AN: My medical knowledge is extremely limited.


Right on the mouth – she reacted without thinking, pushing him away and poking him in the eye in the process, wanting only to get away because she was kissing the freak and he wasn't very gentle about it and no it was just wrong she didn't want that, definitely not.

"Get off me you freak!"

He rolled over and hit the wall, wide-eyed, at least as far as she could tell, and breathing heavily. "Donovan!"

"Yes," she said, wiping a hand across her mouth and spitting. He tasted horrible. "Not John." Her tongue felt strange, as if she'd just been eating something she shouldn't; the freak had actually kissed her.

To be fair he looked about as horrified as she did, pulling a grimace worthy of a bad soap opera and rubbing a fist across his teeth. "What are you doing here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Deduce it, alright? We're stuck."

He turned his head this way and that, still scrubbing at his mouth. There was no need to overdo it, she thought huffily; she'd been chewing gum before she'd got in the cab, and he was going to cut his lips if he rubbed at them any more.

"We're in an abandoned building," he said, spitting and wrinkling his nose. "Most likely somewhere outside of London. It's old…do you have any mints?"

She glowered, simmering angrily. "If I did I wouldn't give you any."

He seemed to accept the fact and went back to rubbing his mouth – he was hard to read at the best of times, even when she could see him properly, but now he seemed anxious, twitching every now and then and grimacing. What the hell had they actually given him?

"How did you get here?" he said eventually, frowning. "Tell me everything."

She did, hesitating for a second around the subject of her contacts, but in the end deciding to tell him – he'd probably work it out sooner or later, and he was going to need everything to help work out where they were and who had them. Once she knew that she could help, but for now she knew she had to rely on him. Her insides boiled slightly at the thought, but she was tired and thirsty and the prospect of going home to a cup of tea seemed much closer when he was there. He didn't mock her about having bad vision, much to her surprise, only remarking on what she'd already worked out – that whoever it was must have known her, or been watching.

"What about you?" she said, unable to resist jabbing at him, more out of relief than anything else; she didn't dare admit, even to herself, that for a little while, she'd been afraid he wouldn't wake up. The freak was never still around her, and seeing him so had scared her, just a tiny bit. "How'd the great detective end up stuck here?"

He glared at her, running his tongue over his teeth in a way that continued to irritate her. "I got a text from someone I thought was Lestrade telling me he had a case, stepped out of the flat and someone grabbed me before I could do anything." He carried on before she could comment. "This suggests the attackers were in two different groups, with different methods. We were taken at the same time."

He trailed off, balancing his chin on his hands and staring straight through her in an unnerving way. She poked him with her foot.

"Oi! How are we going to get out of this?"

His head snapped up and he glared at her. "Oh, use your tiny brain for once."

She pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed, trying to count to ten. She got lost around five and snapped back, unable to stop. "I've tried – for two or three hours whilst you were just lazing about on the floor."

He opened his mouth in protest. "Lazing about on the floor? How about we give you a good dose of propofol and see how you hold up?"

She knew she'd been unreasonable with the last point, but hell if she was going to admit it. "Well you're the genius! As you're so fond of telling us all the time, you're the cleverest man I know. So get us out, I have work in a few hours."

She meant it as a joke, sort of – along the lines of 'getting out of here before Christmas', a phrase people used all the time, but he paused for a second. "Interesting…"

Sally rubbed her temples and the throbbing in them eased a little. "What?"

She could almost hear his brain whirring as he began. "Neither of us is going to be missed for a few hours – you live alone and were taken on your way to a café, but you weren't meeting anyone. John is at his sister's for the weekend, which means we probably aren't under ransom. If we were they would have taken us at any time, most likely when it was liable to cause panic and frustration. Which means they want us to do something…"

He sprang to his feet – or at least tried. It ended up as more of a wobble that dropped him onto his knees with a crunch that made her wince.

"Propofol?" she said, whilst he was still looking critically at his legs and frowning. At least, she thought he was frowning – it was hard to distinguish his eyes from his eyebrows when they were blurred into one mess across his face.

"Only logical solution – it was injected," he said, tapping his neck, "which eliminates several likely anaesthetics, and the point of entry is still very sore. The brief stretch of twitching is also a side effect. At least I haven't suffered any hallucinations."

"How do you know?" she said, folding her arms and deciding to annoy him. "I could be a hallucination."

"The hallucinations are supposed to induce euphoria, and I really don't think kissing you falls into that category."

That shut her up for a little, until he decided to stand up again; he managed it this time, although she was afraid he was going to topple over again any second. If her phone hadn't been taken off her she'd have loved to film him wobbling around like a foal, if only to cheer her up on rainy days.

"So then?" she said, standing up as well and crossing her arms – she was trying to remain nonchalant, but she was ready to catch him if he fell. He was her ticket out of here; she didn't doubt he was the one the attention would be focused on, and she was merely some kind of side baggage. Disposable.

"Look for things," he said. "Things that seem out of place, or different, really look this time." He looked at her eyes and shrugged. "As well as you can anyway."

She turned around and poked into a corner with her foot, but there was nothing except dirt and some pebbles, nothing useful or interesting. She'd already done this, she thought bitterly. Sherlock was scuffling around behind her, and then suddenly he touched her back and there was a ripping sound. She whirled round, ready to hit him and tell him to use his own bloody clothing as an escape route, but stopped when she saw what he was holding.

He made a triumphant noise and passed her a note that had been taped to her back. Logically she knew she wouldn't have been able to find it by herself, but for him to get one up on her in such an easy way irked her, and the look of absolute smugness on his face she could see even with her eyesight made her want to punch him.

"What does it say?" he said, turning around as if he was dismissing her as some kind of idiot. She folded her arms.

"What, can't you read it yourself?"

"Can't be bothered," he said, and it was just a little too casual. She wasn't stupid, no matter what he thought, and the slight edge to the tone had her pricking up her ears.

"I'm not reading it," she said, leaning against one of the walls. He whirled, glaring at her.

"Why not?"

"Because you're a lazy git who should learn to do things for himself when he wants them." She was going to get to the bottom of this – Sherlock Holmes was the kind of man who picked up on every clue as soon as he could, so why would he choose to wait to read this one? He wouldn't have asked her to read it unless there was something stopping him reading it himself. And it was fun to watch him struggle. "Can you not read or something?"

"Of course I can read!" he snapped.

"Prove it."

He strode up to her and pulled the note from her hands. She squinted to see him more clearly and watched as he held the note, not close to his face, but as far away from it as possible, screwing up his eyes against something, and it clicked.

"You're longsighted! You've had your lenses taken as well!" she cried out. He flushed very slightly and threw the note down.

"Well if it's taken you this long to work it out Anderson might have competition for the lowest IQ in the whole of London."

She ignored the jab and picked the note up, holding it in front of his face to torment him. "Do you want me to read it for you then?"

His answer was almost inaudible, a slight mutter that he hid by tucking his head into his chest slightly.

"I'm sorry?" she said mockingly. "I can't hear you."

His head snapped up and he stared right at her. "If you've quite finished, perhaps you'd take a moment to consider someone is playing a game with us!" he snarled. She stopped and let her arm fall to her side.

"Surprisingly enough, I had guessed this wasn't your routine kidnapping."

"No!" he said, spinning on his heel so his coat, which was slightly white with the dirt on the floor, flared out around him. He looked even madder than usual. "No, you don't understand. Someone, someone who knew that you were shortsighted and I was longsighted, someone who knew you well enough to know where you live and where you were going, who knew me well enough to know I recover from more usual drugs very quickly, that person has locked us in a room together with a cryptic clue and the equivalent of one set of good eyes between us." He took a deep breath. "And that person can only be Moriarty."

She felt her heart go still for a second. She didn't know everything about him; half of it was gossip and that just made it worse – she didn't know what to believe. All she knew was he'd killed people. He'd nearly killed Sherlock; and she knew by experience it took a lot to kill Sherlock. If it hadn't she was sure Anderson would have murdered him months ago.

"I'll read it," she said, chastened, flipping the note.

He let out a long breath. "Thank you."

The writing was tiny – there was no way someone longsighted would have been able to make it out. "It says 'look up sweetheart.' Does that mean you or me?"

"Me," he said, jerking his head up and looking at the ceiling for a couple of seconds before raising a hand. "See there, trapdoor." She followed the direction he was pointing, but couldn't see anything, and she had looked at the ceiling earlier. The light was dim, but even when she squinted she couldn't make it out.

"I don't see anything."

He passed by her, a blur of movement. She was getting thoroughly pissed off with the way everything she saw was acting as if it were a very bad quality movie that someone had spilt coffee over to smudge the edges. At least he could see normally so long as he wasn't reading.

"The lines are too fine," he said, standing on tiptoe right underneath the spot where she was supposed to see something and craning his neck. "It's possible that for you it just blends into the ceiling. Good job the propofol didn't kill me or you'd have been stuck here for a long time."

She bristled. "Good job the knock over the head didn't kill me, or you'd never have been able to read the note."

He reached up for the trapdoor, but the ceiling was too far off for him to touch it. "I would have looked up eventually." Before she could retort he motioned her over and pointed at the door again. "Help me up."

She didn't bother mentioning the fact that actually he was probably heavier than her and so should be the one putting the muscle in because she knew it would encourage him to mock her further. Besides, he still didn't look right, and she didn't particularly trust him to hold her up properly without wobbling all over the place.

She put her hands together underneath the door and he placed one foot on her palms, balancing and reaching for the trapdoor; it pushed inwards without resistance, flipping into the unknown space above them, and he reached up and hooked his arms over the edge. She pushed upwards as he jumped and the combined efforts boosted him through the hole in the ceiling. There was a small amount of scrabbling and then, just before she could call and ask what the hell he was doing, a pale hand reached down from above. She grabbed it with some apprehension, but she wasn't heavy and he pulled her through without too much difficulty.

"Right," she said, when they both rolled over, away from the trapdoor, panting. "What do we have here then?"


Thanks for reading! Reviews are very welcome.

To be continued.