Mr. Holmes…? Can you hear me Mr. Holmes?

Sherlock, please answer me…Sherlock, oh please just say something for me.

Sherlock can see the paramedics gazing down upon him with their medical masks on and pen light flashing down at his iris. His reflexes were just fine. He felt John's hands grab his and squeeze it tightly. John gazed at Sherlock with a stern look on his face. The doctor knew there was something critically wrong with him. Sherlock Holmes was not responding. He was awake. He was conscious but his head was like a blank slate. He just stayed there motionlessly like a rag doll. John's hands brushed up to Sherlock's limps wrists. The paramedics were getting ready to strap him on to the stretcher.

What have they done to him? What's wrong with him? For god's sake Sherlock, say something! ANYTHING!

The hands now shook Sherlock's shoulders desperately.

What's wrong with him?

Everything.

…

Two months ago.

When Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes, a strong flash of light penetrated his vision. He winced at it and immediately tried to turn his head away from the lights but his head didn't budge. He frowned and squinted at the light. A strange noise erupted in his ears. It was a high pitched screech as if someone was scratching the glass with a knife. He tried to life his hands up to block the ray of light away but his hands wouldn't budge. Sherlock tried to look down to see what was restraining him but he remembered that his head was also immobile. He breathed in through his nose and exhaled slowly. Then he closed his eyes and tried to make sense of what was going on here.

Where am I? How did I end up like this? What is the last thing I remember doing?

The first and the second question, Sherlock was completely clueless. But the third question, he can vaguely remember. He was working at an experiment last night in St. Bart's. It was something around 11pm at that time. He was comparing blood samples he found at several murder scenes.

And then what happened?

Sherlock strained his brows. He was running a substance check on the fourth blood sample when…

Did I black out? How?

Had someone attacked him? He doubted that. If someone did, he would have fought back and he would have remembered it. Besides, other than the irritating noise and the strong light he was currently exposed to, he felt completely fine. After a few seconds of pondering, it finally came down upon him.

I was drugged.

When? He tried to recall anything he had eaten or drunk in the past 24 hours. He was working on a case. He had hardly eaten anything. Other than a piece of apple but that was very difficult to drug without Sherlock noticing it. Then he remembered having a cup of coffee before leaving his flat but it was highly unlikely that that would be spiked. Other than that he hadn't taken anything. Not even water…

The nicotine patches

He had bought a new pack two days ago and started using them yesterday. He tugged at the restraints experimentally with his eyes still tightly shut. The surface was cool and metallic. They clung around his wrist tightly, barely allowing his circulations going. He tugged at his feet too. They were also tightly restrained and he was barefoot. His watch that was usually strapped around his left hand wrist was missing too. He was restrained stomach up to a metallic slab. He tried to lift his head but he felt something tightly tug around his throat and forehead. His neck and forehead was tightly strapped down too. He also realized that his hair was cut incredibly short. He didn't feel the familiar loose curls around his ears and forehead. He flexed his fingers and then touched the edge of the slab. They were cool, smooth, and definitely metallic. He cautiously cracked open his eyes but closed it immediately. The light was too strong for human eyes. He can feel the heat of it all over his body and face. Despite the absurd state he was currently in, Sherlock's heart wasn't beating wildly nor was he precipitating at all. In fact, he was completely relaxed and calm. It almost fascinated him. It was like a new type of guessing game.

What else could I deduce from this?

He questioned himself and strained his ears against the faint screeching noise. Was it coming from a speaker or was it echoing from somewhere else? But the more he listened intently to the noise, something happened to him. Before he knew it, he felt something well up inside him and his throat constricted. Suddenly, the bridge of his nose stung and he felt something warm trickle from his nose and down to his upper lip. His nose was bleeding. Sherlock took a deep breath through his mouth and tried to shut out the noise. The pain ebbed away immediately.

What was that?

He can still hear the faint screech but it wasn't hurting his nose anymore and the strange nausea had disappeared from his abdomen. After taking a few deep breaths, he strained his ears and tried again. In less than five seconds, the unpleasant feeling was back again. The screeching noise suddenly seemed to maximize its volume and his ear drums started to ache. His stomach swirled and Sherlock felt the muscles in his throat get ready to vomit. He was bleeding from his nose again. Before anything worse happened, Sherlock broke his concentration and gasped for air. He had no idea what this was. He didn't have enough scientific knowledge to make out what in the world this trickery was but he made a mental note to research about it as soon as he was out of here. The blood trickled down across his right cheek. It was tickling him and he really wanted to use his hands to swipe the sensation away. He can already feel the blood starting to scab.

He stayed there quietly and tried to contemplate how long he had been out but he lacked too many data to make an accurate guess. It could have been a few hours or a few days. Sherlock had no clue. He tried to get used to the strong light and he opened his eyes several seconds but only to find himself temporarily blinded by it. He shut his eyes and chased the strange white shadows dance behind his eyelids. Once he fully recovered, he tried the whole process all over again. It was a stupid thing to do but it was all Sherlock could do at the moment. Boredom was setting down upon him. It was interesting all right. The situation he as in was very unusual but he was still in the middle of a case. He wanted to get back to his experiment as soon as possible and confirm his hypothesis. He tapped his fingers against the metal surface randomly. That as when he realized his nails had been trimmed shorter than usual. He frowned and pressed his nails against the slab. Then, he also flexed his toes and bent his ankles and brushed it against the board. They were also trimmed.

He was forced to lie like that for several more minutes when suddenly, the screeching noise became louder. At first, Sherlock thought it was just his imagination, but he realized that someone was gradually raising the volume. The noise pounded against his ear drums and the familiar uneasy sensation returned to his stomach. Sherlock gritted his teeth and clenched his jaws tightly. He tried to block out the noise but unlike his eyes, he couldn't close his ears. Sherlock huffed and inhaled sharply through his nose. The screeching was now so loud, that his head was starting to pound. He arms and legs strained against the restraints and he squirmed around. A new set of blood trickled over his drying scabs and Sherlock gurgled as bile well up though his throat. He was facing upward. The last thing he wanted to do was throw up on himself, but the noise was becoming unbearable. The pain at the bridge of his nose started to travel upward toward his forehead. Sherlock furrowed his brows. A trickle of warm bile leaked from the corner of his mouth and ran down toward his throat. The consulting detective let out an ashamed groan and fought against the nauseating sensation. He clenched his fist tightly and realized why his capturer had trimmed his fingernails. If his nails were his usual length, they would have dug into his palm pretty deeply by now. Just when Sherlock thought he couldn't hold down his insides any longer, the screeching noise suddenly broke off. The strange sensation disappeared in a flash and Sherlock relaxed all of his muscles and breathed in deeply.

But even as he experienced all these unusual physical symptoms, his heart never skipped a beat or elevate. He was sweating slightly but other than that, Sherlock Holmes was completely relaxed. And just like that he was left at peace for another few hours. Sherlock decided to count the seconds in his head to keep track of time and to keep himself from getting bored. It was exactly 1976 seconds later, nearly three hours later when Sherlock heard a door open from his right. The consulting detective wanted to turn his head toward the sound but he remembered he couldn't. So he just drew his lips in to a straight line and waited for whatever was going to happen next. He felt more relieved than frightened that someone was finally approaching him. He was so bored that he was grateful for any movement. The door seemed to be a sliding door. It didn't clang nor did he register a door knob twisting. It merely clicked and Sherlock heard the rollers sliding across the metal tracks. The footsteps were soft. Either the person approaching him wore only socks, was bear footed, or either the floor was carpeted or cushioned. Sherlock didn't say anything. He just waited calmly for the patting noise to get closer and closer. After a few seconds, the footsteps finally paused and he heard a faint shuffling noise to his immediate right. He strained his ears. What was the person wearing? From the noise the fabric didn't seem to be very soft. Perhaps it was a suit or a coat? He felt something wet touch his cheek. It was a wet towel. Sherlock breathed in deeply. It smelled like chloride. Perhaps the towel was bleached? The wet towel wiped away the half dried bile from his jawline, lips, and neck. Then, it scrubbed at the dried flecks of blood running from his nose. After a few seconds of shuffling noises, a pair of gloved hands pressed against his neck. It was taking his pulse. Sherlock waited patiently and wondered what his capturer's profession was. He tried to smell the hands but it only smelled like plastic gloves and nothing else. Then, the hands ran down to his abdomen. It was then that Sherlock realized he was dressed in a pair of t shirt and pants. The unknown man undid the restraints on Sherlock's stomach and chest. Sherlock didn't bother to try to escape or resist. He just waited patiently and wondered what was going to happen next. The hands pulled up his shirt and exposed his stomach. Then, it pressed against the area expertly.

Is he a physician?

The capturer was palpating him. The hands pressed above his kidney and his ribs and seemed to be satisfied with his physical condition. The hands pulled his shirt down and surprisingly, patted Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock didn't like to be touched. The palpation was annoying enough but the patting slightly unnerved him. The capturer must have noticed Sherlock's muscle tense at this because suddenly a finger ran down the side of Sherlock's face affectionately. Goosebumps erupted on Sherlock's arms but other than that, Sherlock didn't betray his emotions. Suddenly, he realized that his capturer could be a female. The way the fingers were now touching him was very unprofessional and too passionate. Realizing that Sherlock would not react to any of the following physical contact, the hand withdrew and the footsteps padded away from Sherlock. Once again, he was left in solitude with no physical freedom. After a few minutes of agonizing silence, Sherlock decided to dabble around with his mind palace. He may not be able to continue his experimenting at the lab but he still had his head. He opened up the map of the crime scenes and a mental calendar marking who was killed when and the suspect's alibis. He went through all the details and checked whether he had missed anything. Obviously, he hadn't. No matter how many times he checked, Sherlock realized that he, like always, was on the right track. He was so close to solving the case. Soon, his thoughts started to drift off to John, Lestrade and all the others. He wondered what they were doing now.

He was happy and well contended for the time being by keeping himself busy with hypothetical ideas on where John might be going on a date and what Mrs. Hudson was baking when he was interrupted by the screech again. It started off as a faint noise, barely noticeable but just like before, it gradually raised its volume and Sherlock's fingers started to tense again. He tried to keep his breathing steady but once again, his nose was bleeding, and this time, it took shorter time before he was starting to choke on his own vomit. The sour taste irritated Sherlock. His stomach lurched and he dreaded having to lie down there for another few hours while the bile and blood dried onto him. Sherlock hadn't eaten properly for a long time so he didn't have to worry much about his insides but he was still coughing up acidic bile. The stench was still bad enough for him. Unlike the first time, the screeching noise kept going like that for several minutes longer and Sherlock was coughing and vomiting helplessly by the time it stopped. As soon as the noise stopped, Sherlock spat out the last of the bile from his mouth and swallowed hard. He wanted to rinse his mouth badly, and take a shower if that was possible too.

…

Sherlock lost track of time. The boredom was nagging at him again. The bile and blood had dried completely and the stench had eased. With nothing to do and not being able to work on any case, Sherlock was starting to get drowsy. Hunger was starting to grow inside him too. Without work and the surging adrenaline, Sherlock's body had the same physical need as anyone else. The consulting detective decided to drift off to sleep to kill some time.

His rest was interrupted abruptly by a pair of hands rummaging his neck. Sherlock woke up with a start but remembered not to open his eyes. His head slightly jerked against the restraints as he came around. The blood and the bile were wiped clean again, and the familiar gloved hands were taking his pulse. Sherlock was getting the hang of the cycle. He expected the mysterious examiner to check his organs and then leave him at peace again but this time, after the short palpations, he felt a cotton swab his left arm. Sherlock thinned his lips and realized what was about to happen. He felt a small pinching sensation as the needle tip punctured his skin and penetrated his vein. Sherlock didn't know what was being injected but he felt the effects immediately. He was still awake and his consciousness was clear but his fingertips began to lose its feeling. All his senses in his legs drained away and Sherlock couldn't move a single muscle. He couldn't even open his eyes even if he wanted to. His lips wouldn't move too. Breathing was the only thing he could do. Sooner or later he would be drooling freely from his mouth. He heard the restraints being undone but his body was completely paralyzed and he couldn't feel it. The restrains around his head were being undone too. He heard an additional pair of footsteps close in on him. He heard rustling noises as he was dragged out of the metal board. He heard a dull thumps as his legs fell on the ground. It would have sent a dull pain up Sherlock's legs had he not been anesthetized. He was dragged out of the room and he heard the door shut. The floor must have turned into a tiled floor now because he noticed the footsteps turn from a soft pad to a clucking noise. Sherlock also noticed that one footstep was obviously a high heel shoes.

So it really was a woman.

He thought to himself idly. He heard another door slide open and he heard another thud, this time larger and he realized he was hurled onto the floor carelessly like a sack of potatoes. He wondered where he was moved to and hoped he could somehow find a way to escape this place soon because he was getting tired of this.

…

Sherlock must be spending another night at the lab. That was what John first thought when Sherlock didn't come home that night. He sat in the couch waited lazily for the consulting detective's return as he read a book. Realizing that it was already past midnight, he stifled a yawn and closed his book and clambered up the stairs toward his bedroom. Sherlock must have found something to preoccupy him for the night. He did that sometimes and John expected Sherlock to come bursting into the flat next morning with a new lead, or possibly with the case solved.

It was next morning when John called Lestrade to check on what Sherlock was up to when he realized that something unusual had happened.

"Sherlock? No, I haven't met him yet. In fact, I was just about to call you." Lestrade said in a puzzled tone. "I mailed and called him last night but he's not replying. You haven't got any idea where he's gone off to this time, have you?" John promised to tell Sherlock to phone Lestrade as soon as he finds him but John had no idea where Sherlock had gone to. If he wasn't at Bart's or with Lestrade, then he must be off on one of those investigations again. John almost felt half silly for worrying about Sherlock. He was a grown man. There was no need for John to keep track of his flat mate's whereabouts all the time. He changed and went off to work.

It was late evening when John got home. The flat was pitch-black and there was no sign of Sherlock's return. He asked Mrs. Hudson if she had seen him just in case but she simply shook her head. Sherlock had never run off somewhere like this for more than a day without mailing John or contacting someone. John took out his mobile and sent a brisk mail to Sherlock just in case.

Where are you? Greg said he wants you to call him back. – JW

Then, he went to bed. It was the next morning when Mycroft contacted him that John realized something had truly gone wrong.

"My brother seemed to have vanished from our radar." The elder Holmes remarked coolly over the phone. John swallowed hard.

"What do you mean?"

"He's vanished. It never happened before. At least not for this long." John paced around his flat and bit his lower lip.

"I think he's in trouble Mycroft."

…

Sherlock slowly felt the feeling in his fingers and legs return. He lifted his head from the cool concrete floor and let out a slurred groan. He had drooled all over the place, just as he had expected. He wiped it away with the hem of his shirt and lifted his body up clumsily. He was in a completely dark room. He couldn't tell how big it was or where the door was. There wasn't a single crack of light. He strained his eyes to get used to the darkness. It felt weird since he had been closing his eyes for a long time to avoid light, not he was opening them wide to get some light. He stretched his hands out in front of him and searched the area. The floor was hard and smooth but the walls were padded. He walked along the walls and brushed his hands thoroughly across the surface but he couldn't find any door handle so he gave up the search and treaded carefully toward the center of the room. He stretched his stiff arms and legs, rolled his neck and tried to relax his body. He strained his ears for any noise. There was nothing. Not even that faint screech. Sherlock sat down at the corner of the room and leaned against the wall. He racked his head at any possible explanation for all this. The fact cool darkness and the silence were relieving and it helped him think clearly.

Why did they move me over here? Is this my resting place? Or am I still being monitored? What are they monitoring me for anyway? What were those examinations?

He ran a hand down his hair and was taken by surprise for he had completely forgotten the fact that his hair was cropped short now. He looked down at his shirt ad felt the fabric. It was nothing unusual. It was just an average shirt. Sherlock sighed and aligned his fingertips together and tried to block the growing hunger away from his thoughts. His mind was racing. Questions erupted in his head one after the other but Sherlock couldn't answer any of it. All he could do was wait.