"Don't you think you should go after her?"

"Why should I? Clearly she doesn't want to speak to me."

Lestrade rubs his temples. Even when Tom was so close to displaying emotion, so close to proving he was capable of emotion, he was falling short.

"Because she's your friend and you upset her."

"Then would she not want her space?" Lestrade takes a deep breath, trying to muster all his strength not to choke the consulting detective. He was so smart, he was ignorant.

"When someone says to go after someone, it means to go apologize to them before they leave."

"But—"

"Sometimes, Sherlock," Sam continues, "it's a good thing to have space, but other times it'll lead to consequences you will later regret. You have to use your best judgment."

"Is that not what I always do?"

"I think when it comes to interacting normally with normal people, I have the upper-hand."

"But (Y/N) isn't normal. She's a genius." Lestrade puts his hands on his head, wanting to tear out his imaginary hairs.

"You just went to insult her intelligence!"

"I hadn't finished my sentence." Tom puts his hands in his pockets as Lestrade softens his stance. "I was going to say that even though she's genius, I still have a higher IQ."

With a loud groan, Lestrade gives up. "I don't know how she can deal with you on a daily basis. She should get extra IQ points for that."

But Tom wasn't paying attention. He was staring at the skid marks you had left in the road, symbolic marks of your anger. Had I made a mistake? I never make mistakes, but is this the first?

Lost in thought, he didn't hear the phone ring in his pocket.

"Freak, the phone." With a slap on the back, he is startled back into reality.

"What?"

"The phone has been ringing. Not that anyone would want to call you." Ignoring Donovan's remarks, Tom picks up the phone, waiting to hear a voice on the other end.

Instead, he hears other things: static, the engine of a driving car, the squealing of breaks, a person breathing, steady and slow.

"Hello?" The only answer he gets is the clicking of metal, an ignition of fire.

"One hour." With that the call ends. Lestrade walks back over, Tom's face frozen.

"What do they want now?" Donovan asks. Tom reminds in his place.

 Static reception, bumpy road, countryside, V6 engine, 130 km/h, curvy roads. With the rushed driving and hard breaking, if the person were sleeping, they would wake up. And if the person were sleeping, they would most likely know the driver, who would also most likely be considerate of their driving. But none of those factors are in play. They are unconscious by another doing. Drugged perhaps, and that accounts for the rush for a location as well as the purpose of the call. A hostage, female by the breathing, early twenties...

"Sherlock?"

All of this he thought of in the matter of two seconds. And it lead him to the dreadful conclusion as he turns to Lestrade.

"They have (Y/N)."

***

You cough as you wake up on the cold, hard ground. Everything looked so dark around you. Only a spotlight illuminated above your head, the only warmth in the damp room which you were in.

As you get up, your vision starts to focus as does your mind. Not only were you isolated in this room, but you were trapped in a glass tank. Immediately, you tried to bang onto it, but to no avail. It was too thick.

And matters only got worse as you heard the rusty creak of metal and felt a small, steady stream of water trickling in from the ground. You turn towards the noise, but instead, you come face to face with a wall with a message.

 Ashes, ashes.

You silently scoff. Newsflash: this is drowning, not burning. If you're going to threaten me, do it properly.

And as if reading your mind, you hear a spark. Finally thinking clearly, you sniff the air.

 Gasoline.

As you turn back around, the spark had inflamed a trail, leading straight to the walls that were soaked in the liquid. And as your eyes followed the possible paths of the fire, your heart stops.

For dynamite surrounded the base of the water tank.