John opened his eyes. His ears strained for a human voice above the loud, blaring music. He shut his eyes again as they gummed together, sleepily. The music – so loud! How could he have slept with the noise? He sat up, squinting. A voice in his ear, "You awake, mate?"

"Yeah."

He opened his eyes fully and looked to his side, where the voice had come from. He was just able to identify a leather jacket, jeans, a pair of trainers when the face of the young black man was illuminated, here in pink, a moment later in green, a friendly grin emanating from both. A second later, he found himself hoisted to his feet.

"Feeling better?"

John put his hand to his chest as if to steady himself with something familiar.

"Yeah. Sorry, where am I?"

The young man smiled, "Take it easy, bruv. You'll be alright in a minute."

The man sat John down on a bar stool and John was now aware that he was in some sort of bar or dancing venue. A disco light illuminated a dance floor with hundreds of bodies moving in unison to a trembling beat. A voice rang in his ear, "What'll it be?"

John looked at the barman, "Bacardi, please." It suddenly occurred to him to check if he had any money. He felt his jacket pocket – yes, his wallet was still there, as were his keys and phone. He took out the wallet and found that he had more than enough money to pay for the drink with – in fact, more money than he recollected having in the first place. As he laid down a twenty pound note on the counter, it was now that John began to remember anything. The basics came to him instantly – John Watson, 221B Baker Street, Doctor – yet, somehow, he could not recall where he was or what he was doing there. He had a splitting headache – and it wasn't difficult for him to see, sipping the Bacardi, what had caused that – but he had woken sufficiently to realise a sense of vulnerability in not knowing where he was. He took his change and put it in his trouser pocket but there, he hit something hard and rectangular which he took out first.

"A cigarette case?" he said aloud in a puzzled tone. He opened it. Inside were five cigarettes. 'Hand-rolled,' he thought but other than that, there were no marks or initials that could at all identify its owner and John was at a loss to discover what he was doing with it in his pocket. At that moment, the barman turned abruptly and said, "You. In there." He motioned to a doorway at the side, wooden beads covering the entrance. John, completely bewildered, began to shuffle in the direction of the doorway, still somewhat slow from his slumber. As he pushed past the beads, he cast his eye back to the spot against the wall where he had been sleeping. 'Not exactly the classiest of places,' he noted mentally as he entered the smoke filled corridor. The lighting here was even darker than the room before but he notice a dull light coming from the end of the corridor and, as there were no other doors to distract him, he followed it down to the end and turned left. He came into a surprisingly large room, mood lit, some mock torches burning in the corners, oriental music playing in a low tone. Across the floor, mats and rugs lay, arranged in ordered rows, and the bodies of people, entranced, lulled by the music, in a state of Nirvana. The smell hit him – a mixture of bodily odours; perfumes and sweat, oils and blood and far less savoury aromas – and, overwhelmingly so, of an enticingly sweet smell which John knew to be none other than hashish. 'Oh my god,' he thought, 'I've walked in on a crackhouse.'

Whilst he immediately wanted to run away, he maturely told himself to stay calm and act sensibly. At that moment, the man with the leather jacket walked in and, taking him by the arm, said, "Come on, John. I thought you'd had enough of that last night." He led an astounded John out of the room and they began down the corridor again. As they did, a skimpily clad blonde passed by, stopping momentarily and brushing a hand over John's arm. John looked on at her as she headed down to the room he had just been in. "Does she know me?" he asked.

The man winked at him with a cheeky grin, "Yeah – you had quite a bit of her last night too!" He led an astounded John out into the disco hall again.

"I wish I could remember that part," sighed John. The man laughed.

"You went off crazy, man. You've been sleeping it off for most of the day."

"Right," replied John, a little intimidated by the bright lights and the alarming alacrity of the information he had just received, "Sorry, I'm…feeling a little slow this morning…"

"This morning?" the man interrupted, "Yeah, you must be. It's eight o clock at night!" At this, he pushed open a door and they found themselves standing out on a back street, the sky already dark.

"At night?" said John, feeling increasingly more confused, "Right…OK…well, I'm still a bit tired so, do you mind telling me where I am so I can get back home?"

"Home?" said the man, "You're booked in for another two nights." He led John to the other side of the street and, taking a key out of his pocket, began to unlock the back door to another building.

"I'm sorry," said John, "Booked in?"

The door opened and John found himself being led up some stairs (which smelled distinctly of urine – and worse.) John felt the blood rushing to his head as they climbed flight upon flight of stairs.

"Doesn't this place have a lift?" moaned John.

"Lift?" chuckled the man, "This ain't royalty."

"Right," said John, "And how long have I been staying here?"

"You got a problem with your memory or something?"

"Um…yeah. Sorry. To tell you the truth, I can't really remember anything of what happened last night…or before last night."

The man laughed, "What, you can't remember anything?"

John sighed as he climbed the seemingly infinite stairs, "No. I don't suppose you could fill me in, could you?" The man stopped for a moment, looked back at him and then began laughing again. "Fill you in? You been hit on the head? That's funny, John, that is!"

John sighed in exasperation, "Look, the fact is, I just woke up and didn't remember where I was. I don't know where I am or what I've done or even how I've got here. I don't remember you or how I know you and I don't remember shagging that blonde last night. Or smoking pot, now that I come to think of it."

The man stopped at the top of this flight of stairs and waited for John to get to the top.

"John, man," he said, "I think you need to relax. Have a proper lie down on a proper mattress. You'll feel better tomorrow." Then he began walking down a corridor dotted with shabby looking numbered doors and finally stopped at 221. John eyed the door cautiously. Was this purposeful that it was his flat number at Baker Street or was it just coincidence? Either way, he decided to tread carefully from now on. The phrase, 'a stranger in a strange land' came to mind and he knew that he couldn't be too wary of anything. The man took another key from his pocket and began to unlock the door.

"Hang on," said John, "How come you've got the key to my room?"

The man looked back at him, "It's all in the job description, John." He pushed open the door to reveal a seedy little room, a plain bed in the corner and a chest of drawers next to it. John tried the light switch but it didn't work and the man simply walked in.

"Why don't you wash your face, yeah?" the man said, "You sicked up twice last night." He motioned John to the side where a plain door stood ajar and, from the small protrusion of tiles through the crack, John assumed he meant the bathroom. 'Nothing special,' John thought as he pushed open the door, 'but probably clean.'

"I'll leave your key on the bed then," the man called.

"Alright," John called back as he turned to face the toilet but then, as he viewed the scene before him, he let out an almighty shriek of horror which brought the man rushing in.

Before him lay the disembowelled and bloodied corpse of none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes.