A/N: Thank you so much for the interest. Just here to say that I forgot my usual disclaimers, before. So here you go:
Disclaimer #1 - I own none of the characters or their previous feats (obvious, and dull);
Disclaimer #2 - English is not my first language, so misspellings and other aggravating errors are likely to occur (I can only offer my sincere apologies);
Disclaimer #3 - this chapter was written in a dull airplane travel, hopefully it makes sense; I've never written on an airplane before; at one moment in time I think the stwerdess was reading my writing over my shoulder. -csf
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Sherlock was a prisoner in some mountain cabin, in the middle of a snowy nowhere - the Alps, the Pyrenees, less likely Siberia - playing the waiting game. John was also there to keep him company. Unaware of what was about to happen, John had been caught in the sudden procedures as much as Sherlock. Unlike the detective, though, the doctor was still breaking down the chemicals in his system.
Sherlock did find himself going over to his friend to check his vitals, just to be sure. He seemed well enough. Regular breathing pattern, steady pulse, just that crease in his forehead kept Sherlock slightly apprehensive. John had said nothing upon arriving at Baker Street, but Sherlock recalled the immediate beeline he had made for the kettle and tea bags. Most likely, his shoulder must have been bothering him again, at the end of two consecutive shifts at the clinic. With a cold feeling at the bottom of his stomach, Sherlock hoped John hadn't already been on painkillers. The adverse reactions of the combined chemicals of both medication and sleeping agent were to be accounted for in future extractions. And at this point, John needed extra vigilance till he woke up.
If some medical emergency happened in that cabin, there was no way of contacting outside help. They were completely isolated for the duration of the extraction. A variable period of time to be determined by Mycroft Holmes independently.
Still keeping a weathered eye on John, Sherlock walked over to the door. He could feel the freezing air from the outside seeping in through the cracks. Estimated temperature from the cold air outside: -14°C. Too cold to allow Sherlock and John to walk to the nearest sign of civilization and organise their return to London. Knowing Mycroft they were securely isolated in the wilderness at the time. The best way to keep them safe. And grounded.
Sherlock still puzzled over what drove them out of London.
Sequentially, Sherlock tried the cabin door and every window in the small dwelling. As he suspected, they were all bolted and locked. The detective couldn't help but roll his eyes to no one there.
Doubt assaulted him. Had it really been Mycroft? Was there a chance they were being held by an enemy? And to what purpose?
Immediately Sherlock returned to the bed he had woken up on. Mycroft must have taken the natural doubt into account. He must have known that Sherlock's foggy brain would soon come up with conspiracy theories as to his own kidnapping that could motivate him to find an escape of the cabin. Sure enough Sherlock found an envelope by the bed. He had missed it before, for it had fallen to the ground. With clumsy fingers he opened the envelope and recognised Mycroft's swirly presumptuous handwriting:
Scenario 3 engaged.
Next contact in 24 hours. -MH
Uselessly, Sherlock looked over at his wristwatch. He already knew they had been abducted nearly eight hours ago. Sixteen more to go, before he could be either freed or aggravated by the renovation of their prisoner status. With a glance to John, Sherlock sighed. This was going to be a very long day.
Sherlock wondered if Mycroft recalled bringing along his nicotine patches, or if he'd find some board games in a cabinet, even what they'd have for dinner. Or what national crisis had arisen that would have been far more interesting to study in situ than being safe in the middle of a snowy nowhere.
Energetically, the detective would spend the next hour going over every square inch in the cabin. He found it to be too meager for his liking. Sure he was having his life protected, but need he go at it with canned food, bottled water, a couple of blankets and general purpose soap? Furthermore, John's presence there seemed to have been a last minute addition, cutting in half the discovered provisions.
Soon John would wake up and admonish Sherlock for wanting perfumed soap. He'd go on and on about the army, battlefields and luxuries. Deep inside Sherlock would recognise John was right, but that hardly made the ever so boring predicament of the present any better.
With a sigh, Sherlock took a seat in the wooden rocking chair (the only chair in the cabin, another miscalculation) and sulked over the motives for his extraction. There had been no case of late to motivate immediate enemies to take action, and the usual ones were under Mycroft's people constant surveillance.
Outside the cabin, the last remnants of daylight were fast disappearing, and the few dispersed trees erupted from the white snow blanket on the ground were casting long narrow parallel shadows.
Birch trees, twenty or thirty years old on average, slightly acidic soil. The long branches pending towards the ground showed signs of damage from earlier hail storms. By the length and direction of the projecting shadows, Sherlock deduced the cabin's location to be in the Central European Alps.
Possibly they had arrived on a private jet to a private undisclosed hangar, followed by a helicopter ride to the nearest helipad. Finally they had been transported still unconscious in snow bikes to their Alpine prison.
Mycroft may be saving on the soap, but not on the protective measures over his little brother.
Sherlock was finally startled by a small movement from John. He was waking up at last.