He didn't realize he'd been drugged until it was too late, when the colours had already begun to blur together and smear like a finger painting.
At least he collapsed to the ground slowly and not all of a sudden. His head would thank him later for that.
He awoke in the dark, making it impossible for him to deduce anything about his surroundings other than what he could touch, which was very little considering he was handcuffed to something.
It was silent. Sherlock wasn't sure if that was good or not. He took a quick inventory of his body. Nothing broken, nothing too damaged, so it wasn't likely that he'd been beaten. Yet anyway.
Because if this was Moriarty (like he thought it would be) then there would be plenty of that. Later. All in good time.
Kill you? No, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special.
Sherlock didn't want to think about what that meant. Burning him, burning his heart out. There was an entire list of ways Moriarty could do that, none of them remotely pleasant for Sherlock to think about. And of course, there were always the ways Sherlock hadn't even thought of. The consulting criminal would probably be good at that, coming up with new ways to torture him, destroy him.
That was, if it was Moriarty. In which case, he should be making his entrance soon.
He could hardly wait.
He fell asleep some indeterminate time later, the perpetual darkness completely screwing with his already out of balance sleep cycle. He only awoke when felt himself being prodded, gently at first, then harder.
He jerked away, wrenching his wrists, still in the handcuffs attached to whatever it was.
Someone had turned a light on, and although it was pitiful, it was enough for him to see Moriarty beaming at him, glad that his new plaything was ready.
Sherlock sighed, and peered over his shoulder to see what he was cuffed to. A pipe.
Sherlock sighed again.
"Oh no, that won't do," the man fretted, smirking at Sherlock as he spotted his bruising wrists.
He pulled a key out from one of the pockets of his suit and unlocked Sherlock's hands.
Sherlock rubbed his aching wrists, pondering if he could attack Moriarty and kill him before anyone came to his rescue.
Probably unwise, at least until he knew what he was up against.
Still... Punching him in the face should be okay. And oh so rewarding.
But before he could take the swing, before he could even pull back his arm, Sherlock fell to the ground and fell hard, landing on his elbow with a crack, jarring his chin, and making his already sore head ache.
He groaned, not just in pain, but in annoyance. His feet were still cuffed together, which he'd managed not to notice.
Moriarty tutted. "Bad boy," he murmured, yanking up Sherlock's head by the chin to look at him. Sherlock hissed in pain. Moriarty smirked. "That's what you get for being naughty!" he trilled, dropping Sherlock's head back down on the cold floor before walking away.
"I was going to play with you, but you're obviously too naughty for that. Perhaps after my friends teach you some lessons?" he nodded to two men who must have been lurking in the shadows, now emerging.
"La'erz!" he called throwing a hand up as a goodbye.
Sherlock realized that this was not going to go well.
Obvious, he scolded himself.
But... really not well.