The man popped his head in to ask Sherlock about his relationship with his brother, holding his hand over a phone. Sherlock only laughed. He was obviously calling about the ransom. He hoped John was in on that conversation. It would have been amusing, watching the man and Mycroft in a pissing match. It was almost worth getting kidnapped over.

Almost. May have been worth it if he didn't feel so damn awful.

Sherlock Holmes was not a doctor. (Although at one point during his childhood, after the dream of being a pirate was squashed, he pondered going into a career in medicine, ditching that idea after realizing how many stupid people a doctor had to deal with. And be nice about it.) But even though he did not have an MD after his name like a certain flatmate, he was sure that he was not at all doing well. Maybe even dying.

That would be great.

He could feel the all over aches and chills of a high fever, and knew that was never a good sign. Combine that with the vomiting blood and abdominal pain, and Sherlock knew he was in big trouble.

And yet here he was, kidnapped yet again, just another meaningless man wanting a meaningless thing. Money. Sherlock really didn't like money, although he had to admit it was useful. It could buy evidence and break his way into crime scenes, but money usually just got in the way of things that mattered. John took care of buying the groceries, paying the bills, and giving Mrs Hudson the rent, usually throwing some extra in on top to make up for whatever damage Sherlock caused that month. Worrying about money was like having knowledge on the solar system. Trivial and not worth his time.

And yet here he was, kidnapped by a man who was driven solely by money.

Not, that's not all, is it? Sure, there's the money, but what does he want the money for?

Lots of people are desperate for money, but few are so desperate that they will kidnap a well known detective and hold him for ransom. It was a big risk, and not one worth taking if it wasn't necessary. Sherlock knew of at least a dozen other ways the man could make the cash he was demanding, but it would take time, something Sherlock suspected the man didn't have.

So it's time sensitive. That helps.

Sherlock kept focused on the puzzle rather than the pain. The man had returned after his phone call and was studying Sherlock, rather like an animal at the zoo.

"So," Sherlock began conversationally. "What's the money for?"

"None of your business," the man growled.

Sherlock chuckled. "Actually, I think it is entirely my business, considering you are holding me for ransom. I'd like to know what the money is for."

"Nothing specific."

"Of course it is. This is a huge risk you're taking. You need this money and you need it yesterday. But what for?"

The man glowered at him.

Sherlock took that opportunity to examine his surroundings while he still had a relatively clear head.

It wasn't a very good setup. Sherlock was tied to a chair with a combination of bungee cords, zip ties, and rough rope. He was probably in this man's basement. That was always dangerous. He wasn't a professional, just an amateur, fuelled by emotion and need.

The puzzle. Focus on the puzzle. The puzzle is what's important.

Right. Need. But no, there was something. Something that Sherlock had said to the cabbie on his and John's first case together, the case that was the start of something great.

"Love is a much more vicious motivator."

Oh yes. That was it.

"Love," he said simply.

The man looked at him and narrowed his eyes.

"What would you know about that," he snarled.

Sherlock smirked. "More than you'd think. That's what this is about, isn't it. Love."

Oh yes. That was getting a reaction. There was a flash of emotion across his face, making him look vulnerable, but it passed quickly and the mask was back.

Sherlock scanned him again.

Oh, yes that's it. That explains it. Why didn't I see that before?

He blamed the fever for his lack of deduction skills.

"Your daughter."

The glitter that occasionally catches the light, it's odd for a grown man to come in contact with glitter. But not if he has a daughter, probably around six, who likes to pretend she's a princess. Hands dry and cracked from frequent use of alcoholic hand sanitizer, so she's probably immunocompromised and in hospital.

"She needs expensive treatment, doesn't she?" Sherlock looked at him, waiting. He would give in.

"Experimental drugs. She was part of a trial, and they paid for it, but now..." He trailed his fingers along the wall as he spoke, unable to look at Sherlock. "She's doing so well. But I can't afford to pay for it." He turned back to Sherlock. "I'm already working two jobs, and my wife can't work because she's caring for her." He swallowed hard. "I don't get to see her enough."

Sherlock waited patiently as the man collected himself.

"It's ten thousand pounds a month just for the drugs."

Sherlock nodded. He needed to earn this man's trust, seem sympathetic. Which he was. It was an awful thing to be forced to watch a child die, simply because someone higher up decided a treatment didn't have enough evidence to be worthwhile.

He would be talking to Mycroft about that.

The man seemed to be finished.

"It's not fair," Sherlock murmured.

The man glared at him suspiciously.

Sherlock tried to smile, but had to resist the urge to gag. He didn't want the man to see how ill he was. Or would it be a good thing? "It's not," he repeated, trying to sit up straighter without passing out or chafing his wrist further. "The system is broken, but that doesn't mean," he stifled a cough, "doesn't mean..."

It was too much. He coughed and gagged. He could feel the man staring at him, but there was no stopping it now that he'd started.

It finally ended, him spitting out a gross mix of blood and sputum, the man growing more worried.

"You sick?" he asked. It almost sounded like he cared.

Sherlock raised a eyebrow at him.

"What does it look like?" He meant to snap at him, but it came out weaker than intended.

He scrutinized him.

"Then your friends had better hurry up."

With that he turned his back on Sherlock, climbed the stairs, and threw him one last smile before flicking out the light.

It was going to be a long night.