It wasn't a dilapidated warehouse. It wasn't an abandoned country manor. It wasn't even the basement of someone's smelly old flat.
It was a room in a Premier Inn, about 10 miles outside of London. Rather an odd place to take someone after kidnapping them, but, all the same, it was nice to wake up on a soft mattress in a warm bed than a cold, hard, and probably quite dirty, floor.
At first, Sherlock thought he was home, safely tucked away in 221B, Baker Street. And then he saw the face. To be more precise, he saw Donovan's face, large, scared eyes staring at him from the other side of the room. And unless everyone got very, very drunk last night, there wasn't a reason why she should be in his flat. Which means she wasn't in his flat. So he wasn't in his flat, either.
Rain...I was in the rain...there was a cab, I think...
His groggy mind tried and failed to piece together what had just happened. Rain. Sherlock definitely remembered rain. Then he was getting into the taxi. Going to...Scotland Yard? Yes, the Yard, that was it! They had a case, then. Wait, no...no case...
All at once, three things connected in his mind.
Strange room in not-my-flat. Sally's here. I've probably been drugged.
They merged together to form one very logical conclusion.
Bloody hell, not again.
Sherlock liked cases, yes. Interesting cases. But, really, chloroform? Like he hadn't seen that before. The using-a-taxi-to-hunt-in-the-middle-of-the-crowd thing? Been there, done that, it was on the blog and everything.
The Premier Inn thing was new, though. Quite clever, too, as no-one would ever have thought of looking in one.
"Rather a good idea of mine, don't you think?" Jim Moriarty asked. Sherlock spun round to face him, or, at least, tried to; the fact that he was lying down, and the tangle of bed sheets, plus the effects of the chloroform stopped him. Moriarty smiled down at him, not a normal smile, but the kind of smile which reminded Sherlock of a snake right before it went for the kill.
"No, no, no, don't try to move yet. Can't have you wasting all that precious energy. You're going to need it later. Won't he, Seb?"
That was when Sherlock noticed the man standing next to Moriarty. He was tall, skinny, with a mop of dark tangles atop his head. His clothes consisted of a large, droopy black jumper that hung down to his knees. Long legs were clad in tight black jeans, and, in a break from the rest of the outfit's colour scheme, he wore emerald-green converse. If he hadn't been so wound up in sheets, Sherlock would've done a double-take. He didn't look at all like the kind of man Moriarty would hire. As if he could read the other man's mind, Jim said,
"Sebastian is my sniper, and occasionally my personal assistant. His job sometimes requires him to...dress up a little."
Really, Sherlock shouldn't have been surprised. After all, he had John, Mycroft had (not)Anthea, so Jim, naturally, had a sniper called Sebastian.
"Sebastian, would you do the honours?"
Jim's voice cut into Sherlock's train of thought, but before he had even fully processed what he just said, Sebastian was sticking a needle in his arm. Quickly, he pulled away, but not before almost all of the needle's contents had made their way into his arm. When Moriarty spoke again, it was to Sally Donovan.
"Sebastian here has just injected Sherlock with a dose of poison."
Poison? Sherlock's mind raced. Still, he wasn't feeling any effects from it yet, so maybe it wasn't designed to kill him. Not yet, anyway. From his position on the bed, Sherlock could see Moriarty pressing something into Sally's hands. He couldn't see what it was, but the way she was holding it, from the rough size and shape, he was pretty sure it was a gun.
"Every hour, I will be checking, and, every hour, if you haven't shot him..."
Definitely a gun, then.
"...He'll receive another shot. The more shots he gets, the worse the pain becomes. You can end his life quickly or watch him suffer in agony." Here, Jim's voice dropped until it was so low, Sherlock had to strain his ears to hear it. "Your choice, Sally Donovan."
Sebastian was already at the door, Jim behind him. Just before he left, he turned to Sherlock with that venomous snake's grin again. "Have fun without me."
And with a quick waggle of fingers, a slam of a door, the click of a lock, Sherlock Holmes was left lying on a bed in a Premier Inn, with no-one knowing where he was, and poison running through his blood.