Sherlock had been right to suspect trouble from a particular group of men who did not belong at the party that night. He hadn't, however, anticipated being knocked to the ground by four of them that were twice his size.
At the time of the assault Sherlock's mobile fell from his hand and slid several feet out of his reach. Knowing that John was still on the other line and praying that he could hear him, Sherlock tried desperately to call out to his friend. Unfortunately, the consulting detective had little time to explain before a piece of thick duct tape was slapped over his mouth and then used to secure his wrists and ankles.
Jerking himself about with as much force as he could manage, Sherlock was helpless against his captors, who easily hoisted him above their heads and had him relocated to the inside of wooden chest that was waiting just outside the room. Sherlock fought to get back to his feet, but the lid shut over him and then there was a clicking noise, like a padlock clasping shut. The box was then lifted and carried downstairs, and even Sherlock was surprised that no one seemed to question this.
The man's eyes widened at the sound of footsteps sprinting in the opposite direction. That had to have been John, hurrying back inside to see what was the matter. Sherlock let out a stream of muffled shouts and thrashed about in the tight space, but it was of no use; he could hardly be heard over a full orchestra set up nearby, much less the unnecessarily loud chatter coming from party guests. To his dismay the footsteps disappeared further up the stairwell.
Sherlock knew he had just exited the building when it suddenly grew several times quieter. The trunk was then quite literally thrown into the back of some kind of truck. His mind whirling in an attempt to make sense of it all, Sherlock listened as the back doors slammed shut. Less than a minute later the engine started up and the vehicle lept into motion.
Letting his thoughts drift away from piecing together the puzzle, Sherlock instead focused on where he was being taken. Shutting his eyes and concentrating, the detective made a mental note of every stoplight, every turn, even how far they had gone in any particular direction. Outside noises occasionally confirmed the GPS he'd drawn inside of his mind palace, such as the sound of a train going by or where the loudest shopping centers were located.
Using this method, Sherlock knew exactly when he and his kidnappers had left the city. The journey became silent from there, save a car passing in the opposite direction every so often, and this continued for approximately forty minutes. It was at this point that Sherlock began to detect the sound of a few planes taking off and landing from a little ways away. He tilted his head slightly as the car pulled into what he could only assume was an airfield.
It become apparent to the detective that he was more than likely going to be shipped out to some unknown location, far away from London and someplace John would most certainly not think to go looking for him. Sherlock shut his eyes, took a deep breath, and made a sort of peace with the fate he had to look forward to.
-x-
Sherlock must have fallen asleep on the plane, because the next thing he remembered was waking up to a blinding stream of sunlight. A shadow-encased figure was standing over him and holding open the lid to his wooden prison. The detective squinted into the light until it became easier to bear, at which point he could just make out the tops of sand and rust colored buildings towering over him, several leafless trees doing nothing to shade the plot of dirt he was lying on. Sherlock did not know where he was, but the heat alone easily ruled out quite a few possibilities.
Only then did Sherlock become aware of the man talking with at least one other. They were speaking in Turkish, which seemed to fit perfectly with what he could tell from his surroundings, and the conversation hinted to Sherlock that the incident had something to do with his brother's political career stretching into countries where it didn't belong. At the mention of Mycroft's name Sherlock narrowed his eyes.
Of course Mycroft had something to do with this. Even if he weren't responsible for the night's events directly, Sherlock had little trouble convincing himself that Mycroft was still very much involved to some extent.
The second man revealed himself then, stepping forward to peer into the chest. Sherlock glared back. The other gentleman then reached forward and lifted Sherlock up by one arm. With the help of the first kidnapper they pulled him out of the box and more or less onto two feet, since Sherlock had difficulty balancing with both ankles still strapped together.
He could now see that there were actually seven men in total, all of which had changed into more casual attire since the night before. They continued to talk about him in Turkish - not very nice words, but Sherlock didn't react. He pretended not to understand in hopes of this working in his favor in the long run.
Suddenly one of the criminals pinched at Sherlock's ear. Instinctively, Sherlock thrust his elbow into the stranger's rib cage. This perhaps wasn't the most clever move on his part, as Sherlock was almost immediately hit back by a fist nearly the size of his entire face. Upon impact Sherlock was knocked to the ground. A cloud of warm dust stung at his eyes, but luckily the tape prevented any from entering the detective's mouth.
As if that were not enough, Sherlock was then kicked square in his face twice before being yanked upright again. Without a word the group took Sherlock by his arms again and dragged him inside the closest building.
-x-
The interior was a bit of a dump, to be perfectly honest. There was little furniture aside from a few chairs and some sad, half-destroyed tables, and all light available came from broken windows and cracks around door frames that led outside. One of the kidnappers pulled away an embroidered rug that lined half the floor to reveal a large tile in the ground. This was then lifted up, exposing a hidden passageway in the form of a long, winding staircase.
The basement floor looked very much the same as the first, except that it had actual electric lighting that hummed from overhead and gave the room an eerie dull glow. Beyond the first room was a tight hallway with several other doors branching off.
Sherlock was taken into the room farthest from the exit, which contained a metal support beam that Sherlock suspected he would be chained to by the end of the day. Sure enough, the duct tape around his wrists was cut off and exchanged for a pair of handcuffs that held his arms behind the beam.
The consulting detective's eyes had just begun to glaze over with boredom when the tape over his mouth was ripped off and he was socked once in the face, the pain snapping him back into the moment. This time the offender was wearing a pair of hard gloves. A thin trickle of blood ran down Sherlock's nose and he squinted back at the man opposite him.
"Say cheese, pretty boy," the man spoke in English for the first time, lifting up his mobile and snapping a photo.
He and the other thugs then left Sherlock on his own, and the heavy door slammed shut behind them. All at once the room became entirely encompassed by silence. So much so that the sound of Sherlock's own heartbeat and breathing sounded at least ten times louder than normal.
His face stung all over. Of course, it could always be worse, and it was that fact alone that seemed to give Sherlock whatever hope he had left. He wasn't dead, nor did the man feel that his life were in any immediate threat. The conditions weren't ideal, but he'd endured worse (i.e. a certain freezer in an Aberdeen casino). And most importantly:
As far as he knew, John was safe.
Perhaps worrying beyond all belief at the moment, but better that than stuck with Sherlock.