It's been a few days since Sherlock had slept, for he and John have worked on a tricky case. Which was, at least – for him, murder. The chase between the police and the culprit has been a rough edge on an easy crime. The murderer mysteriously killed his victim. Well, they did finish the case...or did they?
In a room, the cunning detective has slept soundly for a few hours. No one in the world would seem to bother his state of unconsciousness. He looked very delicate.
Until a door creaked eerily and woke him up. In an unknown room.
Funny. I don't remember this strange room.
Sherlock stood up and examined the room – and realised that he had been sleeping on the cold floor.
The room that he was currently in had a peculiar atmosphere. There was a weird table that looked like it would be in a painting of Salvador Dali because of its appearance which looked like it was melting, of course. A small kitchen was at the corner of the room. In the middle of the room, a wooden table full of microscopes, test tubes, and beakers lay idly. There is also a window which...doesn't show anything. It's pitch black outside...or is there even an outside? And there, at the edge of the weird room, a metal door blocks the only exit. There is probably a hidden key or exit somewhere around here, he thought, and this looks like a test of sorts. He noticed that there was a small paper on the seemingly melting table that said; "Pie. I love pie. I also love pi. Would you make me pie that has pi in the middle? I'll let you in as soon as you finish," he continued reading, "but you have to guess the right flavour!"
Sherlock sighed in frustration. He walked idly towards the kitchen counter and then he started to gather ingredients and utensils for cooking. Surprisingly, the unused kitchen had a lot of storage for what seemed like an eternity of food. But there was one problem – Sherlock did not know what flavour to use. He looked at the note again, and found something at the back.
What keeps the doctor away? It said.
"This is pretty easy, and boring..." Sherlock complained. He stood up and walked idly towards the kitchen counter. He knew what he needed, he thought, a nice and warm apple pie. Yum.
After a few minutes (or hours, probably) of scattered dough, the sound of a tray falling, Sherlock exclaiming in pain, and an accidentally cut finger, the result was a perfect little pie. All he needed to do is...put Π in the middle. He grabbed a piece of paper (which was in the kitchen storage, how strange) and wrote as many digits of Π as he can on the small piece. Finally, he put the paper in the middle of the pie.
He snickered at the stupidity of his idea. Sherlock took the paper away and put icing on the pie, which was weird, since he made pie. He wrote the symbol for pi. Suddenly, a paper fell from the vent above the kitchen counter. It said;
Oh, great, you made pie! I thought you left me. Go knock on the metal door three times, I'll let you in.
He followed the note's orders. He carried the pie and knocked softly on the metal door.
Knock, knock, and knock! A sound went click.
The floor at his feet mysteriously opened a trap. Sherlock fell into a hole with his pie. Oh.
"What—woah!" He exclaimed. He fell for a pretty long time. Minutes, hours...days?! The possibilities were endless, so is the trap. Until he finally landed on a comfortable cushion. Sherlock groaned loudly. He saw that the pie was unscathed. How unusual, am I dreaming? He thought.
Again, he was in another peculiar room, more colourful than the other. It was a living room of sorts, but there were no doors, archways, no hallway leading outside. The room was very significant...