Sherlock decided to walk rather than call a cab. He hadn't been out in a few days and needed to spend some time with fresh air and his thoughts. He followed the map engraved into in his memory bank to the crime scene Lestrade had texted him. The address was legitimate enough but he knew something was off as he approached the building. The gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he weaved through the path that led up to the house. It was thinly walled by trees and he kept walking until the trees parted and the old wooden house broke into view. The first and most important tip off to him was that there were no police cars parked anywhere. He had either been the first one on the scene or he had been tricked. This shouldn't have happened, he thought, it was all because I simply trusted Lestrade. How my judgment has deteriorated.

He felt incredibly uneasy, scanning the area for anyone, for him, but there wasn't any sign of life around him. He started to turn around with every intention of running back to civilization when he felt something nick his neck. It was like a bee sting or a needle but when he reached up to feel what it was, nothing was there. No cut, no hole, no blood, just untouched skin.

Sherlock made to step forward but his legs were so heavy. A sudden feeling that lit his blood on fire ran through his body and his muscles tried to tense up in response but he couldn't move anything. His body was in perfect relaxation, his sight was shifting in and out of focus, and he could no longer form a complete thought. He collapsed to the dirt, unable to keep himself standing, as darkness consumed his sight and mind.

When his consciousness returned he discovered himself in a sitting position, his back painfully pressed against something tall, reaching past his head, and made of wood as far as his hands could feel. His hands were tied behind his back with coarse rope around the post, what he assumed it was, and his skull was pounding very unpleasantly. His scarf and coat were missing, his shirt and trousers ripped and nicked. He lifted his head from its slack position and had a horrible wave of dizziness and nausea wash over him. He recognized what he was feeling all too well, a feeling that stirred up some awful memories. He had been drugged.

When his sight refocused he could see a dirty, cracked window in front of him and noticed that what he was tied to was a support beam. He had been dragged inside of the dirty, old building. Sherlock realized that either he had been left to die or his captor was still nearby. He would've turned to look but he didn't want to move because he would have either vomited or passed out again.

"Good. You're awake," an Irish lilt spoke, carrying throughout the dark, dusty room. "Now the party can start."

Sherlock felt a hand slide down his waist into his trouser pocket, pulling his cell phone from its rightful place. He couldn't move, he couldn't stop him, and his frustration burned like a raging flame.

"There's someone very important missing from our celebrations, Sherlock. We wouldn't want him to be late so I'm sending him a text. I figured he'd be quicker to respond to your call than to mine, don't you think?"

Sherlock bit his lip and struggled against his binds, testing if there was spare room for escape. There wasn't.

"Now, you made it here fifteen minutes after I sent you your invitation, Lestrade is obscenely easy to pickpocket for a Detective Inspector. How long do you think it will take John if I say that you desperately need him?"

"You bastard!" he growled through gritted teeth, lunging as Jim Moriarty finally stepped into view and immediately regretting that decision.

Sherlock was surprised at what he saw. Moriarty's appearance was so drastically different from the last time they'd laid eyes on each other. He wouldn't have been completely sure it was him had it not been for the lizard-like stance and the manic glint in his eyes. His hair had grown out just past his ears and the impressive beginnings of a beard covered the lower half of his face. His clothes were far from a Westwood design, most likely because he had wanted something cheap and indistinguishable to hide himself from prying eyes. A white tee-shirt hung loosely over him and was paired with an old hooded sweatshirt that had been washed of its blue color. On his lower half, a pair of jeans two sizes too big for his frame and a dirty pair of trainers with cracks in the leather.

"We both know how deep his feelings run for you. I'm sure as soon as he reads my little message for him that his ration and good judgment will cloud. I give him ten minutes."

Sweat was dripping from every pore, in part because of the drugs and in part anxiety. He was scared, genuinely scared, an experience he hadn't felt in a long time. Times like this were exhilarating to him, even if lives were at stake, but not John's life. John's life was different. Moriarty crouched down in front of him so that they were face-to-face. Sherlock could feel his hot, damp breath and it smelt of alcohol and desperation.

"You won't be escaping this time, Sherlock. I've thought about it, running it over and over in my mind. Five months of thinking. There are no holes in this plan," he held Sherlock's head so that he was looking directly into his eyes before pressing his lips to his. Sherlock couldn't break his hold and Moriarty lingered a few seconds longer for it to be just a friendly peck on the lips.

"There is no hope for you now," he whispered after pulling away.

"Piss off," Sherlock spat causing Moriarty to recoil.

He grabbed a fistful of dark, curly hair and yanked his head to the side, making Sherlock's stomach boil and bile to rise up his throat. He had to force it back down before looking up at the man ripping his hair out.

"I don't want to hurt you," Moriarty growled. "Not physically. Don't make me."

Sherlock said nothing. The nausea was destroying him and he didn't need to be jerked around any more. Moriarty released his grip and crossed the room to a broken, red chair just in the corner of Sherlock's line of sight. The Irishman intended to watch and wait until his plan started to unfold. Sherlock found himself pleading with a God that didn't exist. Please, God, make John stay home. He has to know that wasn't my text because if he doesn't… He has to. Even as he thought it his stomach was curling in on itself. This "God" was a means of reassurance and hope but logic and reason spoke truth. The truth was that John thought with his heart, his shining trait and his utter downfall.