Exactly two hours ago, Sherlock had excused himself and went outside for fresh air. The strong emit of gas fumes had bothered the great detective, possibly reminding him of his stale days in London. Joan understood and had given him a pass, it was admirable how serious Sherlock was to get away from anything that could or would get him high. She had turned on her timer, something that would remind her how long her patient was away. It was becoming a routine, a thing between them.

After two hours of patiently waiting, an anxiety arose in the former surgeon after fifteen more minutes of waiting. It had been two hours and fifteen minutes that he had left, it wasn't a big deal, Sherlock had left her for at least three hours once, but he promised he was stuck in a line, a coffee shop. Joan had given him a pass.

And after another hour passed. Joan almost stumble up the stairs of Captain Gregson's precinct. He was gone for three hours and fifteen minutes. Sherlock usually called or sent a text, he had specifically told her he was going to wait outside their latest murder scene, but she had come out and found the detective wasn't there. That wasn't unusual either. This was Sherlock after all!

Detective Bell was the first to catch her panicked. "Is something the matter?" he asked, between pushing a small time criminal towards the interview room and giving her an are-you-alright look.

Joan rolled her eyes, she probably looked like some crazy Asian woman who lost her two year old and didn't know better then to look at a friends home. "Sorry," she muttered, "It's just that Sherlock ran out on me," she smiled, "Again!"

"I'd put a tracker on him – If I were you." Bell winked, his usual Cop like manner reminding Joan of how normal people always escaped partners or whatever he was to her. He nodded and left her.

Joan beamed, no no no, not the wink! They weren't that – not even close. And she wasn't some jealous women tracking down her man like she owned him. She crossed a few desks and knocked on the Captain's door. Only he knew about the relationship she had with Sherlock and he would understand. Gregson waved her in, Joan carried.

"Is Sherlock behind you?" he asked, getting ready to take his jacket from the hanger.

"Ah, No!" She said, massaging her hands. Something she did when she got nervous. "Sherlock has been gone for three hours and fifteen minutes,"

Gregson raised his brows.

"After that last scene, I don't have a good feeling. Maybe those strong fumes craved the addict in him." She pushed, ignoring his seriously? look.

"I know Sherlock. Something like that won't make him jump on the high drugs wagon again!"

"He is still missing. And he isn't supposed to leave me for more then two hours."

"He'll turn up and I'll deal with him." Gregson said, his paternal attitude towards Sherlock evident in Joan's eyes.

"Thanks but he is still missing and I-"

Gregson understood the dilemma Joan was in, "Did his father say anything about arresting him?"

The surgeon cringed, "Ahh, not really."

"You know what?" Greg spoke with authority, "When he comes home – which he will soon," he assured, "I will put him in jail, ah - " he raised his hand when Joan began to protest, "We will call his Father, Mr. Holmes and I will talk to him personally."

Joan smiled, "That's a good idea but I'll lose my job."

"You won't, I can't be with him all the time and I'm a busy person. You just need a helping hand."

Joan agreed.

"Sherlock is like a kid, he just needs a little tough talk and lesson. He'll understand."

Joan hoped so!


Sherlock roused with a startle. Somewhere far away - Sherlock couldn't conclude, his head was spinning and hurting - but somewhere far and echoy, he heard a door slap shut. He swallowed, his throat dry and his body cold, and looked about. His eyes were still swimming for a clear picture, the odor was so strong and it jolted him in a few seconds. He stretched, only to attain that his movements were limited, it was probably because his body was in shock and – Why was his body in shock? Sherlock looked around, a small lamp giving little to no light but good enough to see two corners of a room. He tried raising his hand to rub his eyes, but the cold metal that touched him became a startling revelation, he was handcuffed. His body was so cold, he was shuddering and he couldn't feel anything on him. Even his feet were shackled when he touched them with his cuffed hands.

Footsteps.

Of course, he had heard a door either opening or closing, his brain had been able to grasp it but someone was either coming or leaving. He was too confused to play out the event he was in. What was he doing here? How did he come here? Was it home? His house was never cold, let alone his room! What's going on? He shook his head and looked up just in time as someone barged in.

"Morning, Sunshine." A rough voice spoke.

Sherlock stared. A lone built man who stood around six feet and wore a tore muscle shirt, he didn't know him, 'cause if he did, then he would have recognized him, he didn't forget that easily. "Who are you?" he asked, surprised that his voice was lost and cleared his throat, "I don't know you!" It was a long shot but asking was the only thing that he could come up with. He needed to rest, he was so tired but he just woke up, why was he tired? Sherlock hesitated when the man walked towards him.

Sherlock flinched when the stranger crouched in front of him, a strong smell shrouding him and a ski mask covering his face, "Nothing from you, darling." He replied, a thumb resting on the detective's chin and wiping something invisible. "You are just our insurance."

"Insurance for what?"

The man laughed dangerously. "tch," And then he stood up, "Just behave, that's all we ask."

Sherlock heard more footsteps and his breathing picked up, "What do you want, Who are you?" he straightened up, not realizing his body was so limp and sore and was leaning on the wall behind him. So far, he acknowledged, his hands and feet were tied, he was in a small room, sitting against a wall, and it was cold, very cold. Things looked bad, but Sherlock just needed to clear his head and figure out what was going on and how to get out of this mess. The back of his head hurt like hell, and Sherlock deducted, that he may had been struck in the back and lost consciousness during the course. He didn't remember it but time would help.

There was a loud sound and Sherlock staggered against the wall. "Wha-"

"It's just the door," the man said. Walking away from him and towards a door to his left.

There were whispers and the door opened, bidding four more figures into the room. Sherlock's breathing became shallower, he wasn't scared, but he was aware of the situation he was in. He was kidnapped, locked in a room, hands and legs fastened and there was no place to go, he was trapped. There were five people in the room and there was only one of him, they had the advantage in whatever it was they wanted. This wasn't the first time someone had caught him and locked him up, no, but this was the first time someone had the upper hand in it all and that wasn't good. Not only that, Sherlock felt very queasy at the moment.

"Are you sure that's him?" A thick British accent asked.

Sherlock pulled his knees closer to his chest, if they hadn't removed everything from his pockets – or checked them – he was sure there was a pin with him somewhere. He could easily release himself from these handcuffs. He made light movements, not inviting any suspicious attention. He flickered his eyes towards one of the four men, a brown folder in his hand. Him along with his three more buddies were also wearing ski masks, Sherlock also noted they were wearing business suits with it. The man with the folder was looking at him intently, the other three were talking to the muscle shirt man.

Folder man opened up the folder he was holding and pulled something out, from where Sherlock sat, It looked like the back of a photograph, it was too dark to be sure.

"Is it him?" Another man asked.

Folder man came closer to Sherlock and violently raised his chin. Sherlock hissed and pulled away, "Why don't you just ask," he looked at him with resentment, "It would help."

"It's him." An old gruff sound from behind muscle man spoke. "Bring the camera and newspaper." He ordered, probably the leader of this group.

Sherlock blinked. His eyes flickering from the leader to the man in front of him and to the three others. He was completely lost and helpless. So, he was going to be held hostage? That wasn't good! He swallowed hard, suddenly realizing how thirsty he was. Muscle man left to fetch what the leader had asked and now he was here, looking up at four masked faces. Sherlock gave them a fake smile.

"Fucking twat," someone cursed.

Sherlock cleared his throat, ready to speak, "Whatever you want, it must be really important. Coming all the way from Britain and taking me hostage." Sherlock was aware these weren't his enemies. They were holding him as ransom, for whom? He didn't know.

"I want to kick his ass,"

"Not now," the leader backed away one of the men who was approaching Sherlock.

So, they were going to hurt him. It was ridicules to think they wouldn't, Sherlock shoved the thought at the back of his mind, he had the present to deal with. "Let me guess, you are going to take a picture of me with a newspaper and send it to whoever you have a grudge against and ask for some kind of ransom? Probably business related because it can't be money, all four of you are already rich."

"It would be wise to be quiet."

"Ahh," Sherlock continued, deducing more about them. Even though he felt sick and his head hurt, he could still see through their exterior motives, "All four of you," he raised his finger, "Are in a business together. And you," he pointed towards the leader, "You are the leader, A boss."

"He really is a smart ass."

Sherlock smiled at them, "You won't get away."

"We'll deal with you when we are done."

The detective shook his head, "No…You won't. Because if you were going to kill me or whatever other 'deal' you mean, you wouldn't have this need to hide your faces."

The door to the room opened again and muscle man came in with a camcorder and a newspaper. "Here," he threw the newspaper at Sherlock.

"You are video taping me?"

"Hold up the newspaper," Muscle man turned on the camcorder, "We are recording in 1..2..3..,"

"There was no need for that," Sherlock murmured.

Muscle man came closer, zoomed into the newspaper laying right next to Sherlock and then at his face. Fingers were placed under Sherlock's chin and his face was lifted up towards the light. He was recorded for a few minutes and Sherlock awkwardly looked everywhere. "Alright," the lcd screen was closed and muscle man looked back, "Is that it?"

"As long as we got his face and that he is alright."

"The date from newspaper as well," Another included.

The leader started towards the door, "Lets go."

They all began to leave, except one. Sherlock knew, "Are you going to kick my ass?"

"Son of a…"

There were quick steps and Sherlock was violently kicked in the thigh. The detective swiftly pulled himself against the wall and hissed when another boot was landed on the side of his same leg. The painful jolts quickened Sherlock's breathing and he threw a bitter look up.

"Come on…" A voice from behind called, "There will be enough time for that later."

Enough time for that, Sherlock gazed at the men leaving him behind. He was going to be here for a while then. Either they were intimidating him or were really serious about what they were doing. Sherlock didn't want to know. All he wanted to do now was rest and think with a clear head. This chill he was sitting in was uncomfortable, the pain in his leg was violent but Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed. He would get through this on his own.


I won't be able to update for a week. I have a test and am busy. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Thanks for reading.

tbc