Sherlock slowly became aware of someone slapping at his face and calling something out. Groaning, he batted the offending hands away weakly, mumbling protest. He opened his eyes, to find his vision blurred. Blinking slowly, his vision cleared progressively. He was dismayed to see the person was in fact, Sally Donovan.

"C'mon freak," she muttered. Sherlock caught her hand, as she went to tap his face again.

"Stop it. I'm fine." The consulting detective was puzzled to see Donovan roll her eyes, as she sat back.

"Right, that's why you were out for," she glanced down at her watch, "four hours. You must be perfectly fine."Donovan's voice oozed sarcasm. Sherlock's eyes widened, as he struggled to sit up.

"What?" He never slept more than an hour at a time. Donovan moved back several more inches to allow Sherlock to move. "I've been drugged." Obviously. His mind was sluggish, as though he had been injected with something.

"Don't you remember what happened?" Donovan raised her eyebrow. Her soft brown eyes stared at him intently, as he tried to remember.

"No, nothing. I don't remember anything. This isn't right, I always remember EVERYTHING." Sherlock was breathing deeply, desperately trying to remember. A crime scene. John. Lestrade. The park. "Crime scene in the park. John and Lestrade were there…"

"Yeah. Nothing else?" Sherlock shook his head, unused to not having the answers. Donovan looked at him, a lack of hatred and loathing in her eyes. "You saw someone running away, and followed them. I went after you… I found you with the man behind a building a street away." She paused, and Sherlock motioned impatiently for her to continue. "He was standing over you; I think he had already drugged you." Donovan looked down at her hands, which lay curled in her lap. "You both saw me. You told me to run, but he hit you repeatedly… After you were unconscious, he pointed the gun at you, telling me he would kill you if I ran."

Sherlock was confused: that wasn't what the Donovan he knew would do. She would've run. "Why didn't you run?"

Her gaze hardened as Donovan looked back up at him. "I don't hate you that much, freak."

"Obviously." Sherlock looked around, eyeing their surroundings. "I suspect you already tried to find a way out." He stood; brushing dust off his clothing. The room the pair was in was about 6 by 6 metres, the ceiling well above Sherlock's head. A few dim lights lit the space, and a strong aroma of rot permeated the air. "The victims. John said that they appeared to have suffocated. The killer doesn't have contact with his victims after he takes them." Sherlock started pacing. "He blindfolded you. Placed us both in this room." As he spoke, he gestured to a dark blue cloth that Donovan had abandoned in a corner.

"So, what? He leaves us here until we die?"

"Looks like it."

"Do you think he's watching us?" Donovan looked around.

"Definitely," Sherlock stated promptly. "If he leaves his victims in here to die, but leaves them in parks, outside public buildings, etcetera, he must have eyes inside the room, somewhere. How long have we been in here?"

"About three hours." Donovan watched Sherlock as he held his hands up to his face, apparently thinking.

"I think we have enough air for about forty-eight hours." Sherlock paused. "There aren't any ways out of here, it would seem."

"So, what do we do?" Donovan had stood, crossing her arms.

Sherlock turned to her, grinning. "Hope John or Lestrade can find us in time."