It was about noon when I awoke next morning. Feeling not at all rested, I came to the realization that I still wore the clothes I had prior to this journey of mine and wanted nothing more than to be rid of them. Aside from that, the entire left side of my face was damp from drool; my punishment for falling into a dead sleep while on my stomach. I rolled off my bed, rubbing a hand over the rough stubble of my chin determining the necessity of a shave. I felt a slight sting as I brushed over my burst lip, and looking down in slight dismay, I saw that my pillow had been stained with blood. I wondered if Holmes would mind.

Not knowing what to expect with this new day, it took a whole of twenty minutes before I could muster up the courage to open my door and peer into the next room. Immense relief at the sight of my evident solitude encouraged me to step through.

Holmes was gone, and I was alone.

Now that I accomplished stepping foot into his domain, what was to be my next action? Escape was surely one thing, but I'd be stupid to attempt it so early in my capture. Of course Holmes would be expecting me to do just that, and so I was sure I was well fortified against such notions. I figured the best way to accomplish my end goal would be to lay low for a few days, allow Holmes to lower his suspicion, and then take my departure. Oh, but for how long must I wait! Even in my world Holmes wasn't a very trusting man; least not one to be fooled by such trivial ploys. And yet I felt that I was in no danger, despite all things. That was most curious and one of the few factors which saw me bewildered out of typical behavior one would expect from a criminal's hostage.

I had to gain his trust; it was the only way. If I were to play along with his games, gain a place into his confidences, I would be granted free reign to which I could take advantage and flee. But how would this work out? Must I myself become a criminal to appease him? Would I be an accomplice, or someone who worked behind the lines? I would not take the life of anyone in his name, I decided, but surely I could be of some use to him. Well, my presence appealed to Holmes the detective, I only had to hope it would appeal to Holmes the criminal as well.

Stepping round the room, I examined the dwellings of London's most wanted criminal. I spent a few moments looking at his bed with its unmade sheets, the various objects which littered the floor along with a multitude of books and enclosed baggage. I also kept an eye out for similarities which would tie this Holmes to the one at Baker Street. The pipe was evidently still apart of him, though I saw only one in the room; Holmes didn't appear to be a chemist, at least not at this location; and finally, I saw no trace of a violin case laying about or against a wall. A small part of me felt relief at its absence.

Thinking it would be interesting to read the news of this world, I ventured to catch myself up on the current events by reading the paper I saw from last night. But alas, it was of no use to me. I cast the articles aside when I noted that this particular issue was over a year old. Aside from that, it was also in French. I knew the language well enough, but I didn't want to rely on the French opinion on English news; I wanted to shave. The singularly dangerous idea of borrowing Holmes' razor, if I could find it, actually seemed appealing- it would be worth the possible trouble!

I was again on my feet and wondering round the room when my eye caught sight of a note placed on his bed where I must have missed it the first time. Reaching over, I picked it up and unfolded it to reveal a short missive on my morning affairs. It ran as follows:

"If you plan to escape, do so before 1 p.m. for that is when I intend to return. You will find everything you need on the chair beside your door in my room. Forgive me for not delivering this note, or provisions, directly to you; I thought it'd be rude of me to intrude upon your sleep. I suppose if you've ventured far enough from your haven to find this on my bed, then pray, go farther and inspect the halls; you'll need to do so to reach the bathroom, anyway. Again, I advise against leaving this building entirely though I trust this warning is quite unnecessary. Formalities, Doctor."

I peered over my shoulder at the aforementioned chair. I seemed to have overlooked it. I seemed to have overlooked a lot of things. There was a bundle of neatly folded trousers and shirtsleeves along with a small box containing a single-blade razor- it was strikingly bizarre. On any normal day, I'd be apprehensive about borrowing a criminal's clothing, but it was a trivial argument that morning. I lifted the proffered items and made my way to the door, folding the note and slipping it in my pocket.

I dressed in silence, avoiding the mirror as much as I naturally could. I figured that seeing my face may confirm things I had wished to stay ignorant of. What was it I feared? I feared looking into the mirror and not recognizing the man who stared back at me. I was afraid to see the real deposition I was in along with how far I've gone from the usually pristine cleanliness I favored in simpler times. A shave was enough to hide the woes of past events, but eyes were rarely as easily purged.

When at long last I could no longer put off my reflection, I took up the razor, slopped the lather over my chin, and turned to the watching spectator. The blade slid smoothly down my face with the small prickle of course hairs being sliced away and washed into the bin. My hands were steady as I gently and carefully maneuvered round my mustache so as not to deplete its shape. The water was unusually cool to my nervous fingers and exceptionally refreshing over the roughly shaven skin. I rolled back my shoulders and leaned forward, my face inches away form the reflective surface. I stared into those miserable eyes the entire time I had the blade in my hand.

I felt an odd sensation building up in my forearm and the sudden desire to punch the wall seemed the only solution to quelling it. I raised my fist, still clutching the razor, and nearly lashed out at that haggard form of a man.

"Pray, don't take it out on the mirror,"

I heard the offhand voice from behind me. It wasn't by his reflection in the mirror that I knew Holmes had returned, but the familiar bode of his eyes scrutinizing my actions that stopped me. I didn't hesitate in my movements, but in the last moment I settled on hurtling the razor as forcibly as I could into the mirror.

It clinked innocently to the ground, leaving me looking like a mad man with his head hung and shoulders slouched at the straining water basin.

"I thought I heard you, Doctor. It assures of a great many things." said he, stepping away from the wall where he leant and rounded back towards the hall.

The force of my anger had barely chipped the surface.

I left the discarded clothes where I dropped them, as well as the deadly razor. I hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours, and yet my stomach remained docile. Holmes was sprawled on the sofa when I reentered the room, one leg braced on the ground while his right forearm hung languidly over his face. Apprehensively, I sat myself in the armchair beside him.

"I trust your bearings have improved?" he asked after some time.

"Yes, thank you."

"Don't thank me, Doctor. It's an untold rule never to thank a criminal."

"Of course..." my brain pounded against my skull as nauseating delirium clouded my mind. I sunk deeper into my chair and closed my eyes. There was a broiling feel in my gut as I sat, the entire room feeling like a furnace with a constant pressure blowing unearthly cool air over my neck; it was like sitting down to tea with a corpse, however that may feel. I tried to distract myself by inquiring Holmes' whereabouts.

"Nowhere an established gentleman such as yourself ought to be concerned. You may be allowed to dwell here, but do not pry into my business."

"What the deuce am I supposed to do here, then?" I ask rather harshly.

He was silent at first, and then, "Work on your escape plan, it'll be enjoyable both to you and to me."

"The last thing I want to do is bring you joy at my own expense. How you can sit there toying with me as if I were a simple lab rat is insufferable."

"Which is why you've outlived your counterparts. The smart rat which exhibits the more singular habits will be the one to hold on to."

"And when will you let the poor creature be at peace?"

"When it's exhausted my interest. But that's a matter for another day; as of right now, my skittish little mouse will entreat me to less significant tests. He will act, and I will observe."

"I've been bitten by a lab rat once, he didn't like the way I treated him."

"Oh, you can believe me right, Doctor, when I say that I've been bitten more than what really counts. I always come out none the worse, but I can't say the same for our disreputable creatures."

So, this is how he wanted to play it.

I sat up and looked at him, my eyes steely as he sat unnoticing in his simple repose. "You seem rather positive that I'll escape,"

"On the contrary, Doctor, I have every confidence that you won't. But a military man such as yourself could hardly stand being confined for a long time without the correct course of action being taken, am I correct?"

"I'm not going to ask you how you knew about my service." I stated solidly. I could hear him sitting up, though not in a rushed manner. His feet stretched onto the table and he braced himself on one arm, facing me. "And why not?"

"Is that what they usually do? Do you take one glance at your victim and deduce their life story before killing them?" I too sat up and faced him.

"No one's ever asked."

"What a shame. A waste, really."

"They never ask because I never tell them. I never tell anybody."

This was surprising until I realized that he probably never had anyone to tell it to. "Had it anything to do with the gun?" I ventured to ask.

He turned away from me, setting his face at a profile from my angle, and idly playing with a loose thread on his trousers. It was as though I could see the gears moving in his head, trying to decide if he should speak. Finally, he turned and looked at me, smiling, and with that mischievous glint in his eye. That small detail was the one thing that I could always read about Sherlock Holmes. "As I've said, Doctor, I never tell anyone."

"I'm not anyone,"

"Ah, but you are still my victim."

"Am I really? Should I fear for my life; plague my dreams with the innumerable possibilities of your doing away with me?"

He sighed. "I'm thinking that maybe I should have pushed you off with the others."

A chill shot down my spine at that. I'd completely forgotten about the other occupants of the cab and what had become of them. I may have mumbled a few incoherent words, but ultimately I let my head sink upon my chest and I said no more.

Perhaps again he was watching me, or maybe he wasn't, but Holmes gave in and told me. "I could tell by the way you handled the gun that you were someone used to having one. A good many in this city hold possession of arms, however, not all of them are as careful nor as calm around them as you were. Not only did you check if the chambers were loaded, but you also made sure the barrel was clear. I also couldn't help but notice that you had the habit of holding it in such way so as not to harm anyone should the thing accidentally fire. Maybe your father taught you well, but I knew that wasn't the whole of it as you also carry a militant air about you." Here, he laughed. "And I know you're not a policeman! Dear me, even the greatest of them know respect in my presence! Only a soldier would be stupid enough to stand off against me as you have."

That wasn't necessarily true, but I kept my mouth shut.

"Anyhow, Doctor, are you hungry?"

"What?"

"I may be cold, but I'm not about to starve you. Heaven knows if I wanted you dead, it'd be done much faster and easier with a bullet."

"Yes, I suppose you are correct in thinking so." I sat back, far back, until my knees were very far from the edge of the seat and my shoulders braced at arm-level. "Perhaps I'll starve myself, force you to take me out somewhere, and make my escape."

"You have my honest word when I bid you good luck on your endeavors. In the meanwhile, I've got things to attend to."

He got up and reached for his coat, slipping it over his shoulders as he picked up a few loose items. His feet swiftly carried him to the door. But before he would be out of earshot, I mumbled my concern. "Whose son are you going to murder today?"

I was met by silence before he broke out in a loud, sonorous laugh. "If I dare say, I think he's already killed them himself!" His laughter continued to echo down the hall as his steps carried him farther away.