He heaved for breath as his world shifted and turned, falling upon his back. The senses that were constantly in use were gone, were taken away, and he was desperately grasping for them. A blazing, hazy mind churning and scraping for ways of direction, information or even the simplest bit of data, but it was gone. The only thing he could possibly gather was the burning sensation within the muscle of his left shoulder. That was when he realized what was happening. Or what had happened, rather. That ache in his arm giving the only answer he needed at the moment.

He had been drugged.

The thought had brought him into a distress of utter, complete annoyance. It was exceedingly late into the night and after a particularly difficult case, Sherlock Holmes had only wanted to take a quick walk to organize some of his thoughts, but rather than that, some random man had snuck up on him in the streets of London and stuck a needle into his shoulder, sending Sherlock into a seizing mess upon the concrete walkway. Though, it didn't seem that this consistent convulsing bothered the attacker; the stranger was able to pick him up with ease.

The man heaved Sherlock over his shoulder, certainly not being gentle in the process. The contact of bone to gut knocked the breath out of the detective. He gave out a painful groan as he hang limp amongst the stranger's back. Sherlock had tried to struggle to get release from the man's grasp, but due to sudden loss of motor abilities he couldn't do a damn thing. All he could do was watch with unfocused eyes as the attacker shoved him into the back of a trunk.

When Sherlock next awoke, he felt terribly sick to his stomach. He was thankful for the lack of food intake recently that day or else he was very sure it would end up all over the floor beneath him. His eyes felt heavy amongst his face. Everything about him felt tired and of complete exhaustion, but he could tell that the drug that once ran through his system had long since faded. It was easy to come to the realization of this, considering the speed of his mind's working at the moment. If these people were smart, they would've left him drugged.

Sherlock cautiously opened his eyes to see a blank room bathed in a gentle light. He began to move, but once again failed. Only this time, it was for a different reason. In looking, he found that a rope of constraints were wrapped about his arms and legs, attaching him to the metal chair he was currently resting in. He gave out a groan of annoyance. In raising his head, he searched about the room taking in all detail. Everything from the obvious scraping of human nail amongst the walls to the dilapidated state of the door across the room. Besides Sherlock himself and the chair he was sitting in, the room was utterly bare.

The sound of an opening door sent Sherlock to full alert. He watched with the utmost care as the wood amongst frame shifted, allowing a man to step into the small room. That was when Sherlock's mind went to work, scanning over every piece of puzzle the man wore about his figure.

Male, obviously.

Considering facial creases and lines along with his choice in clothing, must be in his early 30's.

Much too confident with himself. Walks ridiculously like a puffed up bird to prove so.

Small protrusion beneath the coat of his left side. Armed with some brand of pistol.

Rough, calloused hands; must do most of the dirty work. Size of muscles only prove this further.

Not the mastermind behind all of this. His daftness is practically radiating from his body. Just a dirty rat that works for the higher-ups.

Sherlock's eyes flickered towards the man's face waiting for his reasoning of being here. The detective supposed he should hold his tongue for a little bit longer and let the man speak a bit. Considering he's an obvious bloke, he might just let a bit of information slip. The man clapped his hands together and let out a hearty laugh with seeing the awful state the detective was in.

"Well, if it isn't the famous Sherlock Holmes! Though I must admit, I've never seen you lookin' so rough, pal," he gave a gruesome smirk, walking up to Sherlock and giving him a harsh punch to the left side of his jaw. Sherlock groaned in pain from the strike, but slowly forced his head to turn back towards his attacker with piercing eyes. The man met him with an equally fierce gaze, putting his face right to Sherlock's.

"I can't tell you how damn long I've wanted to do that to you," the man spoke, harshness evident in his tone, all humor having gone.

Sherlock smirked and let the smartness slip right out of his mouth, "Then why don't you do it, again?"

The man grunted disapprovingly at his comment and sent Sherlock another clock to the face. This time, the detective gave out an involuntary cough, spitting out remnants of blood in the process. This was when Sherlock realized he probably shouldn't have said that, but his witty statements always seemed to get the best of him before he can even think through of the possible consequences.

"You won't be actin' so smart once you're dead, Sherlock Holmes," the man spat with a twisted grin, his eyes undeniably dark, "You've caused too much trouble for the boss."

"And who is this boss you're speaking of," Sherlock spoke clearly, bravely.

"And that," the man pulled out his gun from the holster on his left side, "is for you not to know, Mr. Holmes."

For a moment, Sherlock very much thought he was going to be shot, but rather the attacker struck him with the butt of the gun, knocking him out once more.

And for the second time that day, Sherlock Holmes awoke in a strange, unfamiliar surrounding. Though, this time the situation was a bit different because now, he had obtained a dull ache within his head from where he had been struck by the gun. Not only this, but his constraints were now gone. In finding this, Sherlock reached his hand to the right side of his temple, feeling the obvious bruise left by the pistol. Looking at his fingertips, he found traces of blood from the wound. No doubt he had it running alongside his face, as well, but that was least of his concerns, now.

Sherlock looked about the new room. He was a bit surprised to see he was sitting on a bed. It was exceedingly stiff and uncomfortable, but a bed nonetheless. Other than that, the room was completely empty, looking like the one he had been in before. Though it seemed that this time, instead of the door being wooden, it was a very strong, sturdy metal. And its purpose was obvious. To make sure that nothing got out.

He sat amongst the bed for a moment in thought. About what he was going to do or who could possibly be up to this attack. Practically anything that might deem itself as useful, but unfortunately, Sherlock seemed to find nothing of importance. The only bit that mentioned information at all was when that man said, 'the boss'. Yet, that was hardly any data at all.

Getting bored with himself he looked about the room again. Everything was entirely the same; not that he had expected anything different, of course. He found the scratched up walls, his eyes wandering once again to the metal door, back down to the wooden paneling of the floor and as he followed along the bottom of the walls, something caught his eye.

A vent.

Sherlock rose from his spot immediately, walking over to the grate that was resting about the wall. Chipped gold painting covered an intricate design among the molded metal. He knelt down, one knee making contact with the floor, running his fingers along the vent. It was obviously much too tiny for Sherlock to fit through, much to his dismay, so he finally got back up after finding it to be trivial.

The detective paced about the room for a while thinking, waiting for something, anything. That was when there was a click of the door. His back was turned towards it, so he hadn't seen the person immediately. Though, he did notice something.

The footsteps are exceedingly light, careful in step.

Showing that either it's a woman or a very, very small man with a great intricacy in walking.

Finally, Sherlock turned round to meet with this new stranger and just as he suspected, it was a woman. She had long, messy blonde hair and eyes that were of what Sherlock would call a shade of green. He tilted his head slightly, examining her carefully.

Of very petite form. To the point of medical emergency. Definitely malnourished.

Eye contact not evident. Shows constant submission, especially among men.

In her late 20's.

She has been recently struck upon the face. The bruise is highly evident of this fact.

Her grip is tight among the platter she carries, showing excessive nervousness.

Sherlock watched her. Spotting the food on the platter she carried. He guessed that it was to be his, so he began to step forward. Though, he came to a halt as she jumped at his movements. Fear etched heavily amongst her face. A look of slight confusion formed along Sherlock's features. That was when it clicked and he looked at her a little too knowingly.

"Ah. I understand, now," his deep voice brought shock to her. She hadn't expected for it to be of that tone, "I'm not the only one they've done this to have they?"

She remained silent, but Sherlock could read the truth in her gaze. He found that he was, as always, right.

"And once they've been thrown here, they leave you to look after them. Highly unfortunate for you, hm? Probably got a few strikes here and there from an angry man not wanting to be in captivity."

Still silence from her, but he could see the agreement amongst her face.

"I'm not going to strike you, if that's what you're thinking," Sherlock turned his gaze to the ceiling in thought, "I'm saving my punches for someone else entirely."

In hearing this, the girl swallowed nervously. She started to move slowly towards Sherlock. The sound of her footsteps caused his attention to move towards her once more. She quickly moved her gaze away from his own, looking down and stretching her arms towards him, the tray of food in her hands.

Sherlock closed off the necessary distance between them to retrieve the platter. He grasped it in is hands as he watched her arms fall back to her sides. Sherlock rested the plate onto the bed behind him and could hear her shuffling towards the door.

"Before you leave," he stated. She stopped in her tracks, listening carefully, "Will you be the only one caring for me during my stay?"

The woman stopped a bit before thinking and for the first time, threw Sherlock a nod. At this, the detective gave out a slight hum of acknowledgement towards her before she turned back round and headed out the metal door.