I'd been watching Sherlock for nearly two hours now as he restlessly paced the length of the room, growing more and more agitated, and occasionally muttering to himself about far-reaching webs and spiders.
Outside, the snow was still falling heavily, making the possibility of an escape more and more dangerous, especially as night was drawing near. Not that we could get out anyway... We'd already tried every possible exit we could find, to no avail. We'd been there three days already, wherever "there" was, and Sherlock had been trying to break out ever since.
"There's no other way... We need to make a break for it again. Tomorrow morning."
"We can't go outside, Sherlock. The locks are impossible to pick and we can't manage to break the windows," I remind him.
"She'll have to make a mistake sometime. Or one of the kids will. That's it ! So simple ! The kids !"
"They don't come in here. We've only glimpsed or heard them."
"But they go out, though, don't they, John ? They must have some sort of backpack we can hide in, then break out of at the first opportunity. Then, it's only a matter of getting to the airport on time !"
"Sherlock... I'm not sure we can get on a plane." I say, gesturing to the both of us in turn.
"You're right, not without a passport. Right... To the embassy, then ! As much as this pains me to admit it, we can contact Mycroft, and he'll sort this all out."
Patiently, I try again :
"I don't know what you're talking about. Who's Mycroft ? And why is it so important we go to London anyway ?"
"We have to ! John... You've lost your memory, but please, I ask you to trust me. I'm your friend, and I'm telling you we've been kidnapped and are held against our will here."
"So you keep saying but I don't remember. I don't remember anything before the box !" I shout.
Nausea washes over me as I shake my head free of the unpleasant memories.
"I'm not getting back into that box." I state.
Piercing white button eyes falter at this. As he's done so many times before, my friend repeats his story :
"My name is Sherlock Holmes and your name is John Watson. We live in London, 221B Baker Street. I'm a consulting detective and you're my blogger. We solve crimes together. We've been drugged and kidnapped, probably while working a case, and somehow the drugs have affected you more. I can't remember the case, but I remember everything else. Please, trust me. We need to go back."
The front door slams downstairs and I can hear two sets of feet going up the stairs, coming towards the room we're held in. I automatically school my features into blankness, watching as Sherlock stubbornly scowls until the last possible moment, muttering about indignities. The door opens and I can feel myself being lifted up in the air, as a female voice squeals :
"Ooooh, you were right, he's so cute ! But why doesn't he have any pants ?"
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