Disclaimer: The characters you recognize are not mine. They belong to…lots of other people.

AN: Thanks to my kind reviewers; such comfort for a green, young (sort of) newbie like myself. I wrote the rough version of this story a few years ago but when real life took over I forgot all about it. I found it last week on my computer and thought that I should probably post it on here.

Chapter Five – Sinister

Watson was sat in his usual chair at 221b Baker Street where, on and off, he had been waiting for Holmes to return from Brighton. He was beginning to get impatient. He had talked with Captain Grey all morning and through most of the afternoon as well, agreeing to dine with his old friend; after all he knew that Holmes would be away and would not need him immediately. He had gained so much information on Sir Edward and his wife and he was aching to tell Holmes all about it, certain that it would help him solve everything. It was exciting to be so heavily involved for a change. His usual role was merely as an observer and eventually as a chronicler, but he was never usually involved in the investigative side at all. Watson thought that maybe all that would change now that he had proved he could be of help. The thought made him heady with delight

So when he had walked into the living room and found that Holmes was still absent he felt completely deflated.

Watson knew that it was in Holmes' nature to get so absorbed in his cases that he became unaware of everything around him. Watson often felt like it was a good job he was around to remind his friend to eat and drink while they were on cases, otherwise who knows what might have happened to him by now.

Deciding that the only thing he had left to do was sit and wait for Holmes, Watson made himself busy, first by properly writing up his notes from his conversation with George, then by settling down to read a book he had recently purchased.

Afternoon gave way to evening and as the light began to fade Watson was forced to either turn on the lamps or put his book away. He decided on the latter, as his eyes burned and his temples ached with the beginnings of a headache.

As he sat there in the dim half light of the evening he felt his stomach start to turn with the familiar sense of uneasiness. This new case was starting to appear very sinister. The things that George Grey had told him were still rolling around in his mind; his own imagination and medical training provided him with vivid images of those Indian girls who had been tortured. No matter how many times he tried to think about something else, these images would return and he suddenly envied Holmes' ability to be able to compartmentalise his brain and disregard any part he chose.

Where is Holmes?

Watson tried to eat something but found that his appetite had abandoned him. Through thinking about the case and anticipating Holmes' arrival back home, the doctor felt nervous and weary at the same time; his eyes stung and his shoulders felt unnaturally heavy. Night finally fell and as the heat seeped out of the air Watson closed the window and settled down on the comfortable settee. He had contemplated going to bed, but decided against it. He would be up when Holmes returned.

Watson's eyes began to flicker open and he became aware that the dark living room was suddenly much brighter. He awoke with a start, expecting to see Holmes in the room, lighting the lamps but he was startled when he realised that the bright light was in fact the early morning sun filtering through the windows.

"Doctor!" someone exclaimed and he whipped his head round, only to be faced with a disapproving look from their landlady who had just brought him up a breakfast tray. "Have you slept there all night?"

I must have done, Watson thought to himself with fuzzy, morning logic. He was regretting it though, as his neck and shoulders ached and there was a throbbing in his temples as his headache from the night before worsened. "I was waiting up for Holmes," he said while he helped Mrs Hudson set the breakfast things on the table.

"Oh, Mr Holmes hasn't been back," she said with a blasé tone but that same stern look of disapproval she had favoured him with earlier.

She wasn't worried, but Watson was beginning to. That sense of uneasiness which had made his stomach churn the night before began to return and even the smell of Mrs Hudson's excellent cooking did not serve to sharpen his dull appetite.

Where is he?

Sherlock Holmes awoke only to find his world in darkness. As consciousness returned he became acutely aware of pain in his temples, at the backs of his eyes and at the back of head where he had been hit. He also realised that the room was totally dark in a way that had nothing to do with the time of the day. No, even the night-time had the moon to cast a friendly light over it. This room was unnaturally dark.

He was lying on his side on a remarkably soft single bed in a room that smelled musty and shut in. He noticed that his starched collar and tie had been removed as had his waistcoat and shoes, leaving him in merely his trousers, shirt and socks. Someone had taken the time to make him comfortable and to lay him on his side in case he vomited whilst unconscious. Who had done it though? What had happened?

Instinct made him sit up but as he moved he felt a hot shaft of pain shoot through his head, his vision went white and with a moan he collapsed on the bed. As the world spun around him he grasped his head hard to try and relieve the pain. The dizziness he felt made him queasy and when he felt his stomach lurch up he took a few deep breaths to stop himself from being sick.

He lay still, not daring to move a single muscle in case it sent that sharp pain through his head again. While lying there bits and pieces of what happened started to come back to him.

The cab ride. The attack. Someone had found out that I was getting close to an answer.

Holmes rubbed his eyes gently with the soft pads of his fingers in the hope of alleviating the dull ache he felt at the back of them. When he moved his hands away he noticed a light coming from one side of the room. As he looked over he saw that it was light from outside coming through the cracks in the door. It was an inviting yellow light, probably from a gas lamp but he couldn't be sure. There came the sound of footsteps and soon someone swung the door open. The light filtered into the room, illuminating his surroundings. He could finally see the room but apart from the bed and door, there was nothing to see. The walls were bare and the floor was merely indistinct grey stone. There was nothing more.

The person who entered was a young woman carrying a glass of clear liquid. She was small and just a little too plump for her height. She stood silhouetted in the light from outside, the darkness in the room hiding her face. She spoke with a soft, reassuring voice that would have been comforting had he not just been knocked unconscious, kidnapped and locked in dark room.

"Oh, you're awake," she stated. She moved further into the room. She was closer to him but between the dim light and his own unfocussed vision he couldn't really see what she looked like. "I brought you some water," she continued, holding up the glass.

He attempted sitting again but was rewarded by another bright flash of white behind his eyes and another wave of nausea.

"I'll leave it here for you," she said kindly and placed it on the floor beside the bed.

He wanted to say something to her. He wanted to ask who she was, where he was and so much more, but before he could articulate anything she was gone. She shut the door behind her and turned the light outside off, plunging him back into darkness.

As he lay back in the blinding blackness he began to feel tired and he found that he was having more and more trouble keeping his eyes open. He must not fall asleep again!

Stay awake, stay awake, stay awake, he thought desperately. Think. You have to keep thinking. His poor battered brain strained to focus on something as Holmes forced himself to stay conscious. Think of...think of...Watson! Think of Watson.

Watson felt utterly useless. Holmes still had not returned and he was stuck back at their home in Baker Street with nothing to do but sit there and wait. The whole field of criminal investigation was still so new to him that he wouldn't even know where to begin his own line of inquiry.

He read over his notes a few more times but he could reason nothing more from them than he had already worked out. That Sir Edward Wells and his wife had a disturbing past and that 

Lady Wells seemed to be a magnet for young, well-to-do girls of Anna Harris' age. It all seemed very incriminating to him and if he was acting independently he probably would have handed this information to the police and let them follow through with the investigation. With the relationship that Holmes had with the police Watson knew that he wouldn't appreciate that course of action.

There was a knock on the door and as Watson looked up from his desk in stepped Inspector Lestrade.

Watson chuckled to himself at the coincidence, but his amusement seemed to unnerve Lestrade. "Inspector," Watson started to explain, "sorry, I was a little surprised to see you as I was just thinking about you."

The inspector regarded him suspiciously. "Oh?" he questioned, clearly fearing a secret joke at his expense.

"Never mind," Watson said. "What can I do for you, inspector?"

"Well I was hoping to speak to Mr Holmes," he replied. "Your landlady told me he wasn't here but said that you might know where he was."

Watson let out a weak, mirthless laugh. "Hardly," he answered. "I only know that he is in Brighton and has been since yesterday morning."

Lestrade looked at him blankly for a second then furrowed his brow in confusion. "I know he was there yesterday, I was with him until just before one o'clock when he told me he was leaving for London."

Watson felt himself go cold all over at Lestrade's information. If he was coming back to London then what had happened to him.

"He said he was coming back here?" Watson asked. Lestrade nodded.

"Yes, he said he had to leave for London," Lestrade answered, trying to remember Holmes' words as exactly as he could.

"Damn," he cursed, "I knew that something bad had happened!"

And I've just been sat here while something awful might have happened to him.

"He may have changed his mind and gone back to see Mrs Harris," Lestrade suggested to try and console him. Watson said nothing in reply, simply sat there in silence as his mind conjured up a hundred horrible scenarios. The inspector sighed. "I'll telegram Mrs Harris and ask if she has seen him since yesterday morning." With that he left.

Watson heard the door shut. On any other day he may have felt guilty about his dismissive attitude towards the inspector, but he was too consumed with worry to feel any other emotion.

Where is Holmes?

Watson, Holmes thought to himself, trying to stay awake, John H...what does the 'H' stand for? I don't think he ever told me.

His eyelids felt so heavy that he found it completely impossible to keep them open. No! He blinked rapidly a few times and tried to focus his mind again. Awake. Stay awake.

Watson. He was stationed in Afghanistan...which isn't in India apparently...and he was shot in the shoulder at...he did tell me. I do know this. Maiwand! Stamford introduced us at Bart's...

His thoughts were broken when the light from outside came on again and the door opened once more. In stepped a woman, a different woman from earlier. She was tall and very slim and, even though she was obscured by the darkness Holmes thought he recognised her vaguely.

"Mr Holmes," she said, "Henrietta told me you were awake." Her voice was deep and there was a lazy quality to it which made it sound rather drawling.

"Lady Wells," he greeted as he finally realised who she was.

"Well well Mr Holmes, you really are very clever," she said in something akin to delight. "It really is a pity, but you were getting a little too close."

"You overheard my conversation with the Harrises' staff." It wasn't a question. It was the only way she could have known that he was on their trail, after all she had been at the Harrises' house when he was investigating.

"Very good," she said and clapped patronisingly. "Very well deduced, Mr Holmes. You were getting very close to having real evidence against us and I'm afraid we couldn't let you tell your friend from Scotland Yard."

"Major Morrison found something out about you, didn't he?" Holmes asked. He felt more than a little ridiculous, confronting her whilst he was lying incapacitated and she was standing over him. "So you killed him."

"This is wonderful," Lady Wells announced with enthusiasm. "You actually know more than I gave you credit for." She leaned over and ran her index finger down his forehead. Her touch was light and her finger was cold against his hot skin. "Intelligence is a beautiful thing, Mr Holmes, but it's also a dangerous thing. For you anyway."

"So you're going to kill me then?" he asked, although he didn't need to. He just wanted to hear her say it.

He noticed that someone was behind her. A man, tall and burly stood in the doorway and as Lady Wells turned to him he handed her something. She turned back, item in hand and quickly placed it over Holmes' face. He instantly recognised the pungent smell of chloroform and he struggled against her, but he was weakened by his attack and she 

possessed a strength that surprised him. He felt everything around him become hazy and just before he fell into unconsciousness he heard her speak in a voice that sounded tinny and distant, like he was hearing it under water.

"Oh yes, Mr Holmes. We are going to kill you...eventually."