Sherlock groaned and sat up with difficulty. That was the second time in a row that he had woken up with a terrible headache.

"John," Wait…he could use his voice again! Sherlock sighed with relief, but then the memories of his capture flooded back into his brain.

He was in the kitchen, looking through a microscope and taking notes on the growth of the fungi that was on the small slide. Then, there was a click of the door lock opening, was John home? At this hour? Sherlock looked up with slight confusion, and then even more when he realized he hadn't heard anyone come up the stairs.

"John?" He said cautiously, getting up from the stool he was sitting on.

There was no answer.

Sherlock walked over to the door and opened it slowly, only to have the top of his head met with something large and heavy. He remembered falling to the ground with the outline of a man above him.

He gritted his teeth in remembrance.

What a stupid way to go down. To just go down like that, no fight, no resistance, no nothing. It was just so bloody stupid.

Sherlock rubbed his temple and remembered some more.

We are part of an organization called SET, and we have been informed of a certain detective that could assist us in our experiments.

SET? What did that stand for? Sedentary Evolutionary Transmutations? Oh good lord, his brain was just so messed up he couldn't even figure out a three letter acronym that even made the least bit of sense.

Jesus Christ.

What else did that guy say?

You must be wondering why we didn't just ask you to help us. Well, Mr. Holmes, the answer to that is we need your mind physically.

Physically? What the bloody hell did that even mean?

Finally, Sherlock looked around and discovered he could see again too. So he took in his surroundings. He was sitting on the floor of a room that was all white, with white tiles and white padded walls and a white door.

It looked like the place they sent the mentally insane. You know, the ones they had to put a straightjacket in. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling and created a bleak atmosphere, as if he were in a hospital.

The only entrance/exit seemed to be that door and the walls were sealed together which indicated that the room was soundproof.

Ah, Sherlock thought, they're going to do experiments on me.

After another moment of looking around, Sherlock sighed.

Dull, boring, predictable.

But then again, there was the matter of the pill and what was in it. He'd woken up with only a headache, but that was from where they hit him on the head, not because of the medication. There actually seemed to be no side effects, no after-taste lingering in his mouth, and no indication of medicine whatsoever. What kind of technology was this?

He was still wearing his own clothes, the purple button up shirt and black slacks that he was wearing before he got captured.

Where-?

A click and a crackling sound echoed through the room, then a voice.

"I see you're awake, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked around. There! In the top right corner, an intercom.

"We'll explain everything after you agree."

The voice paused again, and although his mouth felt dryer than the Sahara, Sherlock spoke.

"Agree to what?"

The crackling voice came back, "We'll tell you everything after you agree."

"I terribly sorry, but I cannot agree if I do not know what I'm agreeing to." Sherlock said stubbornly to the air.

"We cannot tell you more."

"Then I cannot comply."

"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes."

A sigh came from the intercom.

"We really didn't want to have to do this, Mr. Holmes, but you leave us no choice if you don't accept."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow to the voice.

Suddenly, the wall to his left slid to the side, revealing a glass wall instead, letting Sherlock see a different room.

The room was identical to his, except there were two people. Two men. One sitting down in a chair in the center of the room, blindfolded, with his hands tied behind his back, and his shirt torn on the right bicep…wait. That shirt, it was familiar. Very familiar. Then there was the man's face…

John.

Well fuck.

The other man was standing to the right of John, holding a gun pointed straight at John's temple.

The voice came back but Sherlock could barely hear it, "If you do not agree, Dr. Watson will have to go."

Sherlock sucked in his breath and his eyes widened.

"You have ten seconds, Mr. Holmes."

John.

"Ten."

He wasn't moving, so hurt then.

"Nine."

There was a bloody gash on his cheek as well as his arm.

"Eight."

Even though he was blindfolded, Sherlock could see his pleading eyes.

"Seven."

Please, God, let me live, he seemed to be pleading.

"Six."

Sherlock's eyes darted over every detail of John, his quivering lip, his furrowed eyebrows…

"Five."

John.

"Four."

His John.

"Three."

John was supposed to be at work.

"Two."

WHY THE HELL WAS JOHN HERE?

"One."

"I AGREE!" Sherlock roared, his voice coarse and uneven, but he didn't care. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

The moment the last syllable reached his ears, the wall slid back and covered up John and the man who was about ready to kill him.

John. He thought. Come back, John. Let me see that you're safe.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed over with shock and confusion, and his mind was whirring with the intensity of a thousand gears working at once.

But his thoughts were interrupted by the voice.

"We'll come to collect and explain things to you in a little bit."

There was a pause as both parties awaited the other's reaction.

Then, "Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson will be well taken care of."

A click and Sherlock new the intercom had been turned off.

And once it had, he laid down on his back and covered his eyes with his hands. In one fluid motion, he wiped away a drop of water on his face.

John.

Sherlock Holmes, the infamous, heartless, cold, soulless, Sherlock Holmes. The one that had been able to solve over a thousand mysteries that no one else could, the one that could tell you your life story just by looking at you.

But he was also the one that never ate on days end and the one didn't sleep until he was hallucinating. And the one that needed someone. Just someone to take make sure he was healthy and someone to just care about him.

But that someone was gone, taken from him.

John.

Then, Sherlock shot up from his lying down position to a standing up pose. There was a fierce glint in his eyes, a look of determination set on his face.

John.

His jaw was set with fury and his fists clenched tightly until his knuckles were white.

I'm coming.