Disclaimer: SHERLOCK belongs to BBC America and the immortal Sherlock Holmes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle..I make no claim on them.

Author's note: This story was inspired by a line from the classic Sherlock Holmes and the Secret Weapon starring Basil Rathbone as Holmes and Nigel Bruce as Watson. I love the original stories and nearly every film and tv version created since. SHERLOCK is truly a work of genius. Many thanks to my friend and editor, Beth, for her assistance with this story. Hope you enjoy. Without further ado, I give you Tick, Tock..Drip, drop…

Did you know that a man will die if he loses five pints of blood? – Sherlock Holmes & the Secret Weapon

The first thing Sherlock was aware of was a sharp throbbing pain in his head. It originated from a point just behind his left ear; the radius of the pain, both external as well as internal, suggested that he had been struck by something…something rather large and rather heavy. A club perhaps…

His high pale forehead wrinkled in confusion as he slowly became aware of a second fact…he could not move. Ice blue eyes flew open…and were greeted by a blackness as dark as Indian ink. Sherlock closed his useless eyes, forcing back the wave of panic that threatened to overwhelm him. Panic would only inhibit his mind and he needed to think. He forced a slow deep breath into his lungs, releasing it slowly as his mind began to clear; he began to test the limit of his suspected paralysis, beginning at the crown of his head and moving toward the soles of his feet. He found that while he could not move his limbs nor his head, he could move his eyes…his fingers…and his toes. Not full paralysis then…most likely brought on by some sort of drug jabbed at the base of his neck, he theorized from the small pinprick of pain he still felt.

His body felt sluggish and heavy…and cold. Not a frigid cold…indoors then, perhaps in an insulated room as he could neither hear the late autumn winds nor the rain that he could recall from earlier that day… Whomever his captor was, he had not left him to freeze to death. The temperature of the room was hardly dangerous, just a bit uncomfortable. He paused briefly as he wondered if it was indeed still October the 31st. The oppressive darkness of the room provided no clue. Tabling the thought for the current moment, Sherlock continued with his assessment. The surface he was lying on was cold as well…and hard, nearly uncomfortably so. Metal most likely…a table of some sorts. His scarf and jacket were both missing. His shirt sleeves had been rolled up to expose his forearms, which rested uselessly at his sides. The remainder of his clothing seemed to be untouched, including his boots.

Sherlock drew another slow breath in through his nose, this time carefully analyzing the smell of the room. His forehead furrowed in concentration as he began to sort them...the sharp bite of heavy industrial strength cleaner…dry wall dust…the noxious smell of out-gasing plastics, perhaps heavy plastic sheeting…and a lingering scent of mildew. The dry wall dust was the strongest and therefore likely the most recent…the plastics the second, the combination suggesting that he was in a building currently under renovation. It was not a new building…no one used industrial cleaner in a building that had not yet been completed. The scent was faint…suggesting that the last cleaning had taken place long before the construction began. The mildew confirmed it…an old building then. A frustrated sigh broke the stillness of the room. London was an old city…more than half of it was undergoing some sort of renovation at any given moment.

Think, man, think!

He set aside the question of where he was and considered the question of why he had been taken. He had no open cases. In fact he only just closed a case in Scotland, an interesting little puzzle involving a band of smugglers operating out of the port of Inverness in the Highlands. The cargo had varied from works of art to military grade weaponry to human cargo, depending on the client and the size of his wallet. The most intriguing factor had been the method in which the goods had been transported to the coast from the south. By train, then by lorry and finally by submersible…through the lochs. They might have managed to evade the authorities a good while longer had it not been for the carelessness of one crew in particular. Sherlock had quickly made the connection between the increase in 'monster' sightings and the arrival schedules of the ships suspected of carrying contraband. It took only a simple matter of deduction to determine where the smugglers hoard was located. The case itself had been on an elementary level as far as complexity…despite the small flair of dramatics it had provided. The officials were considering it a major victory, and yet Sherlock could not help but feel as if he had missed something…something very important. John had suggested that it was just the letdown of another case completed…but he knew it was more than that. More like the strong feeling of apprehension that a mouse might have when a cat is approaching… Try as he might, he found himself unable to ignore it. He had parted ways with John at Kings Cross Station, as his flatmate was eager to see his fiancée after a two week absence. He had continued then on to Baker Street alone.

The ever present rain had been accompanied by a cold wind, though it had felt balmy compared to that of Scotland. The flat had been dark when he entered, though he had thought nothing of it at the time. Mrs. Hudson had mentioned that she planned to visit her sister in Bristol for an extended period of time; the lack of umbrella, pink overcoat and wellingtons by the front door, as well as the slightly stale smell in the air suggested that she had already done so. He had left the light off as he made his way up the well known stairs to the flat. He remembered opening the door and entering the room…and then nothing. A small frown creased his thin lips…obviously his abduction was no random act. Very few men would have the guts to abduct him from his own flat which, since the events of what John had referred to as 'The Great Game', had been under the careful watch of both Scotland Yard and agents of the British government. The Yard might have relaxed their surveillance during his absence; however he was certain that Mycroft would not have relaxed his. Perhaps his brother's hired hands had grown lax. He wondered how long it would take for them to realize that he had been taken literally out from under their noses. Mycroft would have their badges, if not their heads, when it was discovered.

A cold chill inched up his spine as he considered the only man likely to have orchestrated such a daring act of devilry. Sherlock winced in pain as a blinding light appeared above him without warning, burning through his eyelids as the throbbing in his skull increased. His blood ran cold as a disembodied voice spoke from the darkness beyond the edge of the light.

"Hello, Sweetheart. Did you miss me?"

Blue eyes opened into thin slits, watching as a thin shadow detached itself from the rest, stepping forward into the light. There was a soft whisper of shoe rubber on cement floor and then a face appeared in the space above him. The smile plastered on the thin pale face seemed friendly enough but the eyes were cold…cunning…deadly. The eyes of a snake…of a predator toying with its prey…

"Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…," Moriarty said with a mock sigh. "Why couldn't you just have been a good little boy and left it alone?"

Sherlock struggled against the drugs in his system, but to no avail. He was helpless to do little more than watch as the sociopath reached out with a cold, pale hand and idly ran his fingertips along the side of his face. The man grinned as he flinched beneath the touch, unable to move away. With a final tap of a finger to Sherlock's nose, Moriarty withdrew his hand and moved out of his line of vision.

"You have brought this upon yourself, you know." Moriarty chided softly. "I take no joy in killing you. You made life interesting. You made it almost…fun."

The voice grew further away for a moment and then closer, this time from his left. Sherlock deduced that the man was circling the table.

"However, you have become too much of a nuisance…"

Sherlock forced himself not to react as the man appeared suddenly in the space above his head, his hands braced against the table on either side. The cold eyes smiled tightly. "I cannot have your constant interference...your actions in Scotland alone have resulted in the loss of several important clients as well as a small fortune." He sighed, and dipped his head closer. "You have forced my hand…and so, regretfully, I have decided that I am going to have to kill you." He whispered dramatically before pushing back and out of sight once more.

"Now I know what you must be thinking. Why didn't he just shoot me when he had the chance?" The voice mimicked. "It would have been so simple, too simple…a gun…a sharp blade…or perhaps a little poison in your tea…"

The sociopath paused in his monologue and, to his left, Sherlock heard the sharp metallic squeak of the wheels of a trolley. The sound paused, as Moriarty appeared beside him. A small tremor ran up his spine as the man's soulless eyes caressed his face. "We are unique, you and I. You have been a worthy adversary…..and so you are worthy of a far more inventive death…something special."

A cold hand closed around his forearm, and he felt a sharp prick and then the pressure of a needle as it slid beneath his skin. Sherlock fought to press down the fear that he felt rising within him; he would not provide his adversary the satisfaction. His one small relief was that John had not been with him in the flat…and was not with him now.

"You should feel honored, you know. I designed this ingenious little game just for you. It is quite inventive really…an experiment which you, as a scientist, should appreciate." The man reappeared at his side with a length of narrow tubing coiled loosely in his now gloved fist. "We begin by attaching this length of tubing to the IV port in your arm," The cold smile grew as his eyes darkened into a dark shade of flint. "We then attach the remaining end to this lovely little hour glass."

Sherlock shifted his gaze to the large glass structure he assumed sat on top the trolley he had heard a moment ago. "And then the fun begins. I will drain the blood from your body…drop by drop."

Moriarty handed the tubing to an unseen assistant beyond Sherlock's line of sight and placed his hands casually within the pockets of his overcoat. "As I am a sporting man, and I can't stand to see any animal suffer, I have decided to give your loyal pet one last chance to save you." He loomed closer to the helpless detective until his nose was inches from Sherlock's, his smile widening as he read the repulsion in his captive's eyes. "Your blood will drain at a rate of one pint per hour. Five pints is all it will take…five small pints and the great Sherlock Holmes will be no more."

Sherlock closed his eyes as Moriarty vanished once more, his cruel laughter echoing in the room.

"Let us hope that your dog is smarter than he appears."