Sherlock groaned unhappily as he perched up on a stone ledge, looking down at the gigantic cave. He had learned how to fly over the course of time, and had by now gotten bored of it. He flew down to the ground and blew fire at the wall for kicks. He'd been here for far too long, and was beginning to consider the possibility of being stuck in this cave forever. He was running out of ideas and things to think about.

It had been four months. Four bloody months and nothing had happened to him. Alone, in the dark, for four months. Of course, to him the time he'd spent here felt much longer, and with no day or night to tell him how much time had passed, it felt like a year. He had begun to accept that there would never be a way out. He'd hit every crack he could find and flown in every inch of the cave without anything happening.

He banged his head against the now warm wall in anger before jumping up and flying over to the treasury, examining the different piles he had made. With all that time and practically nothing else to do, he'd mixed and re-sorted the coins and treasures in every way possible, just for something to do with his hands as the time passed- something to use in order to distract himself from his thoughts.

He needed to distract himself, because his thoughts would always be memories- times gone by in places he'd never see again, with people he would never meet again. John.

He could feel a tug at the back of his mind, sometimes like a voice that couldn't quite be understood. It was sinister and terrible, yet something about it felt familiar. He'd decided long ago that this was likely a parallel dimension, so he supposed the voice could be stuck in some sort of constant conflict between his body/mind and the body/mind of the person—no, creature— whose body had obviously been merged with his.

He groaned loudly and let himself fall into a cold, painful pile of gold. With nothing to think about, he found himself...feeling. Frequently. He would feel terror sometimes when the voice was loud, and he would feel sentiment when he let his mind wander to John.

Worst of all, he would feel overwhelming sadness. It usually came along when he thought about John and Baker Street. It was awful. How did people live with themselves, feeling these emotions all the time? He'd thought it would be boring, and it is- but it's also distracting. Sometimes, he would let himself feel just because it was pointless not to, because it was better than being empty of both thought and emotion- because it kept him sane.

Amongst the assorted valuable items, he'd come upon several harps. He quickly broke the first one with his claw-like fingers, but eventually found a way to play, so he would play the harp to distract himself.

Sometimes, he would sing. He would compose songs in his head and sing them just to see if he could. Other times, he would just yell. Yell for help, yell in anger, in frustration, in hope that he wasn't alone, or perhaps in hope that he would be left alone.

There was never a response.