John just didn't have any luck when it came to the criminal underworld. This was the third time he had been kidnapped in as many months and all for his association with Sherlock Holmes. All he had wanted was a cheap flat, what he got was a cheap flat and a lot of damn trouble. Currently he was trussed up in a derelict building somewhere south of the river, most like in Nine Elms (living with Holmes had improved his sense of direction). The grinding and screeching of industrial repair was also something of a giveaway.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case in at least a week so John wasn't entirely sure what this particular lot of ingenious hoods were after. Annoyed at having lost the shopping in the process of getting dropped in the middle of Baker Street he swore for the hundredth time to brush up on his surveillance skills. They had tied him up and dumped him on the concrete floor of the warehouse at least an hour ago and his injured shoulder was starting to protest to the contortion and the damp. He had managed to loosen the binding on his feet by working the rope against the lace hooks on his boots but his hands were going to be a bit more difficult.

When the first of his kidnapper's walked in, he tossed a small duffle bag on the floor. The clanging, metal sound it made as it hit the concrete was not promising.

"Hello Dr. Watson. Feeling alright?"

"Fine, thanks. Don't suppose you could let me stretch my arms?"

The man smirked. His face was ill lit in the dingy room but John could make out the square shape of it and the indent of a rather nasty scar sunk into his cheek.

"Just relax doctor, I'm only looking for a little information. Cooperate and you'll be out of here right quick." The man turned his back to John and nudged the black bag with his heavy boot. "Of course, I certainly won't mind if you don't cooperate."

John didn't respond. He set his face into a blank mask and tried to ignore the churning in his stomach.

"So, let's start shall we? Easy questions first. You were in the army?"

John nodded sharply.

"Right, so how is that an army doctor ends up as an assistant consulting detective? Not a typical leap for most lads."

"And your question is?"

"My question, doctor, is how well do you know Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Well enough."

"So if I were to ask you whether or not he was currently in the flat, you would say?"

"Don't know."

The man moved forward and placed his foot on top of John's left shoulder.

"Care to reconsider?"

"No."

He started applying pressure to the shoulder, easing forward until John shouted out in pain. With a sigh, the man stood back.

"Loyal army boy, eh? Don't worry, we'll quit you of that."