Sherlock watched as she quickly ran up the stairs. He wanted to follow her, but he didn't want her to think he was trying to in anyway control her or force her into anything. He tried to collect his thoughts and plan out exactly what it was that he wanted to do next. His mind was something of a mess, it was like she was a tornado that had just passed by, disorientating everything in her path of destruction.

There was a part of him that still hated her for that, the control she had over him with just a simple smile or swish of her hips. How had she managed to do that in virtually no time at all... only truly intriguing people managed to catch his attention and even fewer kept hold it.

He was still intrigued by her, fascinated even. There was still so much he didn't know about her... But he wanted to know. Maybe that's what he wanted, not to rush into any kind of physical relationship at this particular moment, but ease her out of her vulnerable moment with a nice chat... That's what normal people did right? They talked... sometimes over drinks or food.

He tried to think of some of the lines John would use, on girls in the past and on Mary in the last year or so, but then he stopped, words like that should come from him. He knew she would definitely appreciate it more if it weren't reused sentiment... but then of course he would have to come up with something himself. He wasn't good at words, music yes because that was more precise, things fit together like a puzzle and that made sense to him. But words... Perhaps he just wouldn't tell her where the words came from. She'd probably still appreciate it.

He wondered what could be taking her so long, what she might be doing up there and where she was planning on taking it to. Would he have to disagree with her when she came downstairs? Tell her that it probably wasn't the best idea to take such a big step? He crossed his legs on the sofa, wondering if he'd even be able to do that.

Her lips tasted like peach. He could still taste it and it made him want to get back to kissing her. These feelings were new, attraction, desire to be close... It was oddly nice. Was this what John felt when he thought about Mary? Or Lestrade when he awkwardly danced around that Interpol agent.

Cloudy thoughts numbing the almost unbearable turning of wheels and cogs in his brain. She posed a difficult problem. She would become a weakness... like so many others, another attachment someone could use against him. But did that make him weak? He felt weak, in his head, his knees... If anything did happen was he in a state to stop it? Could he figure it out as quickly as he could if he wasn't encumbered by warm fuzzy feelings?

He cringed.

"SHER–" he heard her scream from upstairs. He shot up from the sofa and ran up to Freddie's room.

She wasn't there. His eyes darted about the room for clues to what could have happened.

'Open window, scuffed rug, boot prints. Someone came in from the fire escape and grabbed her... but there would be signs of a fight, she would have fought back but didn't. Why?' He looked over to the mirror, there was a splash of blood and a needle on the floor. An all too recognisable needle. 'Dammit!' He ran to the window and heard a car screeching off in the distance. 'But where would he go... of course!' He thought of what she had told him, an empty grounds keeping shed in Hyde Park. Thinking of his earlier worries, he realised he was working at almost triple capacity, it was like the thought of her in danger made every part of him focus directly on her and what he could do to help her.

He grabbed his phone from his pocket and ran downstairs throwing his coat on and charging out of the door.

"Sherlock? What's wrong? I heard shouting!" Mrs Hudson asked.

"No time!" He shouted back to her as he hailed a cab. Mrs Hudson watched from the door as he told the cabbie to step on it to Hyde Park. He sent a text to John as quickly as he could

'Hyde Park now. He got to her. SH'

Freddie woke up, she felt warm and relaxed. She was lying in Sherlock's bed wearing his dressing gown, she tried to move but his arms were wrapped around her. She rolled over to face him and he smiled. She ran her hand down his chest, his pale skin felt cool and soft.

"Not exactly how I had planned on spending the night..." he said sleepily, stroking her cheek

"But there aren't many things I would have preferred."

She smiled at him.

"Now, I need you to do me a favour."

"Well, you caught me in a good mood." She took his hand.

He gazed into her eyes giving her a very severe look, "I need you to wake up."

"What...? I am awake."

"Please... Just wake up... for me?" he asked again, his eyes pleading with hers.

She opened her eyes, her head hurt and she felt dizzy. That had been a dream, realising what was happening she wished it didn't have to end. There was nothing she could do... She was trapped. Everything was blurry and her mouth tasted like death. She knew this feeling.

Alistair had drugged her, he knew exactly how much to give her to get her to pass out, because she had told him. Things became a little clearer as she realised where she was.

"Hello Carlie." Alastair said, "Sleep alright?" he tilted his head and stared unblinkingly at her.

Freddie looked around, the room she was in coming into focus. They were in the grounds keeping shed. She was tied to a rusty metal chair with ropes and could see the red marks forming around her wrists. Her arm was bleeding a little from the needle wound and she felt dazed. Alistair was sat across from her, drumming his fingers on his legs.

"I said, did you sleep alright..." he cracked his knuckles.

"Yes Alastair." She said, out of habit.

"Good." He got up from his chair and walked around her, "You managed to get away from me... That really upset me Carlie." He placed his hands down on her arms, pressing them into the arms of the chair, "But I knew I could find you, a detective... That's what I needed. But he became so much more than that... his mind is beautiful, whereas yours is... well you know what's wrong with you."

She clenched her teeth as he pressed harder on her arms, leaning all of his weight on her.

"I forgot all about you, I've been following his work for a while now, biding my time to show him how much he means to me."

"By killing that girl..." Freddie said, having to force herself to speak.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard a little mouse squeaking..." he swung his hand and hit her hard across the face.

Freddie scrunched up her face and tried not to give any indication of her pain.

"So, as I was saying. Sherlock Holmes is so much more than you could ever hope to be, how he could even associate with someone like you, you're not good enough for him, no one ever will be."

"And you think you would be?" a voice asked from the shadows.

"What?" Alastair turned looking for the source of the voice, "Who's there!"

"Don't you recognise my voice?"

Freddie smiled, recognising the voice to be Sherlock. Alastair saw her smile and hit her again, her nose and lips now bleeding profusely, purple bruises appearing over her cheeks.

"If you've brought someone here to try and save you..." he looked around frantically, "I'll kill her! I will!" He shouted.

"As you said, no one will ever be good enough for me, so why are you trying?" he stepped out of the shadows, his coat billowing behind him and a light shining through from the one broken window.

"I... I just wanted you to notice me." He said, panicking.

"Well, here I am. You've got my attention. Impress me."

Alastair stumbled back, he looked around frantically and his eyes landed on Freddie, beaten black and blue, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Sherlock turned and looked at Freddie, the feeling practically punching him in the face, his chest felt tight like his heart was being crushed. Seeing her like this made him angry. He gritted his teeth. He could have killed Alastair right then and there, but he had to keep his cool. If anything happened to him now, he couldn't save her. No, he couldn't kill Alastair right now, as much as he wanted to. Alastair hadn't suffered enough.

Sherlock wanted to break him.

"This?" he pointed at Freddie as though she were an offering to him, "You think this is impressive? Where's the puzzle, where's the intricacy? There's nothing to solve here. It doesn't interest me." He saw Freddie's face fall a little, he hated that he had to talk about her like this in front of her. But it was necessary.

"B..b..but I– That girl, I did that for you!" he begged to Sherlock on his knees.

Sherlock scoffed.

"That shocking excuse for a murder? Please. A child could have solved that. The pieces of the puzzle just lined up for me to find? It wasn't even clever. It was boring. Just like you and all the other normal people. My god, what it must be like in your funny little brain."

"But–"

"So yes. I believe you were right when you said no one will ever be good enough for me, certainly not you. You bore me."

Alastair looked up at Sherlock, his eyes glazed over. He stood and stared at Sherlock for a moment. Knowing exactly what he was about to do, Sherlock prepared for a fight. Having successfully broken Alastair, he was now free to beat the ever-loving-shit out of him. He just had to wait for that first swing, to claim self-defence for when Lestrade showed up to enquire just how many pieces Alastair was now in.

Alastair took a swing and Sherlock ducked, kicking him in the knee and tackling him to the ground. In his head he had worked out and carefully calculated each blow, the timing, the aim, what would come of it. But once he threw the first punch to Alastair's bastard face he completely lost control. He kept on hitting his smug-git face, every time he thought about stopping, another thought of 'how his worthless eyes could still look upon the perfectly adequate, reliable and sometimes even pleasing, human being that was Freddie' took over, bringing another round of blows to the face.

Freddie watched all of this like it was a dream, the come down was bad. Just as bad as she remembered. Mixed with the pain in her stomach from not having eaten, the pain in her face from all the beatings and the pain in her wrists from the ropes, she could barely keep it together. Blood splattered from Sherlock's continued beatings, his face not it's usual expressionless mask, but now a contorted image of rage and revenge.

"Sherlock?" she heard a voice calling. Lestrade kicked the door in and John ran in behind him.

"Sherlock!" John called, "Oh Jesus Christ." He exclaimed as he saw the mess Sherlock was making of Alastair's face. John grabbed him by the shoulders and desperately tried to pull him off.

"Let go of me, John!" he shouted, but John was too strong. He dragged him back and away from Alastair.

Sally Donovan ran to help Freddie.

"I've got her, she's badly beaten and..." she held up her head and looked in her eyes, "She's high as well."

A certain tone to her voice made Freddie narrow her eyes at Donovan. It made her want to describe the disappointing date that she so obviously had last night, but at this point her words were slurred and she was drifting out of consciousness again. The last thing she saw was Lestrade standing over Alastair's body.