Sherlock awoke completely disorientated and groggy.
It was dark. No, he was blindfolded.
His head began to pound as he instinctively tried to reach up and remove the blindfold.
Right, arms tied too.
He began twisting and turning, panic building and tried to shout out, managing only a weak "Mycroft" through his thick, dry throat.
He frowned, trying to remember what had happened. He remembered getting into the car, the man and ahhh, yes, a needle. How unoriginal.
Sherlock let out a long groan as his head gave an objection to the increased efforts of memory and movement, and just moments later, he heard footsteps approaching.
"Sherlock!" the Irish voice sang, "So lovely of you to join me."
The footsteps got closer and Jim removed Sherlock's blindfold, causing the detective to squint at the brightness of the room. He blinked a few times, trying to get his eyes to focus and attempted to clear his throat.
Jim snapped his fingers and Moran appeared with a glass of water.
"Here, drink." the Irishman instructed, holding it to Sherlock's lips and tipping slightly, allowing the detective to soothe his hoarse throat. "I do apologise for the sedatives. It's crude, I know, but it was necessary. Unfortunately, they do have the side effects you are now experiencing." He tipped the glass a second time as Sherlock drained the glass.
Jim passed the glass back to Moran and nodded towards Sherlock's back. Moran came around and untied Sherlock's arms, edging back slowly once the detective was freed.
Sherlock nodded his thanks and raised his hands to his face, rubbing them over his eyes and pressing the heel of one hand against his temple. His head was still throbbing, and it was making him feel nauseous.
"Need something for that?" Jim asked, eliciting a frown from Sherlock. Normally, he might have considered it, but the circumstances were far from normal. Accepting anything, even if only painkillers, from Jim Moriarty felt like a bad idea.
"Thank you, no." He shook his head and closed his eyes briefly against the pain.
"OK, right." Jim smacked his hands down on his thighs decisively, causing Sherlock to frown somewhat at the sudden noise, "well, I suppose we'd better get to it then, eh?"
Sherlock eyed Jim suspiciously and took the opportunity to roll his shoulders and stretch out his unbound arms. He wasn't sure how long he had been out, but it felt like forever. He felt stiff and sore and groggy as hell.
"Less than an hour." Jim said, standing and crossing to the back of the room, answering Sherlock's unspoken thoughts, "You were out less than an hour. Just long enough to transport you here to this wonderful place." The Irishman waved his arms around himself, and Sherlock followed them, taking in his surroundings now that he was un-blindfolded and his eyes were working again.
"A hotel?" Sherlock questioned, eyebrow raised in surprise, "How obvious!"
Jim sighed. He had forgotten how irritating the young 'consulting detective' could be with just a few words.
"Yes, Sherlock, a hotel." He walked back to where Sherlock was standing and extended a hand for the young detective to take. "I thought you would prefer to be comfortable. I know I would."
Jim cocked his head at Sherlock when the detective ignored his outstretched hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed for it, making a point of holding particularly tightly - a move that Jim pointedly ignored.
"Out of interest," he continued, guiding Sherlock to an oversized bed and pushing him to sit, "what DO you remember?"
There was a long silence in the room. Despite the lack of clarity in Jim's question, it was absolutely and without question obvious to what he was referring. Sherlock closed his eyes and swallowed around the returning thick feeling in his throat.
When he re-opened his eyes, Jim had moved to sit in a large armchair positioned close to where Sherlock was sitting on the bed. He was leaning forwards, as if engrossed in conversation, as he waited for Sherlock's reply.
Sherlock shook his head, partly in response and partly to clear his thoughts. The few memories he did have plagued him, and much as he had tried, he had been unable to delete them completely. He felt sure that Jim knew this.
"Nothing." he finally replied, his voice giving off a faux confidence that he certainly didn't feel. "I don't remember anything."
"You know full well that the drugs..." he paused a second as Jim leaned in even closer, "... the drugs took care of that."
Jim nodded and sat back in the chair.
"And since then?" he questioned. Another half-question which needed no clarification. Sherlock lowered his head and began to study his fingers.
"I have felt no desire to explore further." was all he said. The Irishman shrugged.
"Such a shame." he pouted, extending his arms in front of him and admiring his own perfectly-manicured nails. "It was quite... something."
Sherlock lifted his head and looked at Jim. The man was clearly enjoying seeing the young detective's discomfort and that alone was making Sherlock feel even less at ease.
"And so it all starts again?" he asked the Irishman, whose face, on seeing Sherlock's obvious anxiety, had broken into something of a maniacal grin.
"Oh no, Sherlock." Jim responded, clapping his hands with an almost child-like glee. "This time will be different; better. Oh yes, SO much better." He stood and walked forwards, stopping only when his knees were almost touching the detective's.
"This time," Jim grinned, leaning down to place his hands on Sherlock's thighs, "You will remember EVERYTHING."