John awoke to complete silence.

Complete silence was not necessarily a bad thing, in 221B. In fact, he found that he rather liked it; not waking up to gunshots or explosions or (heaven forbid) Sherlock whining always rated high in his book.

No, the silence definitely didn't bother him. It was the circumstances of the silence that made him tense, and perhaps a bit nervous.

The soldier slid out of bed, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a ratty old t-shirt that had been used multiple times as Sherlock's shooting target. He yawned widely and scratched unconsciously at his wounded shoulder, a habit that somehow had replaced the limp. He heard his stomach growl rather loudly and heard the jam and toast calling his name in the kitchen.

Heading down the too-quiet hallway towards the kitchen, John poked his head into Sherlock's room. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Neither, John noticed, was he in the living room, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. Which meant that Sherlock, who seemed to take pride in finding the most irritating ways to wake John up, had for some reason left the flat and left John to his dreams.

"If this is your way of making up for last night, you daft git, apology accepted." John muttered, knowing that wherever Sherlock was he couldn't hear him. And oh, how right he was. How right he was.

...

Sherlock's eyes opened, and the very first thing he saw was another pair of eyes directly focused on his face. One didn't have to be a consulting detective to know that these were eyes of malice. Definitely not John, most likely Moriarty.

"Oh, goody, you're awake!" said Most Likely Moriarty. "Now we can have some fun!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Definitely Moriarty. This was not a desirable way to start his morning. He turned his head just slightly to the left for a better viewpoint. Person; Moriarty, Jim (a bit not good, as John liked to say). Location; Abandoned packing plant, English countryside, ten-hour drive from Baker Street. Small upper-floor room, hastily installed screen on far wall, doorframe to the right, railed walkway and vast space outside of it. What kind of packing plant? Oh, obvious; specifically stacked crates in the corner, dampness near the ceiling indicating high humidity and pressure levels, so some kind of food…pickles, yes, of course, pickles, slightly salty taste to the air, empty jars lining shelf to the left…

Sherlock was pulled violently from his mind palace by a hard slap to the face.

"Awww, come on, Sherly, try to pay attention." said Jim in what was quite possibly the whiniest voice Sherlock had ever heard…and that included himself. "We're going to play a little game, and I don't want you retreating into your little fairy castle. No, I want you to be conscious and awake for every. Single. Minute."

Sherlock groaned. "Mind palace, Jim. Mind palace, not "little fairy castle". Honestly, can anybody get it right?"

Jim gave him a very fake smile. "Oh. Of course, Sherly darling. Mind palace. Whatever you say. After all, today is your day, isn't it?"

"Yes, very smart, bravo, Jim, you figured out my birthday." Sherlock deadpanned in his dullest voice. "As if it really matters that much."

A sadistic smile crossed Jim's face. "Oh, but it does. It really does. Because I'm going to give you the best birthday present you ever had. One that you will never, ever forget."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can try," he said in a bored voice, "but I highly doubt there's anything of yours that will make much of an impression on me."

"Oh, really?" said Jim in that same creepy voice, "But I beg to differ. I have something of yours that I think you really might want back. And you can have him! When I'm done with him, of course."

Jim whirled around, pulled a remote from his pocket, and pressed a small green button at the top of it. The large screen on the opposite wall blinked on, and what appeared took Sherlock's breath away. "No…" escaped his lips in a half gasp before he could stop it.

Jim turned back to his guest. "Oh, yes, Sherly. Now do you believe me?"

The screen showed a small, damp room, much like the one they were currently in. However, in the middle of the screen sat a chair. And tied to that chair, with enough rope to hold down a young bull elephant, was John Watson.