Hey everyone! Here's the next Chapter. No-one's hurt yet. :P

CHAPTER 31

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne

Victoria

Australia

John woke slowly but found it was very hard to open his eyes. He lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds around him.

This isn't natural…he thought, I should not feel so tired after sleeping. He realised with a pang that he had been drugged or been hit with a laser again. He really didn't like being kidnapped. Recently, ever since he met Sherlock, it was turning into a common occurrence. Even as he lay there, wondering what drugs, exactly, he had in his system; he knew that he wouldn't give up the time spent with Sherlock for anything.

With great effort, he managed to open his eyes to the gentle light of evening. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment and sighed. He hated waking up and not knowing where he was before he met Sherlock and he didn't like it any more now.

Wondering whether letting whoever had him this time – probably Moriarty, if he thought about it – John sat up extremely slowly, blood rushing to his head and his world spinning before his now focused eyes were met by the icy glare of a black haired woman, sitting at the other end of the bed, looking annoyed that her place was taken.

John let himself take in the view that was available from here, at the glass wall that was letting all the light in and the fact that they were extremely high up, looking away from the girl and thinking that it would be nice to wake up to a smile.

'Are you going to stay there or are you actually going to move?" the girl spoke up, her dark eyes staring at John. He jumped a little, "Erm…well…where are we?" he asked, saying the first question that came to his head, a little surprised that she asked him the question, "Penthouse Suite, Sofitel Hotel," he replied.

Sophie titled her head to the side and wondered why her idiot of a husband let other idiots into the house. This one was a little smaller than they usually were, but though he had been unconscious, he didn't reek of alcohol as a lot of them did. Stuart told her to watch him, so she did. He hadn't so much as rolled over all night.

"Who are you?" John asked, looking at the woman,

"Sophie Howell," John tried not to let the shock show,

"So this is…'

"Stuart Howell's place, yes," she said, "why are you here?" she asked, cutting right to the chase. John always loved a little subtlety.

"I don't actually know," John said, finally managing to get a full sentence out with hesitating and looking like an idiot. He had obviously lot use of some of his mental faculties over the last twenty-four hours.

He thought back to what happened – the last thing he could remember was Moriarty.

Silence fell as John pondered his thoughts.

Sophie watched as the little man put things together, not because she had nothing else to do, but because she wanted to know who he was as well.

John furrowed his brow as he thought, I'm in the city,at least, he looked at Sophie, and the only reason I could think Howell would have me, is that he's working with Moriarty.

"Who are you?" Sophie asked, parroting his earlier question. He looked up from his examination of the wedding ring still on his finger, something he had worn for so long now he had forgotten the little golden band's existence,

"Pierre Mannu," he said, and she let out derisive snort, that on her delicate face, John thought, looked a little out of place,

"My husband said that was a fake name. What's your real name?" John stared at her in surprise before relenting,

"Dr. John Watson," he said,

"I see," she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, 'Well, doctor, I repeat, why are you here?"

"Because I'm being held captive." Sophie stared at him for a moment,

"What?" she asked, looking like she didn't know that particular piece of information. It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one left in the dark.

"I'm being held captive here," John repeated, "I believe you husband is working with world renowned criminal Jim Moriarty," he expected an immediate denial from her but had to suppress his surprise, for the third time in so many minutes, as she merely got to her feet,

"Of course," she muttered, "Not quite sure what else I expected," she seemed to be talking to herself, so John decided not to reply.

Instead, he got up and walked, a little unsteadily, around to the windows. Under any other circumstances he would have laughed at the amazing view available from up here. The city stretched out, across from him, the buildings getting smaller as they progressed outwards, and the people walking on the streets, despite the early hour, looked absolutely tiny.

The doctor turned around and walked to the bedroom door, pulling it open. He was about to walk into the lounge room when Sophie called his name,

"John!" she said, her voice almost timid. He turned,

"Yes?" he asked, noticing that she was actually wearing very little as got a full look at her standing up. Her entire outfit appeared to just be the cardigan and a very short pair of short-shorts.

"Do you like my husband?" she asked, her dark eyes penetrating his light brown. He considered for a minute,

"No," he replied and she nodded,

"Well…there's breakfast in the dining room, you're probably hungry,"

Now that she did mention it, John realised he was starving, not just hungry. "Food would be good," he said and for the first time, a small smile graced her features, directed at John, "Follow me," She brushed past John, still standing in the doorway and John could have sworn he heard her swear as her arm touched his chest. Storing that information away for later use, John followed her to the dining room.

The presidential suite was huge. John was sure 221b Baker Street could easily fit in here twice over. The ceilings were arched and the warm lighting made everything look so homey and shiny – all at the same time. John raised an eyebrow at the long dining table, the end nearest to them filled with more food that Sherlock ate in a week. John's stomach rumbled as a reminder to hurry up and eat something.

He sat down, wincing as an all over pain told him he was getting too old to be kidnapped and…well…kidnapped. He wasn't entirely sure what exactly they were going to do with him afterwards.

John lifted two pancakes of their platter and put them onto his own plate. Pouring a healthy amount of maple syrup on top, he dug in, the delicious food melting in his mouth,

'Good?" Sophie asked and John nodded

'Bloody amazing," he muttered through a mouthful and Sophie had to stop herself from laughing. She couldn't trust the little man – his name's John…don't think he'd like to know I refer to him as the little man... – just yet.

She picked up an apple and bit into it, relishing the sweetness and watched John plough through another four pancakes. Before she allowed her hopes to rise, she squashed them. You don't know who he is, he might not want to help. She looked at him a moment more, but maybe… he could.

Traralgon

Regional Victoria

Victoria

Australia

Sherlock chewed a mouthful of tender chicken, stored in a freezer tub that Moriarty kindly left him, and wished that he had more than a microwave to heat it up. Sherlock had showered a while ago and changed into the suit, deciding that if he was going to wait to be rescued, for he was certain that Lestrade and Sally would be in here, guns blazing, complete with a small army, he may as well be comfortable. And damn was this midnight black, tailor made (Sherlock did not want to think how Moriarty got his measurements) suit was comfortable.

"Come on, Lestrade," said Sherlock, staring out of the window as the first rays of light that spread over the fields, tuning them a golden red, grew stronger, "You've never failed to barge in before, why start now?"

Sherlock sighed and wished he had never left that damn apartment, and wished that John had never made him angry and wished that he would stop wishing because they were completely illogical and born of a very, very boring couple of hours. Sherlock felt as if his prison was taunting him, wanting him to find a way out of here. It wasn't that he hadn't tried, by the gods, he had tried and tried and tired. Nothing was working, the windows didn't break, the bars didn't bed, the bed leg wouldn't snap off and the new chair refused to so much as chip. The microwave needed to be welded open and the showerhead stayed stuck on the wall. The taps refused to be screwed off and the toilet may as well have been carved out of the tile it sat on.

There was. No. Way. Out.

Sighing in irritation that Moriarty had literally thought of everything, Sherlock sat back down on the bed before lying down, trying to think of one thing Moriarty had not already done.

When the sounds of sirens finally alerted Sherlock, it was mid afternoon and the detective had build himself a house of chicken bones, stripped clean by him. The bones were actually standing up in the abstract shape of a house when Sherlock got to his feet and ran to the bars to see a convoy of trucks on the main road. Thanking whatever God existed above, Sherlock went back to the bed and sat down. He had deduced, a while ago, that Moriarty had left, and probably taken John with him. So there was no point in bursting out the door the minute it was opened. Sherlock threw all the bones into the bin and went to the bed, pulled the book on escape routes (Moriarty was one sadistic bastard) and started reading.

Lestrade's heart was beating very hard and very fast when he opened the front door. There was complete silence inside. He doubted that anyone was even here any more. Sally, who was behind him, remembered what it was like the last time they barged through here. Half expecting to see Moriarty at the other end of the hall, she followed her boss in, gun raised. They had told the rest of the retrieval squad to wait outside and enter should they take any longer than ten minutes. Lestrade wanted Moriarty alive, so he could be sentenced to a long, long stay in prison – with no contact from any human ever again. It was possible. It was the worst punishment available and had never been handed out. The DI wanted to make sure that Moriarty received exactly this.

The bedroom doors on both sides were open and neat and tidy. Lestrade nodded to the door at the end of the hallway. She nodded back and both approached carefully, wary of any booby traps. Lestrade reached for the handle and turned it slowly. Using the door as a shield, he put the gun in first, "SIS agents. Freeze!" he said.

The DI poked his head around the door to find that he was currently holding up several monitors. Swearing, he lowered the gun and Sally followed him in gaping at the site she saw on one of the monitors – Sherlock, sitting on a bed, reading a book.

"Fucking hell," Lestrade muttered, walking to the door on the right. Hoping this was the right one, he opened it, to find the room John had been held in and the opening in the wall, which looked on to a bored-looking Sherlock,

'Sherlock!" he said, hurrying forwards, and the detective looked up and offered Lestrade a smile,

"You don't have John, do you?" he asked, before the DI or Sally, who entered behind him could say anything else. Lestrade paused for a minute,

'No, Sherlock," Sally said and he nodded, getting to his feet,

'Let's not waste any time then," and with that he walked out the door they had just come through, grabbing his great coat off the bed.

The Scotland Yard agents stood still for a moment, 'He's not dealing with the idea that John's in Moriarty's clutches, is he?" asked Lestrade, looking to Sally for confirmation. She shook her head, "no, he isn't," she radioed the Police officers that a Caucasian white male was exiting the building and that he was on their side.

"What now?" she asked,

'We'll get some of the team to run forensics on this place. I doubt we'll find anything, but it's worth a try," Sally nodded and followed her boss out, trying not to think about the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. John was really gone. And Jim Moriarty had him.

They were in so much trouble.

I'm not actually happy with this Chapter…but there you go. It's kind of a filler. Promise more action soon!

Aza

xoxo