She awoke with a gasp. Sitting bolt upright in the dimly lit room, she quickly surveyed her surroundings by the dusty light streaming through the side window. The blinds were drawn, tightly shut against the outside world, save for a few beams of sunlight that escaped through. Two nightstands and sat aside the bed. They were totally empty. She glanced around. No other furniture graced the room. There were no signs of where she was; no pictures, no posters, no accessories. She could determine nothing about this strange room.

She struggled out of the mound of blankets that encased her. Swinging her bare feet to the floor, she softly padded away from the bed and toward the closed door. She paused. She might have to escape from this person, or even defend herself. Returning to the bed, she wrapped herself in a single blanket for warmth, but also removed the solitary lamp from its position. Twisting off the shade and bulb, she hid the heavy metal base underneath the blanket, wrapped around her shoulders.

The door creaked loudly. She stopped and stared, hoping no one heard the noise that, to her, sounded like a cannon exploding. For several minutes she stood still, but she heard nothing from the rest of the building. Continuing down the hallway, she passed an open kitchen to her left. Glancing inside, she immediately recoiled in horror. Beakers of strange liquids filled the table, a skull rested upside down on the counter, and a jar of human fingers sat just outside the refrigerator. She held a hand to her mouth to stop the scream that threatened to break free. God help her; she had escaped one madman only to be taken in by another.

"Hello."

The voice sounded to her right. Out of instinct, the girl whipped around, brandishing the lamp base and drawing it back, ready to swing. She quickly observed the man standing in front of her. Shorter height for the average man, dusty blond hair, tan jumper, in his hands a chipped, steaming mug. When he saw her holding the lamp, his eyes widened. Dropping the mug, he ignored the shattering as she swung the lamp at his shoulder. His reflexes were faster, she realized a smidgen too late. Before she could blink, the man had grabbed the lamp, torn it from her hands and flung it across the room, and pushed her against the wall, holding her at arm's length.

"My God," he panted, sweat gathering slightly at his temples, "What was that all about?"

She struggled in his grasp, but he held firm. Smart, she thought. She glanced around, looking for an escape. Seeing none, she calmed her breathing, then looked the man in his eyes.

"Where am I?" she asked, her voice coming out as a hoarse whisper.

The man smiled gently, but did not loosen his grip on her shoulders. "You're at 221 B Baker Street. You collapsed on our stairs last night, and Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, brought you inside. You were hypothermic and bleeding. Do you remember anything?"

The man drew out the last word, clearly searching for her name. She knew better than to provide it. This man seemed trustworthy, and he had supposedly taken her in last night. But he could also be working for him. And there was that issue of the fingers and skull in the kitchen.

"Penny," she answered him. "My name is Penny. And yours?"

"John. John Watson. You're safe here, Penny."

John Watson. The name sounded familiar to her. Had he worked with John? She knew this man from somewhere, but she was so tired, so exhausted from last night. Perhaps she had only read his name in the papers. Regardless, she knew John had some connection to him. She'd have to figure it out soon. But she could barely keep her eyes open, and the aftereffects of the hypothermia were setting in.

John smiled at her, slowly loosening his grip on her shoulders until she sagged gently against the wall. He frowned.

"Come on, come into the living room. We'll get you sitting down and something to eat. You're probably starving."

John gently guided her from the hallway into the living room. As he eased her into a soft leather chair, she glanced around, taking in the rather cluttered surroundings. A sudden movement from the sofa caught her eye. There, a tall, lean man was laying face up, his limbs stiff, his fingers folded underneath his chin, his eyes closed. She glanced at John, who smiled at her.

"No need to worry about him, Penny. That's Sherlock Holmes, my former flat mate. He's simply working on – "

John's comforting words were cut off as she jumped to her feet. Now she remembered. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. His enemies. The two people he despised the most and vowed to bring down. To burn, he had said. He wanted to burn them. And now, they had found her. Oh, if he knew where she was, she would be dead for sure. She had to leave, even if it meant running back into him. She had to get out. Her eyes darting around and, finding the stairway out of the flat, she sprinted toward the open door.

"Penny, no!" John shouted, grabbing her hands as she attempted to escape. "What's wrong? What's happened? You can't leave. You're too weak."

She gasped for air, feeling the room start to spin around her. Chills racked her body as her chest tightened. There was no air, no air, and she was spiraling into the blackness that threatened to consume her. He was smiling at her, that horrible grin that only meant trouble and pain. He was all around her, dancing and laughing in that bloody Westwood suit. She collapsed to the floor as the darkness engulfed her.

A voice broke through the night. "Block him out. Don't let him in. You need to breathe. Breathe now. In and out, slowly. Slowly! There you go. Better."

She took slow breathes in, the let them exhale. In and out. In and out. Finally, she found herself able to look up from the floor. In front of her crouched Sherlock Holmes, the great detective and his worst enemy. Wanting to stand, she attempted to find her balance, but collapsed to the floor in exhaustion. Suddenly, strong hands engulfed her, and she was gently placed on the sofa. Soft hands touched her face, moving her chin back and forth and closely examining her eyes. She could see Sherlock through the spinning room, but he was blurry, a figure that could not actually exist in this world.

Another voice broke through. It was new, curt and clipped.

"I've just left a very important meeting with colleagues of some rather high distinction, Sherlock Holmes. This had better be worth my time, or I'm shipping you to Eastern Europe on that MI6 assignment."

"Trust me, Mycroft, this is far more important than your little schemes and tea parties with British royalty," the annoyed voice of Sherlock answered. She closed her eyes. They were so heavy, she was so tired.

"Well, what is it then?" the strange man named Mycroft asked, returning Sherlock's shade bite for bite. She struggled to open her eyes again. She needed to stay awake and leave this place. He was going to find her.

Through her opened eyes, she could see Sherlock gesturing at her. "Do you see that girl over there?" he asked.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm not blind."

"Do you know who she is?"

"I haven't the foggiest, and I still do not understand why this is so important."

Through blurry eyes, she saw Sherlock smile. "This is Annabel Moriarty. Does that make up for any inconvenience I've caused you today, Mycroft?"

She wanted to scream, to deny the truth. But she couldn't. Everything was heaviness and exhaustion. She closed her eyes against the morning sun and succumbed to the all-encompassing darkness.