Three hours ago, John had resigned himself to a normal night in at Baker Street, with 'normal' being defined as having no date to go to, and therefore having to tolerate a grumpy Sherlock because John had disposed of the latest experiment he had found in the fridge. The doctor didn't have a problem with Sherlock's experiments per se, but he drew the line at finding decomposing body parts in food preparation or storage areas. Sherlock seemed to forget sometimes that just because he didn't eat, it didn't mean that his flatmate didn't either.

Therefore, when John found himself being dragged out of the front door and into a waiting cab by said detective, whose grumpiness had morphed into glee because a case had taken an interesting development, the doctor didn't initially know whether or not to be grateful that his night had ceased being 'normal'. Even now, as he stood beside Sherlock, chasing the latest aspiring criminal mastermind through a dingy derelict block of flats, he still hadn't quite made up his mind. As loath as John was to admit it, Mycroft had been right; the doctor missed the adrenaline rush that dangerous life-or-death situations brought, missed the feeling of being needed by someone in the way that Sherlock needed him, though the detective would never say that in so many words.

Somehow, having become absorbed in his thoughts, John belatedly realised that he had managed to become separated from Sherlock, and lost in the process. He withdrew his gun from where it had been carefully tucked inside his jacket, made sure that the safety lock was off in case he needed to defend himself against an assailant, and began to tentatively edge around the perimeter of the room that he found himself in.

"Sherlock!" he whispered into the overwhelming silence, but there was no answer. He hadn't really expected one, but it had been worth a try. Sherlock skulked around in such dark clothing - especially his almost-trademark long coat that displayed his cheekbones - that it would have been easy for the detective to camouflage himself in the surroundings. Unfortunately, John was wearing the same green jacket that he had taken to Baskerville, meaning that if he strayed into any light, his location would be blatantly visible. The doctor could only hope that his call hadn't alerted the criminal - a murderer called James Winter - to his whereabouts.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson," came a disembodied voice from the darkness. The way in which the greeting had been phrased, and the gruff voice in which it had been spoken in, immediately alerted John to the fact that the person who had found him wasn't Sherlock, much to his chagrin. Would Winter still have found him so quickly if he had been strong, and remained quiet? The doctor aimed his gun in the direction that he thought the voice had originated from, but the sound had bounced and echoed off the bare walls in the unfurnished room, making it difficult to pinpoint an accurate location.

"Show yourself, Winter!"

Much too late, John heard a chuckle behind him. "As you wish, Doctor Watson."

Before the doctor could pivot around to face his attacker, James Winter had pressed a cloth coated in a sweet-smelling, sleep-inducing substance over John's nose and mouth, causing him to fall the floor unconscious after struggling for a few seconds. His gun clattered to the floor as his grasp slackened, and Winter wasted no time in stooping down to pick it up. "Now then, Doctor Watson. What am I going to do with you?" he said menacingly, already knowing what he had in store for the doctor.