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Disoriented, Sherlock Holmes blinks several times, trying to get the darkness to clear from his vision. After a moment, he realizes there's a black piece of cloth, haphazardly tied around his head, impeding his vision. He squirms to remove it, but finds his hands have been bound behind him, interlaced with the chair he'd been confined to.
Trying to hop around with the chair, the detective finds he's also in a moderately sized box, giving him but a few inches of room to work with, A game with proper stakes then…
It takes less than five minutes to undo the restraints around his forearms, and then seconds to take off the blindfold. As he's undoing his ankle ties, he sees a crowbar leaning against the rightmost side of the wooden crate, Someone wants me to escape… should I be worried?
Regardless, he pries his way out. Upon emerging, he sees he's in a large, dimly lit, vacant warehouse.
"Sherlock Holmes." A soft voice crooned, voice reverberating through the warehouse walls, "We meet again."
"Moriarty. I should've known it was you."
"Should you have? We've only done this six times." Jim kicks up some dust, "You'd think I was the height of spontaneity."
"Generally you buy me dinner first." Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest protectively; it's not that he minded the things they did, he just didn't appreciate being accosted this time.
"Does that mean you know why I've brought you here tonight?"
"If it's anything like the last few times… I think I preferred dinner."
"Then here's my apology." Jim tosses a plastic navy folder at Sherlock's feet, "What do you make of it?"
Picking it up gingerly, Sherlock is suddenly exhilarated, He wants me on a case! Excellent! But upon opening it, he finds no pictures, no dates, no information of consequence.
Instead, he finds several typed up pages of a story:
Finally, Will had Hannibal within his grasp; a piece of concrete evidence he could give to Jack Crawford and prove the mad psychiatrist's guilt. But why was there this nagging feeling in his wrist, preventing him from picking up the phone?
Taking a moment to process what he'd just read, Sherlock is frozen in shock. Upon his brain finally rebooting, he scoffs, "Let me get this straight… you had me drugged, kidnapped, blindfolded, shoved in a crate and brought to this warehouse… to read your fan fiction?"
"Sebastian won't do it anymore!" Jim turned down his lips so deeply Sherlock couldn't help but note it was the saddest face he'd ever seen, And I've seen people mourning dead loved ones…
"Ugh. The last time I did this, you said I wasn't critiquing it correctly."
"But I respect your opinion!"
"There's a reason I declined!"
"And whatever that reason is, is why I had you taken off the street!" Jim cast his baby-doll eyes at him, "Pleeeeaaasseee? I'll be your best friend!"
"I have a best friend!" Sherlock snaps, "And when he wants my opinions, he asks — well, no… he doesn't stop me from giving them!"
"Fine, I'll be your boyfriend!" Jim's bottom lip quivers and Sherlock is a goner.
Sighing, Sherlock concedes, "I swear to deduction, Jim, your invitations get more and more elaborate each time…" Scanning the room meticulously, it was plain as day that Jim had sealed the exits, Truly, there is no way out of this, "Fine. But next time, skip the tranquilizer, it mucks up the works."
Jim nods excitedly.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, opening the folder again:
Chapter 1: How I Fell in Love with a Serial Killer
How fitting.