Sorry this didn't make it for Sunday. I was having trouble pounding it out (rough week ya feel) and so I decided to take another rotation to work on it some more. I'm pretty satisfied with it now. I'll try to make up the missing rotation but we'll see how it goes.

Enjoy.

The dog.

The dog was barking in the distance. Bright sunlight stung my eyes. I covered them, blinking rapidly to let them adjust.

Hyde Park. The soft warmth of the spring bounced off my skin, radiating off of everything around me. It was just you and I, surrounded by green, seated on a bench with the sound of birds in the trees above us. A smile was written in the curve of your mouth. Your arm draped around my shoulder. The smell of your hair and cologne was sharp and strong against the canvas of the spring, intertwining its fingers with the breeze.

"My behavior last night was uncalled for," You said, your tone disconnected from your gaze. "I had too much to drink and said things I didn't mean to. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't offend you too badly. I'll be more careful."

Gladstone yapped, still far away. A man sat a few meters from us on another bench, with his long black coat tucked neatly underneath him. The sunlight seemed to bend and twist around his shoulders. It was definitely too warm for clothes like that, I decided.

You shifted, running your fingers through my hair. "This needs to be on paper. Running around in Brixton takes its toll. I've run out of nicotine patches. I've used them all up."

The man kicked his foot at Gladdie, who now I could see was barking pointedly at him. The poor dog seemed distraught - alarmed, almost. You tsked, calling the dog back as your arm fell to your side. Gladstone didn't budge.

I noticed the injection marks trailing along the inside of your arm. Fresh.

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John," You said, quietly. "I was exhausted. I wanted to be able to help you, but I couldn't. You have to understand, John. I didn't do it because I was unhappy."

You shouted, trotting over to collect Gladstone. The man looked put off, even after you apologized. He reached into the pocket of his coat, producing a knife.

Ringing split my skull as white light washed across my line of vision. Everything around me was swirling in an nauseating blur of whites and greys. Padding rolled beneath me. A bed? Yes. Pillow. Sheets. I twisted my fingers in them, pulling myself back into reality. Eventually the room's sharp corners stilled, and I blinked and looked around.

Whiteness was everywhere. The walls, the floors, the ceiling, and the sparse furniture were all white. A single white door stood directly across the room. In the far right-hand corner, a small black camera peered at me. Besides that, I was the only decoration in the whole place, like a speck of pale paint on a blank page.

My head pounded and my leg throbbed. I couldn't remember anything past Anne. We had met in the café, we had spoken, and then there was a shadow. There was a foggy memory of Argall, but it was distorted by the pain in my temples. Reaching up, I rubbed against my forehead with the heel of my hand. My shoulder groaned with the movement; that and the discomfort in my ankles made me suspect I had been dragged at least part of the way. But... where was I now?

I couldn't help but notice how similar this room looked to the rooms of the suicide ward. It had the right dimensions, even the bed was a similar style. It wasn't the ward, though. Why would Anne have put in the time and effort to kidnap me just to take me there? And what did Argall have to do with the ward? It didn't make sense. It couldn't be the ward. Of course, nothing in the last few hours made sense. Trying to make it make sense only made it make less sense. I wasn't going to get anywhere sitting there being confused, so I decided to make myself known.

"Hello?" I called.

No one answered me, so I tried again.

"Hello? Is anyone there?" I shouted.

The crackling of a microphone echoed through the room. A short hum greeted me. Noticeably feminine, noticably French. "Good evening, John. I hope you slept well."

I stared up at the camera. It was easy enough to tell that it was where the voice was coming from, but I didn't recognize it. "Who is that?"

"Don't be rude," She kept on, "I know you and your fiancé must've discussed me at least once or twice."

E. The mysterious mastermind. It had to be her. I hadn't expected her to be French, that was what threw me off. It fit now. Anne was working for E. She lured me out into Camden so that she and Argall could nab me while I was off my guard. Were we still in Camden, then? or had they gotten me out of London? or had they got me out of the country entirely?

"Where am I?" I asked.

"You're in a little white room. I thought that much would be obvious. But, don't worry, this isn't the ward." She paused. I thought I could hear the faint rolling of a chair in the background. "I had them pad everything down because I thought it would be a shame if you killed or mutilated yourself before the proper time; I know you have history, so we're playing it safe."

I lost my breath. Something about people going through my medical files just irks me. I got off the bed (trying my hardest not to limp too badly) and kept watching the camera as if it was her face. "You had better let me out of here. When Sherlock-"

"-finds out you're missing he won't stop for breath until you're found? Yes, I know. I've been informed of your fiancé's particular talents, and frankly I'm not interested." She sighed, or yawned, I couldn't tell which. "I warned him when he seized my man Argall that I would have retribution. Mr. Holmes didn't hesitate to put a bullet through Argall's leg. I was thinking an eye for an eye?"

My blood went cold.

"Yes, that's exactly what I wanted. Hold that face for a few more seconds. Good."

I swallowed, knitting my eyebrows firmly together. My voice was much less assertive this time. "It's about Sherlock, then," I said, feeling slightly relieved that at least that part of the puzzle was relatively simple.

"In part," She answered.

"And the other part?"

E chuckled. "Mr. Holmes has left his mark. It's all business, John. You should know enough about that. My instructions are to make you suffer, and so suffer you shall. There's nothing I want from you."

"There has to be something," I said, "There has to be a reason."

"There is. Not one that you need to be concerned with, mind you. All you need to know is that Sherlock made me angry. Don't make the same mistake."

The door clunked and swung open. Argall stood in the doorway, dark-clad as before, brandishing a wooden club-like rod beside his thigh. I jumped away from him, retreating into the corner of the room farthest from him.

"I only thought it appropriate to have him do the honors." E continued, nonchalant. "You will comply with him. If he says on your knees, you're on your knees. If he says on your feet, you're on your feet. If he says take off your clothes, your clothes come off. Hesitation, and I might just reconsider letting him shoot you through the knee to see how you fare."

My heart raced, watching Argall in the doorway and hearing E's soothing, malign voice bounce between the walls. "No, stop it," I croaked, my voice suddenly falling through. I glanced wide-eyed at the camera and its little flashing light. "Alright? Alright- Stop. You can't do this."

"Sorry, John. Your life is not your hands anymore, it is in mine; it has been for quite some time, and you should submit to that reality quickly, for your own good. It's all about the big money, Dr. Watson, and in this business, your name is gold."

Argall approached, swinging his rod, and I shrunk.

"We need to make you look like you feel. How do you feel, John?" E asked.

I gasped. "For Christ's sake, call him off!"

"Goodnight, John." The microphone cut.

Argall didn't hit me the way I'd been hit before. He loomed above me, his rod clenched in his hand, with a glare powerful enough to piece flesh. I pressed myself into the corner of the room and watched as he gripped the weapon like a bat, his muscles contracting and rippling beneath his skin. My mind went into hyperdrive. Fight-or-flight imploded on itself. He coiled his bones until they burst. Wood collided with flesh. Its impact threw me on my face, groaning in pain and shivering with fright.

I knew what he was doing; he was trying to intimidate me, to get the high ground and make me whimper. It was working. He broadened his shoulders, and I crumbled beneath him. I could see his every tendon, but seeing did nothing to protect me. Every single nerve stood on end, absorbing his every motion, bending as his rod came crashing back. There was nowhere to run to, no way to defend myself. He was the ocean crashing against me, throwing me side to side, sucking the air from my lungs.

He kept at me until my arms were various colors of purple, yellow, and blue. I felt my bones ache, salty sweat pouring off my forehead as I collapsed, my legs pulled close for fear he would snap them in half. But he had finished. His club swung near his ankle.

"I'll be back, Watson." Argall growled. He then turned and strode back through the door, closing it behind him with a large clang as the metal latch met its lock.

I wheezed, laughing and sobbing with pain. It was so intense and sporadic my brain was confused as to how to interpret it. I had to pull myself together. I wasn't supposed to let E get the best of me. I had to keep up a strong front. I had to be unbreakable. But Christ my arms hurt.

Crawling toward the cot, I bit my lip against my throbbing limbs and pulled myself up. Once there, I pressed my face against the pillowcase and released a long, moaning cry. Everything I could feel hurt. I could hardly think while the blind adrenaline wore off, replaced by an empty ache. But I had to assess. I was a doctor: I had to assess.

My leg was the least of my problems. My stomach, empty, folded painfully. My arms looked almost green in the pale lighting. My head and jaw thundered from being thrown. My throat closed up with stress, lungs beginning to fail as I felt another attack beginning to creep up my spine.

I curled my legs against my stomach and faced away from the camera, focusing on breathing and calming myself down. Angry tears stung at my eyes. I was completely helpless here, isolated, in agony, crushed under the thumb of an unnamed, faceless woman. I needed to get out. I needed to sleep. I needed to eat. I needed not to be in pain. I needed so many things, I didn't know what I needed. But I knew I needed you.

I tried to clear my head by blocking out everything except for you. I knew you would be looking for me. I knew you would find me. You were Sherlock Holmes, for Christ's sake. Nothing is impossible for you. That was all I needed to know - you were coming, and you needed me to be strong. I would be strong for you. That much I could do.

Time stretched out, unnoticed. Eventually I got up and paced around a few times. My arms had gone numb, their blues and purples deepening progressively. The rest of me still hurt, but it was getting better, and I needed to occupy myself or else I was afraid my heart would stop cold in my chest. For sure I would go crazy if I just laid there until you showed up.

A man with scraggly hair came into the room a while later, carrying a tray with three small butties, a bottle of water, and a bowl of yellowish soup that smelled like chicken and strong garlic. The man didn't try to approach me, he only set the little tray on the ground in front of me and mentioned not to worry about drugs. Regardless, I didn't touch any of it.

Staring at the soup made me notice how sore my throat was, and how chapped my lips had become in the dry little room. I looked from the food up at the camera. They didn't want me dead, right? So they wouldn't try to kill me. I'm already here, they wouldn't need to drug me. I should might as well try to stay alive until you got there, and I wouldn't be alive much longer if I refused to eat anything for fear of drugs.

The seal on the water bottle was unbroken, which made me feel much better. I immediately opened it and drank, relieving my throat, then picked up a butty. There was nothing on the inside of the bun, or on the lettuce, or the cheese, but I gave it a few sniffs just to make sure. Then I popped a small piece into my mouth. Then a bigger piece. I made sure the camera had full view of me, of course, using the food as some sort of small mental leverage over E. I would wait for you.

I hoped you were safe, that nothing had happened to you, or that you hadn't done anything too unbelievably stupid. Lestrade would keep an eye on you, wouldn't he? My gloom lifted a little, imagining him roping you in from some crazy scheme you had worked up. I got up, having eaten all my anxious stomach could handle, and crawled again onto the cot.

At first I laid on my side, then in favor of my arm I twisted on my back, closing my eyes to get the whitewashed walls out of my head. The adrenaline had faded by now, and my meal made me a bit sleepy. But within thirty seconds of laying down, the lights of the room went out, plunging the room into darkness. A shiver washed over me and I turned back onto my side, squeezing my eyes tightly against the flash of that little red bulb.

You know to keep your hopes up high and your reviews down low.

Next update Sunday (crossed fingers)