While John was usually a somewhat cautious person, no doubt in some small part to living with Sherlock Holmes, more than anything, he wanted a life. A normal life in a normal home doing normal things like normal people do. He had once said that people don't have arch-enemies, but getting caught up with the detective, he quickly learned that wasn't exactly true.

John's head ached. His arms, wrists, and shoulders ached. Everything ached and felt sluggish and distant. It didn't help that everything was quiet, save for the rustle of fabric against his ears whenever he moved his head. It took him a moment to realise he couldn't see. At least, not very well. There was a bit of light coming through the itchy, woven fabric about his head, but nothing that could right away give away where he was or even who had taken him. Even moving his head around to try to see something, anything made it swim. How had he gotten here?

He remembered... leaving the grocery and getting stuck with... something not too far out of the shop. And that was as far as his memory would take him. Everything else was a hazy, painful fog. His neck still hurt from where he was stabbed.

It was about ten minutes, or maybe an hour as far as John was concerned, when he heard a heavy door creak open and shut, and the subtle sound of leather meeting concrete as someone approached him. He could see little more than shapes and shadows, and with a weak sort of struggle at his wrists, the weight tugging painfully at the skin, and a mild effort to try to pull his ankles apart, he finally let himself sag and sigh.

"No one's going to pay a bounty on a retired soldier, you know," he mumbled.