Breathing; that's the first thing I'm aware of. There is heavy breathing and it's close. It's so loud. Then the smell hits me so hard I nearly had the wind knocked out of me. What on Earth was that smell? It smelled good but awful at the same time—it didn't seem possible. It made no sense. Where was I? Where was Sherlock? I tried to open my eyes but my eyelids had never felt so heavy before in my life. After much effort I managed to open them and I looked upon something that felt eerie. I was sat up against a stone wall—the whole room was gray and stone. If I didn't know any better I would've assumed it was a prison.
Would've. What a strange sounding contraction. So fluent but so odd sounding, like it isn't a real word. I bet Sherlock would've rolled his eyes had I pointed that out. Where was Sherlock? Why was this room so warm even though it was so damp and dark? I shivered involuntarily and then I realized that the heavy breathing I'd been so focused on just moments ago was my own. I was going to laugh about that later, about how much of a dork I was. But now I had more important things to do. I had to find Sherlock. I tried to hoist myself up but it seemed nearly impossible. Damn leg. Damn shoulder.
"Sherlock!" I tried calling out, only to realize that my voice was so small and sounded so broken. My throat hurt and it felt dry like I'd been stranded in a desert with no water. How long have I been in here? What had happened? But then out of my peripheral vision, though my sight is blurry and I feel awful and nothing seems to be making sense, I see something. I immediately know that that is Sherlock. I manage to summon up what little strength I have to crawl and lay next to him. He looks worse than I feel and he's out cold. I see a very small rise and fall of his chest and could almost cry of relief. Then I quickly drift back into unconsciousness by his side, hoping for someone to find us and help us, as we're obviously in no position to help ourselves.
The next time I wake up, it's by Sherlock's hands. "John," he says quietly. "Can you walk?"
It takes a moment to fully register his question but I uncertainly move my legs. They're feeling much better than they had been. "I think so." I respond quietly. "Where are we?"
"I don't know." He answers, pushing himself to his feet with his cuffed hands. "I'm fairly certain we were abducted by one of those insufferable fangirls you've created with your blog, though." He informs me. I'm still amazed at how quickly his mind is working, how smoothly he can form words. Obviously he's not on top of his game, but him at this point is still slightly faster than I am on a normal, every-day basis. I try to shake the thought away; now was not the time for jealousy.
"Well if it's just a fangirl then I doubt she's much of a threat."
"Do you see the condition she's managed to put us in? She's a fairly big threat, John."
I nod slowly and get myself to my feet, swaying slightly. Then I hear footsteps, heels clicking. "Shit." And then the worn looking metal door swings open. Sherlock and I are both thinking very slowly so it takes us both a moment, but then we both can't help but gape.
"Irene?"