. She intentionally commanded her mind to remain blank, focusing on her movements than anything else. It made the nights slip by faster and kept her from analyzing everything that had gone wrong since she had arrived in London.

It was in her timeless state of mind that a flash of light caught her eye. Her sparkling sequins reflected off something metal clipped to a man's pants pocket; a pocket knife?

She kept the man in her peripheral vision, glancing over occasionally until she was certain that the metal object was, in fact, a knife. With her mind reeling, she couldn't help but think that if she waited long enough, she could lift it without the man being conscience enough to know. Although it had been awhile since she had pick-pocketed anyone, she had to try. What she would do after she had the knife in her possession, she didn't know.

Not sure of how much time had passed since the man arrived, she decided to move from the raised platform to dance around the room instead. She mentally made a route through the packed settees, her end point being the knife-carrying man.

Carefully avoiding looking into the faces of the men she passed by, she didn't want to see the hungry looks that unnerved her to the core. She made sure to skirt around hands without looking like it was intentional, afraid that the possessive touches would undo her carefully placed, calm mask.

Arriving at last to her real destination, she felt relief that the man was sitting on the dark couch alone with the back of the couch shielding the rest of the room from his lap. From what she could see in the dim light, his eyes were half-closed and had an unfocused, glossy look to them. The drugs had already taken the desired effect, leaving the man unaware of his surrounding.

Arching her back and lowering her arm, she lightly pinched the knife between her fingers. Luckily, the clip didn't snag anywhere and glided smoothly out of its pocket.

To hide that she had anything in her hand, she raised her arm to disguise her palm in the folds of her skirt. Curling the empty handed arm above her head, she turned her back to the crowd and quickly stuffed the knife in her cleavage. Moving like liquid, she slid back onstage and curtsied to signal she the end of her performance.

As soon as the lights were lowered away from her, she stole into the shadows. Unfortunately, her guard was waiting for her. She made sure to keep her face blank and not give any sign of that something was different. She made a motion towards the restrooms, silently asking to go relieve herself.

Marching her to the bathroom, he followed her in, making sure she was alone before closing the door behind him as he walked out, waving his hand for her to hurry.

Thinking fast, knowing she only had a few moments to come up with a plan, her gaze landed on the window placed high on the wall, just above the ground on the outside. There was no way for her to reach it but she stood on the toilet and cracked it open anyway. Hearing him pound on the door, she slipped behind it, flattening herself against the wall.

She held perfectly still as he slung open the door in irritation and looked around the bathroom in confusion until he spotted the opened window. Striding across the small space, he stuck his head out the window and craned his neck to look around. This was her chance to make a run for it.

Just as she made it around the open door, her hip bumped the knob, moving the door back and creating a slight creaking sound. Frozen in fear, she watched the man jerk back around and zero in on her.