On the fourth day of lying in bed, John barely registered it when he felt movement around him, voices. The prick of a needle in his arm. The discomfort of a tube being forced down his throat. Gentle hands turning him, stripping away his clothing, wiping him down, changing the bedding.

It might all have been a dream.

###

He was drifting in and out of hazy dreams the next morning when he thought he heard his name. That wasn't possible, though, he thought. There was nobody here to speak to him.

"Doctor Watson. Can you hear me?"

He blinked his eyes open, trying to remember whether hallucinations were a sign of dehydration. He hadn't left the bedroom television on, had he?

But it was on, and it was talking to him.

Forehead creased, he struggled to roll over to see the screen more easily. A handsome computer-animated face was watching him with concern. "Doctor Watson." This time his name was said with some relief and John wondered how long the television had been speaking to him before he woke up.

He just stared, brain struggling to comprehend what his eyes were showing him. A cartoon character was talking to him? Had he crossed into some weird Pixar world?

Still, it was the first interaction he'd had in a fortnight. It wouldn't do to be choosy, even if it wasn't exactly a person. His throat was oddly sore, making it hard to speak, but he nodded at the face on his screen.

"You concerned us, Doctor Watson."

John just watched the screen, waiting.

"You stopped eating, stopped doing anything. You're not to do that again."

John was too tired to laugh, but he huffed out a whisper. "What difference does it make?"

"The intent is to keep you healthy, Doctor Watson. If you neglect yourself, we'll have to take steps—and they'll be much less pleasant for you."

John just closed his eyes. It would almost be better. At least he'd have some human interaction.

"Do you not believe me, Doctor Watson?"

He shrugged. He opened his mouth to ask what it mattered, but all that emerged was a rusty croak.

"There is some tea next to your bed, with honey for your throat which I imagine is quite sore. It's an unfortunate side-effect of the feeding tube—something I hope we will not have to do again?"

John was staring at the table, only just now realizing he was no longer in the clothes he had been wearing when he climbed into bed … how many days ago? He picked up the tea and took a sip—still warm in its thermal mug, if not as hot as he'd like. Still, the honey made it soothing to his swollen throat. He gave a short laugh.

"What?"

"Just ironic," John rasped out. "My only guests in weeks and I missed it."

"An emergency medical team does not exactly qualify as 'guests,' Doctor Watson."

"Closest thing," John said sadly, sipping at his tea. How screwed up was his life when talking to a cartoon on the telly made him feel happier than he had in weeks? "So, what now? You'll threaten me to behave and then what? Disappear again?"

"There is no need for contact, Doctor Watson. Just take care of yourself so we don't have to do this again."

John gave a weary smile as he leaned back into his pillows. "You're not very good at the incentive thing, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm bored," John said. "I mean, I don't know who you are or why I'm here, but if you're trying to make me go comfortably crazy, you're doing a fine job. Don't you know what solitary confinement does to a man? It's been over a fortnight and this is the first interaction I've had with anyone—and it's a cartoon character which, frankly, I would suspect I was hallucinating if it weren't for the tea that I'm reasonably sure I did not make for myself."

The face on the screen frowned at him. "The intent is to keep you safe, Doctor Watson, not to drive you insane."

"If you knew me as well as you think you do—judging by the book and movie selections and food choices—you'd know that I like to keep busy. I spend most of my time seeing people, talking with them. Other than the occasional solitary evening, I don't like to be on my own. So … over two weeks with no contact of any kind? Not even with one of my kidnappers? Boredom is an understatement."

The cartoon looked thoughtful. (Could a cartoon look thoughtful? Was it really a cartoon if it looked more like a real person than a line drawing?) "It is a security risk, Doctor Watson. We would not have intruded last night had it not been life or death."

John nodded, feeling lightheaded and achy. "I know, which is why I'm saying that telling me to take care of myself doesn't exactly give me any incentive—not when what I'd really like is some kind of daily interaction with somebody. Even trading insults for fifteen minutes would be better than nothing. I'm not making demands, mind you. I know I'm in no position to … but I do know how to get people in here."

"You would deliberately hurt yourself?" The voice was stunned. "That's … unacceptable, Doctor Watson."

"Not really an option I'm fond of, either," said John. "Desperate times."

There was a long pause then, "I will consider this, but in the meantime, I expect you to take care of yourself today. You were severely dehydrated, doctor. My remit is for you to remain unharmed while you are here, and that includes internal as well as external threats."

That was news to John, but he thought it was best not to push his luck. He just nodded and watched the computer animated face give him one more intense look before the monitor blinked off.

When the conversation ended, John nodded to himself and forced himself to sit up, groaning as his back protested. Four days in bed with nothing to eat had maybe not been the best idea.

Feeling shaky on his feet, he headed toward the bathroom … really, this had gone farther than he'd hoped. He hadn't thought it would go so far as being force fed. An IV, too, he realized, when he made it to the bathroom and saw the mark on his arm. Still, at least he was able to care for himself—definitely better than waking up in hospital. (He may have wanted attention, but there were limits.)

He was just considering whether he should take a shower (or maybe a bath, because sitting down was really quite appealing at the moment), when he heard the dumb-waiter chime. Okay. He had agreed to behave. He'd go eat and then see how he felt about the energy expenditure versus feeling clean ratio.

###

John spent most of the day on the couch, watching mindless telly and feeling ill. He had only himself to blame, after all. He obediently ate the easily-digestible, throat-friendly food provided—or what he could. His stomach felt like it had shrunk with its fast. He drank lots of water and tea, too, laced with the honey that was thoughtfully included.

He felt reasonably sure now that, had he fallen and broken his arm, someone would have come to take care of him. What had his 'visitor' said before? His remit was to keep John unharmed? That still didn't tell him whether it was an over-protective friend or an over-cautious foe, but for the short term, it was reassuring.

He wished he'd been conscious enough to see how the emergency crew had entered the room last night, though. Through the glass slider? A hidden door he hadn't found? Maybe there really was a hatch in the ceiling and they had rappelled down?

Too late now, though, and he didn't think he'd be able to get away with the same trick again. He just hoped his play for attention didn't end badly. Like he'd said at the beginning, this entire situation could be so much worse.

He was dozing in front of the television that evening when the picture scrambled into the same computer-generated face as before and spoke his name.

"Doctor Watson."

He jumped (though he'd never admit it), and struggled to sit up. "Are you going to make a habit of watching me sleep? Because that's just creepy."

"You're the one who wanted interaction, Doctor Watson. It's not my fault you were asleep when I came to respond."

John shrugged, pulling at his blanket where it was tangled around his legs. "Fair enough," he said, trying to be agreeable.

"How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," John said bluntly, "But better than this morning. You?"

"What difference does it make how I feel?"

"Just making conversation. Isn't that why you're here?"

The man on the screen lifted his eyebrows. "I'm here because I told you I would consider your … request … for some form of daily interaction to stave off insanity. I didn't come to chat."

"And yet," said John with a smile, "I believe chatting definitely falls under the category of daily interaction. See? Look how much good you've done me already."

The lips pursed and made tsk-ing noises. "I'm surprised, Doctor Watson. I would think you'd be aware of the perils of Stockholm Syndrome. Do you really think it wise to socialize with your captor?"

"So far as I'm concerned, I'm talking to a cartoon and, to my knowledge, no cartoon has ever caused me any harm. Or, at least, not since I tried to copy Wile. E. Coyote's plunge off the side of a cliff and broke an arm when I was seven. And, really, I can't blame the coyote for that."

"You jumped off a cliff when you were seven?"

John was impressed at the disbelieving expression—computer effects had come a long way since Star Wars. "Well, we were short on cliffs in our neighborhood, but the roof of the house worked perfectly well. And my sister dared me … it was more her fault than Looney Tunes. So really, I don't hold grudges against cartoons."

"I see." John hid a smile. Whoever was on the other side of this computer animation obviously did not at all understand. He probably hadn't watched cartoons growing up—which argued for him being a genius like Mycroft or Moriarty rather than an ordinary person (like him), but that didn't really say much. Maybe he'd just been born without a sense of humor. "So, what's the verdict, then?"

"I have a full schedule, Doctor Watson, but in the interests of your sanity, I will try to stop by to 'visit' several times a week. I trust that will be satisfactory?"

"Not as satisfactory as letting me go home," John said, "But conversation will help—even with a wacky-faced cartoon."

"Wacky-faced?"

John raised his own eyebrows. "Well, if you're trying to look serious or intimidating, you probably don't want to look quite so … Disney hero. I can understand your desire for, er, privacy, but maybe you could come up with something a little more realistic?"

"You're becoming a demanding guest, Doctor Watson." The voice was tinged with ice. "Anything else?"

John pursed his lips, not wanting to press his luck.

"Out with it, I don't have all day." He sounded resigned.

"If you're offering, I could use something to do. Even I can't read novels and watch crap telly all day."

"What would you suggest?" Even more ice.

"Puzzles? Deck of cards? I don't know. I'm not saying your … amenities … aren't quite nice. I mean, this is a lovely prison cell, but I'm used to being busy. If you really want to keep me sane, it would help—but it's your call."

A smirk. "Well, we do want your stay with us to be pleasant. I'll see what I can do, but in the meantime, Doctor Watson, behave as befits a guest."

The screen fizzled back to the crappy show he'd been watching and John couldn't help but smile. He didn't know what he'd just accomplished, but he felt better than he had in weeks.

###

The next day, after he'd eaten his breakfast and returned his dishes, the dumb-waiter chimed again and he found a basket with a Doctor Who jigsaw puzzle, two decks of playing cards, an assortment of Sudoku and crossword puzzle books, a pile of medical journals, and a Looney Tunes coloring book with a pack of crayons.

He couldn't help it. He laughed when he saw the crayons and felt more charitable toward his captors than he had since he'd woken here almost three weeks ago. He'd gotten everything he'd asked for and a good chuckle as well. He went right to the desk to pull out a note card to say thank you, but then thought better of it.

Instead, when he returned his lunch dishes, he included a neatly-colored picture from his new coloring book with a "Thank you" scrawled across it in his best doctor's handwriting. (Which was to say, nearly illegible.)

The next several weeks fell into a routine. John played his role of "guest" and politely amused himself with the amenities offered while his computer-animated captor stopped to visit every few days.

John didn't know if it was just that he was starved for anything resembling human contact or if it was Stockholm Syndrome or what, but he found their conversations entertaining and stimulating. It wasn't unlike talking to Sherlock in that way (without the complete frustration). Not that he wasn't often frustrated. As his captivity went on, he got both more resigned and more anxious to leave. It had been seven weeks now, and so far as he knew, nobody was looking for him.

It wasn't something he could ask Bugs, as he'd started to call his "host." (The man had protested at first, insisting his image was high-tech computer technology that interpreted his real-life facial expressions to a state-of-the-art facsimile making anonymous interaction possible. It was nothing like a cartoon. But John pointed out that he was doing him a favor since Bugs always came out on top, and would he rather be Elmer Fudd? Or he could give him a name to use instead? And so Bugs stuck.)

Still, the confinement rankled, if not so badly. John spent several hours a day outside (weather permitting) and was even granted a weather-proof wind-breaker to put on over his jumpers when the weather got cold.

He supposed he was a model prisoner, even as he tried not to think how that went against everything he had trained to do. A soldier was supposed to try to escape, but … where? How?

He still wasn't any closer to figuring out who was holding him. The relatively friendly treatment led him to think it was more likely Mycroft than one of Moriarty's people, but … how could he know? An evil genius was still genius enough to play a long game. It could be anybody.

Still, there were days when he was frustrated. Days when he worried about Harry or Mrs. Hudson, frustrated about his job at the clinic (long-since gone to some other doctor, no doubt). He wondered whether the rent on his flat had run out, or was Mycroft (if this was Mycroft?) covering it? At least he hadn't gotten the dog he'd briefly considered—the poor thing would have starved.

In the meantime, he might be a "computer-generated facsimile," but talking with Bugs had become the highlight of his day. Regardless of the man's motive, he was remarkably thoughtful. Often when John would mention something in passing—a musical group he liked, or a movie he'd once seen, the CD or DVD would show up several days later. On rare occasions, they would even "watch" together over glasses of that really excellent scotch (on John's part, at least).

It was the most like a friend John had had since Sherlock died, and he tried not to think about the irony of that. On his part, Bugs started checking in more often, and staying longer, as if he enjoyed John's company, too.

But that could be the Stockholm Syndrome talking. As the months drew on, John honestly just wasn't sure anymore.

And then, one night, eleven weeks after John arrived, everything changed.

###

John's television flared to life at 2:11 am. "Doctor Watson. John!"

He blinked, squinting at the bright screen suddenly dominating the dark room.

"John, you're in danger."

Instantly wide-awake, he rolled to his feet. "What?"

"There's not a lot of time." The signal was spotty, and Bugs's face was phasing in and out like a badly tuned channel. "We just got word that Sebastian Moran knows where you are."

John paused in the act of pulling on his jeans. "Seba… Colonel Moran? What does he want with me?"

"You know him?" Bugs was surprised, but immediately moved on. "That doesn't matter right now. What does matter is that he was Jim Moriarty's right-hand man and has a vendetta out for all things connected to Sherlock Holmes—and you are top of his list."

"But…" began John.

"There's not time, John," Bugs cut him off. "It looks like your time staying with us is coming to an end, but as the entire point was to make sure you survived the experience, let's focus on that right now, shall we? We can deal with explanations later."

John forced down his questions, blood singing with the familiar high pitch of adrenalin. "Right. So Moriarty's right-hand man who happens to be a sniper is on his way to kill me and I'm conveniently locked in a room with no doors and no weapons to hand. What am I supposed to do, throw DVDs at him?"

"Not quite," Bugs said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Your suite is quite … self-contained. An assassin could roam the hallways for hours without ever knowing you're there as long as you don't go banging a drum."

"Which I don't have, either," John said.

"Quite. In which case, you're safe where you are, especially with the layers of sound-proofing. The other possibility is a long-shot. The easiest way in and out, John, is by your terrace, and by 'easy,' well…. It can't be seen from the road or reached from the ground—even if you could have gotten over the top, incidentally, you never would have been able to climb down. It is, however, theoretically accessible from the air. On the off-chance the man is using his parachuting skills and opts to pick your terrace as his target…"

"I'm a sitting duck."

"Exactly. So I need you to hide."

"Hide? Where?" John asked, looking around the room.

"You see your bedside lamp?"

"The one that's screwed to the table?" John's voice was dry. "What about it?"

"Give it a quarter turn clockwise, and then lift it straight up." John did so and found a button underneath, which, glancing at Bugs's face on the screen, he pressed. He heard a click and whirr under the bed and, bending, saw the side of the platform bed dropping down into the floor.

"That's … a safe room? Under the bed. You expect me to hide under the bed?" He couldn't help the way his throat tightened and winced as the pitch of his voice rose, but damn it, he was a soldier. He didn't face danger by hiding under a bloody bed.

"I know it's against your nature, John…"

"Damn straight it's against my nature," John said shortly. "It also makes me even more of a sitting duck than I am out here, with even less room to maneuver and no means to defend myself."

The static coming through the television was making Bugs sound even more urgent. "It also keeps you safe."

"Maybe, but only if Moran doesn't find it. If he does, I'm dead. It's like shooting fish in a barrel."

"The odds of him getting into that safe room once you've locked it down are about seven hundred fifty thousand to one, John, and you'd besafe. I promise, it's more comfortable than it looks."

John was breathing heavily now as he pulled on his shoes. "I've said before, you don't know me as well as you think you do. When have I ever in my life preferred to be safe?" He practically spit out the word. "Why can't you just extract me now?"

"There's no time …" Bugs's computer-animated face was visibly upset, and for a moment John felt almost sorry for that. "You wouldn't be defenseless, John. Look inside, just under the headboard."

Kneeling down, John leaned forward. (He was not crawling in there, he resolved. The bastards could probably close it remotely to lock him in.) Tucked into the wall, he saw a small safe. He turned toward the screen, but Bugs was already saying, "The code is 7843."

The man's voice was more urgent now, and moving swiftly, John pressed in the key and stared in surprise.

"Yes, it's your Browning. Do try not to shoot any of my people with it."

"How will I know?"

"Easy. They'll identify themselves as Looney Tune characters." He was definitely right; Bugs was amused by something tonight, no matter the seriousness of the situation. "Like I said, chances are all you need do is hold tight and let my people take care of things—just be quiet. But if someone does find you—either by way of the terrace or by trying to break a wall down—at least you're prepared. Please, John. Don't be stupid."

John stared at the television, amazed to hear real emotion in that plea, but Bugs was already continuing. "Either way, John, this will be your last night here. If all goes to plan, we'll take care of Moran when he arrives and that will be that and we can introduce ourselves properly—though, of course, I'll let you know as soon as the threat has been neutralized."

"Oh, ta," said John, nerves singing. Was it wrong of him to hope that Moran would come in by way of his terrace? The thought of having something to do, of a life-or-death confrontation, was really just what he needed, and he couldn't quite bear to think that he might miss out on the entire thing, hidden in his gilded cage.

"I know what you're thinking, John, and believe me, you're better off where you are."

John laughed. "And again with the not knowing me well. I'm not the kind of man who hides from fights."

"Neither am I, which is good … because by morning, neither of us will have reason to hide anymore."

John wanted to question that, but Bugs was gone, and John was left alone in the dark, clutching his gun and wondering what the morning would bring.

###