Bright light.
It hits Sherlock right in the back of the eye sockets, piercing into his brain like a barrage of hot needles. He tries blinking against it but the searing pain bites into his brow line as he does. His whole body feels numb apart from the pain in his head.
He holds his eyes closed gently, the only thing he finds gives him any relief, and brings his other senses into play.
Smell.
Vaguely familiar - lavendar room spray - cheap pot pourri - the hotel room.
Cologne - Jim's. He knows this with certainty. It is a scent he associates with Jim. It makes him feel sick to the core, and the 'consulting criminal' no doubt knows it.
Perfume? - unknown person?
Unidentified musky odour. Sherlock thinks he knows this smell but he blanks the thought for now.
Sound. Sherlock strains his ears to hear over the roaring of blood and adrenaline in his head.
Muted voices - in a bathroom? - Jim and an unidentified male.
No, wait. The man from the car. Sherlock remembers that voice now.
Stuttering breaths in the room with him - someone anxious - or sobbing.
Female? The same female wearing the perfume?
Sherlock isn't sure, but he thinks so. There's someone else in the room with him.
Jim and the man from the car are in an adjoining room. A bathroom, perhaps, leading off the hotel's bedroom.
Sherlock holds his breath so he can listen harder to the breathy sounds.
Muffled. Stifled? Gagged? Perhaps. He isn't sure.
He experimentally opens his eyes to get a look at her but instantly clamps them closed again. Something wrong with his eyes. Everything is so bright. Too bright. As if he is staring into the sun. He has no recollection of being drugged though. In fact, he does remember Jim telling him that he would remember everything this time so drugs seem unlikely.
Perhaps it is just his eyes. He's read about mydriatics. Perhaps Jim has used some on him. He shakes his head minutely to focus his thoughts. The cause does not matter right now.
Without knowing where exactly in the room he is or what he is facing, he extends an arm in front of him. He isn't tied. He can move freely. He flexes his ankles to get the circulation going again. The numbness is wearing off now.
"Hello?" Sherlock tests his voice, keeping the range and volume low, hoping that whoever is in there with him will hear but the duo in the bathroom will not.
"Hello?" he repeats, "Is there someone there?"
The faltering breaths pause for a moment, perhaps uncertain whether to reply. Not knowing who Sherlock is and if he is friend or foe. Sherlock feels his own breathing begin to quicken, for a brief moment uncertain himself.
"I... I can't move..."
A voice answers. Not gagged then. Female. Young. Teen, maybe. Scared, obviously. Sherlock clears his throat and tries to sound reassuring.
"I can't see you." he says calmly, "But I can move. Where in the room are you?"
He hears the girl let out a sob before she answers.
"I'm on the bed. I'm tied on the bed. He..." She stops, unable to finish, and Sherlock's stomach churns as he has some idea of what Jim plans for her.
"I'm Sherlock." he offers, hoping to distract the girl, even if only for a short while, from her discomfort. "I'm here against my will too." he finishes, hoping this fact will reassure her somehow.
"Cassie." she responds with a broken voice. "But... but you're not tied up?"
Sherlock suddenly realises how that must seem to this young girl. To an outsider, it must look as though Sherlock is there by choice. He is untied, unharmed for the most part. He came willingly, got into the car without a struggle or resistance.
"No, I'm not." His voice is low and he tries to move on; to maintain the distraction while he has opportunity. Maybe he can learn something from the girl herself about where they are or what Jim is up to.
"How old are you, Cassie?"
"Fourteen."
Sherlock stifles his shocked response, biting down on his lip. He suddenly realises that anything he does now could be the wrong thing. He feels hesitant even to cross the room to comfort Cassie, knowing that it would appear that he is able to leave at any time to fetch help. He seems far more like an accomplice than a victim.
"Where are you from, Cassie?" It's not the question he really wants to ask. He wants to know where was she taken from? How did she get here? How long has she been here? What have they said and done to her? But he realises these questions are insensitive, and in the past 18 months or so, John has taught him to have some sensitivity and tact when dealing with vulnerable people.
"I live with my Dad in Hackney." Cassie's reply is hesitant. She is unsure whether she should be sharing this information. "A man gave me a lift home from school. I thought it was one of my Dad's friends. He was... my Dad said one of his friends would be picking me up."
Her voice trails off and she begins to cry again.
"It's not your fault, Cassie." Sherlock can sense that the teenager is blaming herself. "You really weren't to know that he wasn't who you thought he was." He gives the next question careful consideration.
"Have you ever met either of these men before, Cassie? Do you recognise their voices?"
Cassie is silent for a moment, and Sherlock listens for those two voices in the bathroom. They've gone silent. He tenses up as he employs all of his senses to try to detect something; anything. Movement; sound; smell.
"Well, well, well." The familiar Irish brogue purrs, getting closer to Sherlock, "this is cosy." He leans in further to Sherlock and whispers in his ear, "Do you like her, Sherlock? You should see how incredible she looks." The smile is evident in the man's voice. "Ah, but of course, you can't SEE her, can you, Sherlock?"
The detective becomes aware of a change in Cassie's breathing as he hears the other man move to where he thinks the girl is tied. She starts to cry out, but the sound is quickly muffled, likely by the other man's hand.
"Sherlock, Cassie," Jim begins, standing and positioning himself between Sherlock and the bed, "I'd like you to meet Sebby."