As soon as Sherlock processed those words, his mind was racing. It didn't really take him that long to solve the puzzle.

'Hmph. Blatantly obvious. What else (that I've seen so far) has both hands and a face? Some dolls, perhaps, but no...the 'made-up-shopkeeper' was clearly old, obvious from the prime position the radio held in the room; no young person would have that there, and also a man (the shoes, hats and coats in the entrance). There were also no women's shoes, coats or hats in the entrance, meaning there was no woman about the house. Therefore; single man, who most certainly does not have dolls in his house. So, the only other likely alternative is a clock.'

Sherlock didn't bother to verbalise his thoughts as he usually would; there was no John here, no John here to tell him how fantastic he was. Sherlock could've sworn he felt a rather large amount of sadness come over him as he thought of John. Not that that was real sadness of course. He was clearly just missing John's compliments and general usefulness. Definitely not missing anything else. Absolutely not. Never.

Or was he?

'No, of course I'm not. And besides, I need to get back to the job at hand, finding John Watson.'

Sherlock strode over to the grandfather clock in the end of the hallway and started looking for a way to find whatever it was he was supposed to find. He tried opening the front, but it was disappointingly lacking in clues of any kind. Then he reached around the back; also lacking in clues. He even tried above and below the clock, both of which were just as fruitless as the rest of the clock. He thought back to the riddle he was given 'You can see my hands, Sherlock, or at least my face.'

Sherlock ran his hands over the front of the clock searching for a clue, another riddle, anything. When his hands ghosted over the centre of the clock, where the hands were attached, he felt that the pin holding them in place was loose. Sherlock pulled it out and glimpsed a scrap of rolled up paper. He pulled the hands off to get at it, unrolled it and began to read it.

'Congratulations on solving my little riddle, Sherlock! You'll find the key to open the door in the next building. Ta-ta!'

As soon as he finished reading this, Sherlock was worried.

'This is wrong. It's too easy. Far too easy. There's a trap in that next building, there has to be, but...what choice do I have? The only thing I can do is make sure that I am as best prepared for this 'trap' as I can possibly be.'

Sherlock decided to do a quick search of the house to see if he could find anything that had the remote possibility of helping him.

There wasn't much. A knife from the kitchen, a razor blade from the bathroom and a walking stick from the hallway.

'Oh well, these things will do me well enough, It's not like Moriarty would've left anything around that would make it too easy for me.'

Before Sherlock left for the building next door, he noticed something on the scrap of paper. The front was not the only side that held a message, the back too.

'Oh, and by the way, John says hi. Well, he would say hi if he wasn't bound, gagged and being...reprimanded right now.'

Sherlock felt the rage bubble up from inside of him as he took his anger out on the piece of paper, tearing it into tiny shreds.

'Oh god. John. Not John. He can't...he can't be made to suffer like this. I don't care if it was just a light slap across the face, Moriarty will pay for whatever he's done to John. He will pay in blood.'

Sherlock opened the door and walked out onto the street, so caught up in his vengeful thoughts that he didn't notice the tripwire.

He scarcely had time to throw himself to the floor, when there was a large, fiery explosion which reminded him of the pool far too much, and then everything went dark.

When Sherlock finally woke up, his whole body hurt. His head hurt, his chest hurt, his arms hurt and his legs hurt. He was surrounded by smoke and rubble; the explosion was extremely strong.

'How...how didn't I notice the tripwire? It should have been so obvious! I shouldn't have even had to think about it...How could I have been so stupid? John's life is at stake here...I could have died. Then what hope would he have? Moriarty said that if I didn't attend his 'tea party' then John would die. I...I must focus.'

Sherlock stood up off the ground and surveyed the damage, both to the 'town' and himself. He had acquired too many bruises and scratches to count and a few deeper cuts that were bleeding, but nothing too bad. The 'town' had faired much worse. In fact, Sherlock was amazed that the warehouse that contained it had not been damaged. The building he was supposed to find the key in had been the source of the explosion.

Sherlock was pondering what to do next when Moriarty's voice came booming out from the (extremely well hidden) P.A system.

'Well, well, well. I expected more from you, Sherlock. You should know better than to get caught up in your thoughts like that. Maybe you're not quite as good as I thought you were...maybe John Watson won't survive this after all? Just when I'd begun to think that I could have an equal. Oh well, enough of my babbling on, you better find that key! And quickly too...because I do believe my dear little puppies are hungry.'

Sherlock sighed and began to dig through the rubble. 'I was so stupid. More stupid than I've ever been in my whole life. This is costing me precious time...' He glanced at his watch. It was two hours and a half, almost three hours since he began. 'God help me. God help John.'

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was still digging through the rubble. He felt like he'd been doing it forever. His fingers were bleeding and his fingernails (or what was left of them) were ragged.

'I might as well give up. I'm never going to find this stupid key. Ever. Stupid fucking Moriarty and his stupid fucking games. Fuck.'

Something shiny had caught Sherlock's eye. He tugged at it, but it wouldn't budge. Not at all.

He cursed some more, then he heard the dogs.

Ten big, scary dogs were currently charging towards Sherlock Holmes.

He tugged the key even harder.

The dogs got even closer.

He put everything he had left into pulling the key from the rubble. He focused his thoughts; what was usually multiple trains of purely logical thought, was now one, completely irrational thought.

'This is for John. This is John Watson's only hope.'

And then the key was in his hands and he was running, as fast as his legs would take him, leaping over rubble in a desperate attempt to get away from the dogs. As hard as he tried, they were catching up to him. He knew it wasn't long before they caught him.

The dogs were right behind Sherlock now, his pants were ripped and he could swear he could feel their breath on the back of his exposed ankles.

'I've come this far, I can make it the rest of the way...'

Sherlock had never been very good at reassuring himself, and this was no exception.

He was convinced he was going to die.

And then he saw the door.

Sherlock Holmes had never run faster in his life, and he probably never would. Those last 20 meters, his chest was burning, his legs were aching but he kept going.

A wave of relief washed over him as his hands touched the smooth, cold metal of the door. He pushed the key into the lock, just as the dogs began sinking their teeth into him.

He eventually managed to shake off the dogs, but not before his legs were covered in bites, his pants soaked in blood.

Sherlock Holmes smiled, 'One down, three to go.'

He shut the door.