I haven't uploaded anything in a while, so sorry to anyone who has me on author alert, but here's a new story... if you read the last one, you'll realise that they both deal with really cold conditions. I have no idea why I've written two similar scenarios in a row. My username should be 'ILoveFreezingPoorSherlockAnd JohnHalfToDeath' or something.

But please read and review if you have time, thank you!

Thirty seven degrees Celsius is equivalent to normal body temperature. The internal organs function properly and the person feels no obvious distress or discomfort.

John didn't understand what had happened. One moment, Sherlock had been standing next to him on the pavement outside 221B, criticising Molly Hooper's appearance. The next - whumph. He'd gone. Vanished. Or more precisely, a car had driven up. The door had swung open. Sherlock had been swept off his feet and thrown inside. The engine had squealed. And it had driven off.

Stupefied, the army doctor, now alone, could only stare as the sleek black car turned the corner, disappearing from sight.

"Wh-aa?" He stuttered to himself. "What the... hell...?"

He shook himself and his common sense bounced back. Instantly, he was furious at himself. He'd just allowed something terrible to happen – allowed Sherlock to get himself taken away by some random people – and he'd watched it all without raising a finger. He hadn't even noted the number plate.

Stupid fool. No use chasing it now, you'd never catch up.

Growling in frustration and kicking himself, John pulled out his phone and dialled the detective. His hands were slippery with sweat and he was shaking.

It can't be that bad... I shouldn't get so worked up...

Sherlock wasn't picking up. That either meant he wasn't bothered enough to, or he couldn't. John guessed that the latter was more probable given the circumstances. He struggled even now to think straight, but realised that Lestrade's help would be invaluable.

The detective inspector answered almost immediately.

"John, mate! What's up?" Lestrade sounded relaxed, despite his recent workload.

"They've got Sherlock - a car pulled up and snatched him away and I didn't get the number plate – I think he's in danger – I don't know who they are though – but I need you here now – I –"

"Woah. Slow down. John, take it easy. What do you mean? He's been taken...?"

"Kidnapped. Don't you understand? It's pretty urgent I think – he's not answering his phone." John could hear the panic in his voice and it was evident that Lestrade could too.

"Right, where are you?"

"Outside my flat. Baker Street."

"I'll be there soon. You just try and keep calm."

The line went dead.

Slowly, John made his way upstairs into the apartment. The main room was just how the two of them had left it. Sheets of paper were strewn on the floor. Jumpers were lying abandoned on chairs. Generally, the place was a tip. Except now, Sherlock wasn't here to make it worse.

John sank into his favourite armchair, still trembling. He tried to calm himself by closing his eyes and taking deep breaths, but for some reason, all he could picture was Sherlock. Where was he now? Was he hurt? Was he in control of the situation?

The questions circled round and round his head until he felt dizzy. He took a swig of water from the kitchen, splashing some on his face, and dried off with the hand towel. Returning, he noticed his laptop on the table, and suddenly thought it would be a good idea to visit Sherlock's website. Maybe this wasn't a spur of the chance attack. Maybe Sherlock had been expecting it. John hoped so desperately. If that was the case, his friend would have a slight advantage.

Disappointingly, there were no new posts on the website. John bit his lip. By force of habit, he directed the page to his own blog. As the laptop loaded the information, he heard the sirens outside and Lestrade coming up the stairs, two steps at a time. He entered, panting.

"John. Are you alright?"

"Me?" The blonde haired man was taken aback. "Of course I am."

"Good. So you're okay to give us information?"

"O-Obviously. Where do I start?"

"Do you think this attack could have been planned?"

John shrugged, trying to act casual.

"Well, it was unexpected. I've just checked his website. It all seems normal. And Sherlock... If he knew this was going to happen, he certainly didn't tell me, Greg."

He turned his gaze to the laptop screen for a moment and frowned.

Lestrade was asking him something else; something to do with the car, but his words fell on deaf ears.

"...What is it?"

Staring intently at the screen, John had turned a shade paler.

Wordlessly, he turned his laptop towards Lestrade.

"Oh, God."

Somebody had hacked into John's blog and set up a live anonymous feed. The picture was startlingly clear. Sherlock was strapped into a fixed chair, in a plain whitewashed room. There was a deep cut etched on his cheek and the blood was trickling down freely. There were other spatters of crimson on his white shirt. And finally, there was a wire in his arm, attached to a screen that gave the reading of a decimal number, 36.70

And that number was dropping gradually.

Lestrade didn't seem to understand.

"Well... this doesn't look good but at least we know he's alive."

John shook his head sadly and pointed at the number. He didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out the machine was monitoring his friend's body temperature. He voiced his fears out loud and Lestrade gulped.

"So... you mean he's in a cold room?"

"It's probably not too cold at the moment, but the attackers will probably drop the temperature slowly." John tried to keep a professional tone. "I'd say, at the rate his body's cooling... we've got around five hours before... before it's too late."

Five hours until Sherlock died.

*dramatic music* Also, I am really not a scientist, so with all the body temperature reading stuff, I don't know how accurate I am. I did a little bit of research...