Warnings: Established Sherlock/John, some swearing.

Set in-between series one and series two.

The First Room

Sally woke with the kind of throbbing in her temples she'd had only once before, when she'd walked into an opening door and hit her head.

It wasn't like a hangover, and it wasn't like waking up from a fever or nightmare. It was just a horrible, sticky, disorientating thing, and she didn't mind admitting it scared her a little. The thought of what might have happened to her whilst she was unconscious was a weight tugging at the back of her mind.

She just lay there for a few seconds with her eyes closed, and tried to piece together the information. She'd been on her way out of her flat, and the cab she'd got into had seemed innocent enough. Perhaps not.

She shuddered a little, and wondered if anything had happened. It didn't feel like it – she wasn't hurt, apart from the pounding in her head. Her clothing felt intact and in place, which was a relief. In fact, all she could tell was that when she'd got in the cab someone had cracked her over the head with something blunt and now she was here.

Where 'here' was she was unable to determine without actually opening her eyes, so she did so reluctantly. They were slightly gluey and sore and she rubbed at them, sitting up. Everything was blurred out of focus and she scrubbed a hand over them again, blinking.

It didn't go away. And it didn't feel like part of the concussion. Her heart, already pounding, picked up speed, and hastily she put a finger up to her eye and touched it, pushing down with the tip.

Her contact lenses weren't there.

Even disorientated and with a headache she could tell – she'd been wearing them since she was sixteen, and she knew whether they were there or not. Had it fallen out when she was hit? She touched the other eye and found the situation exactly the same, and the chances of both coming out by accident were about one in a million.

What kind of person knew she wore contacts and deliberately went to the trouble of removing them? She was pretty much blind without them, unable to see clearly past thirty centimetres in front of her face, so she squinted, looking around for something, anything.

The room she was in was large, about the size of an average classroom, and made of wood that smelled damp and old. It was lit by a single blurred glow set into the wall, which she assumed was a light bulb; it was hard to tell. She pressed her eyes into slits, hoping to chase some of the blurriness away from her vision, but it wasn't very helpful; the place seemed devoid of pretty much anything.

She turned around, and saw something against the far wall, a large shapeless black mass, but she couldn't tell much in this state, so she made her way towards it.

As she drew closer she could see it breathing, which meant it was another person – she doubted an animal – and they didn't seem to be moving much. Perhaps, she thought, they were just asleep, and this whole thing was some sort of test. Her thoughts were leaping erratically round in a way that foreshadowed panic, but for now she was fairly calm.

"Hello?" she said, croaking out the words – she was thirsty. "Hello, are you alright?"

There was no reply, so she grasped the person and turned them towards her, lowering her head and squinting.

Sherlock Holmes. She leapt back slightly in surprise, snagging her sleeve on his coat buttons and tearing some of the threads loose. She was sure it was him; his features were fairly unmistakable. But what was the freak doing here?

He's a prisoner, like you her brain told her rather snappily; she supposed it was as annoyed as her to be stuck in a room with only an unconscious freak for company.

Well, hopefully she could wake him up; his super-brain could be useful here, although she wasn't looking forward to his ego being set loose. She shook his shoulders and called out loudly, but produced no results – he flopped limply in her arms like a badly stuffed toy, his hair falling in his face. She frowned and slapped his cheek, perhaps a little harder than should have been necessary. There were no obvious wounds on his head, whereas, if she put a hand to her own, there was a lump on the back.

It felt strange, touching him. She didn't like it, but she also didn't want him to die on her.

It occurred to her there was only one thing that could have effects like this – he'd been drugged, and pretty heavily by the looks of it. She supposed whoever had done it had thought a head wound wouldn't have been enough to tame him, and if they knew his history with drugs they would have administered a higher dose than they would have on someone else; whatever it was, it was strong.

She didn't know how long she'd been here, and there weren't any windows, but her back wasn't too stiff and her thirst only mild, meaning it couldn't have been more than one or two hours. Sherlock didn't look like he was waking up any time soon, so she rolled him into the recovery position and sat with her back against the wall, fuming.

Who on earth did this kind of thing? She might have said the freak at first, but he was here with her, and she didn't think even he'd be able to fake being quiet for so long when he could make snide remarks at her. There was the matter of hostages and ransoms and the things she had to deal with sometimes, but she wasn't worth anything. Sherlock, perhaps, could be a bargaining chip for someone – even she had to admit that brain was useful sometimes – but she was just a sergeant, unmarried, and generally just getting on with life.

The thought crossed her mind it might actually be a test – some kind of team-building get-pally-with-Sherlock thing Lestrade had arranged, but she doubted he would have sanctioned concussion and drugs. Besides, if he thought bunging her in an empty room with Sherlock Holmes and no contact lenses was going to improve team spirit he was sadly mistaken – it was more likely to end in bloodshed.

She got up and walked around the room, looking for anything that might give her a clue as to where she was, but the room seemed bare apart from the light on the wall, so she sat back down again. The loss of contact lenses was bothering her the most – not only did it leave her uncertain of everything around her, it also meant whoever had done this knew her, had been watching her. And it also meant they had something in store for her.

Just as she was beginning to doze Sherlock moved and groaned, twisting his legs into his stomach slightly. She leapt to attention, squinting to see if he was properly awake – it was hard to tell, with everything so fuzzy. Slowly she reached out and prodded his shoulder, willing him to wake up and do something, but he flopped back down again without a word.

This annoyed her; it seemed like he was being lazy just to irritate her, so she seized his shoulders and shook them angrily.

"Come on dickhead, wake up."

He stirred again, trying to move and falling back down again with a noise that sounded more like 'bluh' than an actual word.

"I said wake up!"

Sherlock rolled over, dragging her with him – he was stronger than that skinny frame showed – and she struggled as his whole weight came to rest on her legs, biting her lip to stop herself shouting and showing weakness as her ankles and knees creaked.

"Mornin' John," he muttered, and before she could register that yes, the detective and the doctor definitely were sleeping together and Lestrade owed her five quid, he was kissing her.

Thanks for reading! Reviews and constructive criticism welcome.

To be continued.