Sally almost collided with Molly, who rushed suddenly in front of her.

"Oh… Sally, hi," she smiled, seeming even more unsure than normal. "Uh, I wonder if you know about where the suspects are kept. I mean, I didn´t seen him there… maybe he's some other place than usual? I really don´t know who to ask, the guards couldn´t tell me anything. He is not where he should be."

"What are you saying, Molly?" Sally tried to clarify.

"I mean, I just brought the mortuary report to Detective Inspector Dimmock, I knew that he was arrested and I thought that maybe he needed something. It's about a murder, I saw the body, but it is so difficult to believe. After everything he has done for the police… I just cannot believe it... I went to see him, but the guards didn´t know anything about him, and they say he is not there. It is a little odd, don´t you think?"

"You are talking about Sherlock", Sally finally understood. "He is not in a holding cell?"

"No! Have you let him go?"

"Not as far as I know." Sally finished. "I am sorry, but I really cannot help you with this. Excuse me, I have work to do."

When she returned to the office, Anderson smirked to Sally behind his desk.

"You were right. Now the freak showed his real nature. Soon they'll all hear about it."

"Would you just mind to concentrate to your work? I assume that you have some, I know I have," Sally frowned at Anderson, who wasn´t sure what he'd said wrong.

When Sergeant Sally Donovan´s duty was finally over, she rushed to the nearest safe-feeling park to call for Lestrade. Lestrade has advised not to call at home, because it could be traced more easily. They had an arrangement, that she would report him daily.

"Hello, Sally."

"Yes, sir. I have something for you. First, someone has leaked the case to the press. DI Dimmock gave an interview for The Sunshine´s reporter this afternoon against your recommendations. Second, they haven´t questioned him yet, although Dimmock has worked on his file. Third, I saw Molly at the station today, she has tried to visit him, but she couldn´t have found Mr Holmes. Didn´t you put him in the cells?"

"Yes, I did, against my better judgement. He's not there anymore? For what reason would Dimmock have transferred him? I don´t like this. I wish that I was there."

All was dark, silent and chilled. It wasn´t even possible to see his own hand- though, of course, being handcuffed it was more tricky to observe it anyway. Hours had gone passed, so it was probably the evening. It wasn´t really so easy to keep himself focused on things like time when he had to sit alone in the dark on a hard bed. There wasn´t anything to do or to look at, except wait. Think. Think…uh, food? Under these unexpected circumstances, he should get meals and also water or something, but these luxuries didn´t seem to belong as a natural part of his cell. He didn´t usually take so much notice of such trivialities like food and drink, but it would be nice sometimes to get some… To survive…

For some reason, he hoped that he had kept an eye on him, though he usually despised it. There was a camera, an infrared camera, but was anyone paying any attention to it? He couldn´t explain to himself why having someone watch over him was reassuring.

Lestrade wouldn´t approve this, so much was sure. But why he didn´t come and stop this, and take him away? He remembered that Lestrade has asked John to come, so he could ask questions about the case. The case of poor Mrs Hudson. He now felt numb with unexpected grief for Mrs. Hudson. People could disapprove of him in peace, they did it anyway. What difference would this make? John was the only person he wanted to see, why hadn´t John insisted on meeting him? His throat felt dry, his body started to stiffen, and the silence made ears to ring. He could handle cold, darkness, handcuffs and bleeding wounds, this was nothing new, but his brain would need stimulation before long. This cannot be legal.

First it was all normal, as normal as it could be when you were arrested for murder. Lestrade put him in a holding cell, the regret glimmered in his eyes, but he did it still (personally, as if he didn´t trust anybody else to do it). He had to do it as a police officer. But the handcuffs were removed, his cell was warm, he had a little window, a decent bed with a blanket and the lights on. He was exhausted after what had happened in the last few days, and he went to bed and fell asleep after a couple of seconds. He didn´t have a reason to stay awake any more, and he hadn´t slept for days because of the Moriarty's game, which had occupied him. It was thrilling, he had to admit it, he hadn't been bored, but there were also people´s lives at stake, who he had to save. Whatever John or anybody thought about him, he cared about these people enough that he didn´t want them die because of him, because of Moriarty´s twisted game. When Moriarty detonated the bomb strapped to the old woman and killed twelve people, it wasn´t because of him. He was shocked, yes, but he didn´t blame himself for it, he had done everything he could to prevent it. He had solved the puzzle in time. He didn´t enjoy bloodshed. It was all because of Moriarty.

He was in a deep sleep when he was shook harshly to wake up. He saw two unknown men, one stocky and one thinner, in police uniforms who had invaded his cell. They dragged him up, forced his hands behind his back and clicked handcuffs back onto his wrists without saying a word, before he managed to react. He was sleepy and didn´t follow what they were doing. But the disturbing question was, why?

"What are you doing? Who are you?"

Sherlock found himself suddenly lying on the hard floor, tasting metal in his mouth.

"Shut up! You just shut up, if you don´t want another reminder, psycho! And stand up, what are you lying there, you lazy scum! You're coming with us!" yelled the stockier of the two.

The room was spinning when he slowly got up. Blood trickled from his lip, and his anger rose inside. He was sure that Lestrade's wouldn´t accept this, not even towards the worst serial killer in the world, not to mention towards him.

"I am not coming anywhere. You are not the police."

"Are you in any position to refuse?" The robust man didn´t deny that they were fake. Instead the thinner one kept his arms in position, whilst the other punched Sherlock hard to his diaphragm, which made him not only wordless, but breathless as well.

They almost carried him out from his cell, and from the holding cell to a corridor. They walked to the end of the greyish white corridor to the locked door. After opening the door they started to descend the stairs to the bottom. Another door, another corridor. This was like a rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland. But this didn´t seem to be a fairy tale. Sherlock started to suspect that this end would be unhappy.

"Are you taking me to the interrogation?" Sherlock tried once again. The only response he got was another hard hit to his face. Great. His nose started to bleed this time.

"Didn´t I tell you to keep your big mouth closed? Some people learn slowly."

Finally they were at their destination. There was a control room first, like a guardian room. A bored guard sit there reading Tex Willers.

"Hey, you! Wake up! You got work to do. This one," they pushed Sherlock forward, "keep an eye on him."

"Are you kidding me, Dick?" The man said behind his comics. "I get paid when I don´t look."

"Of course. But now, he needs a room. Could you book him in?" Dick said smirking cheerfully. "He gets full board. "

"Right, here are the keys."

They opened another door. Another corridor, heavy grey doors on both side of it. It was grey, dirty and had fluorescent lamps. How monotonous. One of lamps hummed irritatingly. The men walked to the last door at the back of the corridor, opened it and pushed Sherlock in.

"This is your new room. Not too big, but intimate. I hope you enjoy it. Make yourself at home." They threw Sherlock forcefully to a bunk and left.

Sherlock lay still on the bunk, waiting for the men to come back, but they were gone. He rose to sit and take a better look at his new surroundings. There wasn´t much to look at. It was a small room, greyish white, with dirty walls, no windows and a hard narrow bed. That was all, except old dry smudges decorated on the floor and on the wall. Sherlock froze as he recognized a rust coloured spot, which was definitely dried blood. How was this cell in Scotland Yard? There had to be some rational explanation. He was going to find it out. Thinking was what made him feel safe. They'd left the handcuffs on. Did they forget? He remembered the strange joke the men had… a full board… got paid when he didn´t look… at what? Was it something to do with these dried spots?

Then the darkness descended. In a little while he noticed that the cell wasn´t so warm any more. The temperature had dropped. Now he started to feel really tired, but it was difficult to sleep, handcuffed in this cold, hungry and thirsty, with no real bed to use, but he decided to try. Darkness really didn´t bother him so much, he was too used to all kinds of discomfort and pain done by himself as well as criminals, but the uncertainty of his situation made him restless. He began to get the picture, what 'full board' had meant. It meant… nothing, nothing at all… They were only trying to scary him with their meaningless pranks. This was nothing. He had to ignore it.