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They could very well die here.

John was really trying to not think about that, but it was what it was. It was was being stuck in a lift that was, as Sherlock has said, anywhere from ninety to one-hundred degrees. And it wasn't going to get any cooler any time soon.

They could die.

They could very well have heat stroke or get dehydrated-

"John."

John opened his eyes warily, looking across the small expanse towards Sherlock. The detective was watching him intently, eyes narrowed, although there was the slightest bit of unrecognizable emotion in those metallic eyes.

Quicksilver eyes... Silver, like metal, metal hooked up everything in the lift. If one thing went wrong, they would go plummeting to their deaths. John didn't have a fear of heights. Not at all. There was a single ingrained molecule of the fear of falling, however, that he was pretty sure every human had. No one wanted to cascade to their death, especially when you could or potentially would be crushed in the impact-

"John. Look at me."

John opened his eyes again (when had he closed them again...?), raising his gaze to Sherlock's eyes again.

"Take a deep breath."

Take a deep breath? Why would he do that? The air was hot and heavy and he was tired of taking in deep breaths that did absolutely nothing to help him...

"John."

John took a deep breath through his nose, letting it out slowly. In and out, inhale and exhale... That was good, probably... For some reason...

"Tell me why you didn't like my experiment this morning."

Experiment? What experiment was he talking about now? John shifted slightly, hating the feeling of the back of his shirt sticking to the small of his back. Too hot, stifling, really...

"John, the experiment. The one with the fingernails in the hydrochloric acid."

Oh, that experiment. Yeah, John hadn't been exactly sanguine about that.

"Tell me why you yelled at me when you found it. It wasn't doing any harm."

It was disgusting, for one. It was disturbing, as was any experiment that Sherlock did. It couldn't have been healthy, especially the fumes that had been in the kitchen that morning, from one experiment or another. The fact that he had tried to store the fingernail experiment in the fridge where he had also placed the uncovered pasta had made John sick to his stomach at the time...

"I tell you time and time again not to put that stuff in our fridge, Sherlock... Cross-contamination can happen in the refrigerator," John was saying. He hadn't even been aware that he'd been speaking all of his thoughts out loud, but he, consciously, heard the last two sentences.

Sherlock sniffed, turning his attention away. "Do try to contain your thoughts from now on. Nothing bad is going to happen."

John sat up a bit straighter, self-conscious. Did he... Did he just have a mild panic attack without even realizing it? Panic attacks could be triggered by the smallest stimuli, but just his thoughts...? Well, Sherlock was living proof that the mind was capable of amazing things.

He let out a short breath. "Sorry."

Sherlock grunted in reply, tapping away on his phone again.

... The silence did not help anything. At all.

Sherlock sighed after a few moments, dropping his mobile into his lap. "Lestrade should be here by now. Of course, getting the elevator to actually move is something different altogether..." He looked about the small lift. "What are we getting for dinner?"

"Dinner?" John echoed, looking at him quietly. "You're..." he cleared his throat, "You're eating, then?"

"Case'll be solved soon. Well, really, as soon as I can get out of here," Sherlock muttered. But then he said louder: "Yes, I'll be eating tonight."

"Uhm..." John blinked hard, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "Well, Mrs. Hudson probably fixed us something, but we won't be back until late because of, well, t-this-"

"Is she going to, I don't know, heat it up or something?" Sherlock interrupted.

John let out a breath. Sherlock was trying to keep his thoughts away from what was happening, wasn't he? He would have smiled... if he wasn't still fighting the anxiety.

"She doesn't like giving us leftovers, so..." He rubbed his forehead. "Probably not, so... we might grab something."

"What do you want, then?"

"What do I want? Oh, I know this is a ploy now; you're asking me what I want..."

"I don't have extensive research on the different types of food in town. Unless you want Chinese, then I'm well up in that."

"Oh, no, no. We've been living off of Chinese. No, thanks."

"So?"

"Italian?"

"Mm. Sounds good."

"Does it?"

"Doesn't it?"

John frowned at him. "Well, of course it sounds good to me. I suggested it."

"You like Italian."

"Yeah. What's your point?"

"What are you getting?"

"I don't know. Why do you care?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I just wondered."

John sighed lightly, sliding down the wall slightly. Sherlock was insistent on knowing all about what they were having for dinner. It was a coping mechanism. Not for himself, but for John. And that was the only reason that John was putting up with it.

So, he was going through a list of Italian in his head, figuring out what sounded the best tonight.

"Pizza sounds good, actually."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly.

John huffed. "Let me guess, you don't want pizza. You asked me what I wanted and now you don't want pizza!"

"You can get pizza if you like."

"What did you want, Sherlock?"

"Lasagne sounds good."

John paused. Lasagne did sound good. But, so did a six cheese pizza with double pepperoni and sausage, especially from Franco Manca. Oh, hell. Now he was hungry. "We could get both."

Sherlock half smirked. "Hungry, are we?"

"You put the idea of lasagne into my mind!" John retorted. Sherlock full blown smiled in satisfaction. "I want pizza and you want lasagne, I mean, we can do swapsies and you can some pizza and I can have some lasagne."

"Mm. What kind of pizza?"

"Six cheese, double pepperoni and sausage from Franco Manca."

"If you're going to pay the price, get something good."

"What would you suggest?" John replied tolerantly, almost amused, now, at Sherlock's reaction. Here they were, calmly talking about dinner. Amazing how simply a mind set could change if there was something to occupy it.

Sherlock shrugged slightly.

"Oh, I see. You don't want my pizza, but you won't offer suggestions. What kind of lasagne are you getting?"

"Alfredo Florentine lasagne."

John tried to come up with a good response to that, something dismissive like the way Sherlock had reacted to his pizza suggestion. In the end, however...

"I want some of that," he said instead.

"Fine." Sherlock was smirking again, amused, or at least, acting like it for the sake of the situation. "I guess I'll have a piece of the pizza, even if you get the boring kind."

John laughed quietly to himself. Until his stomach decided to growl.

Then it was Sherlock's turn to snicker.

"Yes, hungry," Sherlock stated idly, in the tone of deduction complete.

John just rolled his eyes, resting his head back against the wall.

I want Italian food now.

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