Sherlock had been intent on a split bin bag at the side of the road, half submerged in the snow and apparently full of food refuse, half convinced that it might hold a body part when all of a sudden he wasn't very conscious any more. It was almost a relief. His final thought before he sank into the mire of a comatose state was a single ah, finally some peace.

When he came around he was distinctly less relieved.

He remained still to begin with, keeping his breathing exactly as it had been to mask his return to wakefulness in order to give himself a precious few minutes to deduce the situation he had found himself in. Nothing felt broken, all his clothes were in place, and he could even feel the press of his mobile phone in his pocket at an uncomfortable angle to his hip. Not a mugging or a robbery then. He was somewhere warm, a kidnapping then. But why? That was much more difficult to ascertain, mainly due to the large amount of possibilities. It could be someone who thought to get to Mycroft and thus the government through him, it could be an ex convict that he had helped put away, it could even be someone he had irritated on the street who happened to be a psychopath.

Nobody talking so an accent couldn't be identified, but he could hear breathing. Male, excited by the sound of it. He inhaled and got a faint scent of an aftershave he hadn't smelled since that night at the pool. His own heartbeat quickened in excitement and fear mingled, before he finally opened his eyes with a smile as if they were old friends meeting for tea.

"Jim Moriarty, you could just have called, I know that you do have my number."