Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or references or BBC or anything else that clearly isn't mine in this story.
The sound of dripping water wakes him up.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Even half awake, he can tell that the drops are falling from a height of about 12 feet, and that the metal bucket that is catching the water has a maximum diameter of about 11 centimeters.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
It is starting to get annoying now, that dripping sound. But for some reason, his eyes refuse to open. It is as if they have been glued together. Odd. He's never had a problem waking up before.
If anything, it is going to sleep that is always difficult.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
His irritation grows as the drops continue to fill the metal bucket. Eyes still closed, he raises a hand to rub his eyes.
And then immediately winces, letting out a slight hiss. The pain from touching his left eye jolts him into a fuller state of consciousness.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Gingerly, he opens his right eye. He is lying on his back, on the floor of a small room. A very small room. Three by four meters, it looks like. Keeping his left eye squeezed shut, he sits up. Immediately, a wave of nausea came over him, and he retches.
Well, dry heaves would be the more accurate description in this case. He hasn't eaten anything for almost three days now. Maybe more. He can't tell how long he has been here.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
Coughing, he manages to keep himself in a sitting position. He looks around as best he can from his position in the middle of the floor. From what he can see, there is a door, which is straight in front of him. Reinforced metal, obviously. The back wall seems to be made of the same material, and has a seam that runs down the middle. Windows are absent, but a small vent in the corner of the ceiling. No chance of escaping there – he will barely be able to put his arm through it, let alone his body.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
There is a mirror on the wall to the left of him. Tiny, big enough that if he stands up, he will be able to see his face. It hangs precariously on a nail, clearly added as an afterthought. As if someone wants him to be able to see his injuries as well as feel them.
A tad cruel, considering the situation he is already in.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
There is no bed. A worn, tattered blanket is lying in the right corner of the room, obscured by shadow. The only source of light is a tube light in the middle of the ceiling.
It flickers ominously.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
He takes a deep breath, and then proceeds to fold his long legs under him, so that he is sitting on the back of his legs, the way children do. This simple act takes a surprising amount of energy, and he pants, trying to catch his breath.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
After a few more minutes, he manages to stand up, bracing himself against the wall. He staggers, his abnormally long nails scraping against the concrete for purchase. Standing is taking a lot of effort, and his heart rate accelerates. His breath is coming in short gasps, but he manages to stumble to the mirror, placing one palm on either side of it to keep himself from collapsing.
He looks up.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
The sight that greets him is not a pretty one. His left eye is completely swollen, an ugly purple bruise forming all around it. He touches it gingerly, and then wishes he hadn't. It feels much worse than it looks.
His lip is split as well, though the swelling is not nearly as bad as his eye.
He has scratches on his face, as if he had fallen face-first into a pile of gravel. His long coat, and his suit jacket are gone. The collar of his white shirt is dirty, and is stained brown with dried blood. His black hair is sticky with sweat, and his plastered to his head.
Plink. Plink. Plink.
He moves his head side to side, and then rotates his neck. Nothing feels broken, although his neck does seem a bit sore. He carefully removes one hand from the wall and pulls on his collar.
There is bruising on his neck, imprints of large hands.
He was strangled, then. For some reason, he cannot remember the origin of the injuries he is examining.
Interesting.
Plink. Plink. Pl—
A grinding sound interrupts the sound of the falling water (the bucket, he notes as he whirls around, is in the far left corner of the room). The back wall is parting along the seam that runs through the middle of it. Behind the wall is a large flat-screen.
It flickers to life. He watches it, eyes narrowing.
It shows an empty chair in a featureless room, similar to the one he is in, only bigger. He waits, not knowing what to expect.
He hears a scuffle, and he turns slightly, half-expecting to see the source of the noise behind him. But when he turns back to the screen, he sees the real origin.
A young girl, twenty years old from the looks of it, is being wrestled into the chair. She is gagged, and her long blond hair is disheveled. Her eyes are wide with panic, and they fill with tears when they make eye contact with the person behind the camera.
The girl has a pale red handprint on her right cheek, as if she has been slapped. Other than that, she seems unharmed.
"Hello Sherlock." A voice sings. A silky voice, a sly voice, one that he has been searching for ages. "Awake, are we?"
Sherlock doesn't bother to answer.
The voice continues. "How are you feeling? That bruise is looking rather nasty."
Sherlock immediately scans the room, and then inwardly groans at his stupidity. In his stupor, he has missed the tiny camera lenses that are embedded into the walls. There are thirteen in total, three on each wall (on in the top center of the wall, in the very center of the wall, and then in the bottom center of the wall), and one in the ceiling, right next to the tube light.
"Very good, Sherlock. Finally noticing things, aren't we?"
Sherlock's face remains impassive.
"You may be wondering why we are all gathered here today."
Sherlock blinks.
"You see, this young woman," Sherlock's gaze snaps to the woman, "is here to atone for her sins." The woman has been bound to the chair, with thick rope. Her feet are cuffed to the chair.
"In doing so, she will be the key to saving the lives of so many others, Sherlock. Her punishment will have to be severe, I'm afraid. Her crime was quite…intolerable." The voice trails off, and a small red dot appears on the woman's forehead. Sobs wrack her body as her eyes flit up to the gunman.
"However, I'm sure it won't affect you, when I tell you what her death could mean." The word "could" is heavily emphasized.
"What it could mean is the saving of your little playground. You are no longer king, Sherlock, but you can still prevent your kingdom from falling into ruin." The voice pauses. "All you have to do, Sherlock, is figure out what this lovely woman's sin was." Sherlock's eyes narrow at the use of past tense. There is no hope, then.
The woman seems to realize the same thing, and her eyes shut.
The adrenaline is pumping through him now, though he is in no danger. He absently wonders if he can bargain for this woman's life, but then tosses the thought away. Her fate is sealed. No, it is the puzzle, and the thought of the price of not solving it that is driving Sherlock now.
"If you don't find the answer in time, if you play the fool, Sherlock…well, let's just say that you won't have much of a home to return to." The voice is slightly amused now. Sherlock feels the nausea from before threatening to come back.
"You do love games, Sherlock, and so I have created the ultimate game. Just. For. You. And I will promise you, Sherlock, that if you try to wiggle your way out of this, by finding a loophole…" The voice turns harsh. "You are going to wish that you had never been born."
Bang!
Sherlock starts a bit, and then looks back at the screen. The woman's body has gone limp, her head drooping. He can see a clean bullet hole in the center of her forehead. He feels his throat go dry.
"Three days, Sherlock. You have three days."
The screen goes blank.
Sherlock stares at her.
They brought the body in about five minutes after the television had shut off, and the back wall had been restored. Sherlock has been staring at her for the past hour, trying to figure out what she could have possibly done wrong. His hands are pressed together, and his chin rests against the top of his fingertips.
Her name is—was—Samantha Fleming. Twenty-two years old, according to her driver's license (a purse had been haphazardly thrown in with the body as well). Five foot eight, sixty two kilo grams. Her face was quite symmetric, which meant that she would have been considered "pretty".
Sherlock has already worked out certain details, but there are some larger ones that he can't figure out with just the body. He stares at her for a little longer, and then decides. If Sherlock is to solve this, he needs equipment, and he needs it now.
He stands up, facing the camera that is on the top of the right wall.
Looking straight at it, he says "I need equipment." He waits a few seconds, and then continues. "If you're really going to play a game, then you need to give me the pieces. I can't really do much with just the board."
He hears the back wall grind open again, and the TV flicker on.
This time a black screen appears.
What do you want? The words appear on the screen.
"Medical equipment. I need proper medical tools so that I can examine the body in detail." He taps his foot, impatient now. Time is wasting.
Anything else? Sherlock knows that the person typing these words is being sarcastic now. But he pretends not to notice. He might as well take advantage of the question.
"Yes, actually. A microscope and a basic chemistry set would be lovely." He can practically hear the teeth gnashing on the other side of the screen.
Fine.
The TV turns off, and the back wall slides back into place.
Sherlock resumes his original position, sitting against the left wall, and waits.
A/N: I've been toying with the idea for this fic for ages. So pretty please with a cherry on top review this! I want to know if I should continue this fic or not. I know the first chapter is slow, but I had to set things up. If it's any incentive, John shows up in the next chapter. Though he doesn't really say much.
