It was like a doorway into another world had been opened by Sherlock, the dark hovel of a building shifting into the red glow of the room ahead. The walls, floor and ceiling were all painted black but four bare light bulbs casting a sharp red light into the room, which somehow gave the room a connotation of gloom. String hung from opposite walls holding pictures at irregular intervals which also connected to other strings in a way that would only make sense to whoever created it. Or a consultive detective.
From where the two men stood they could not make out any of the photographs but were wary to enter the room as it had dawned upon them that something must happen. Moriarty wouldn't have let them get this far into the pub without setting up a trap and John knew that if he stepped into that room he wouldn't see the red dot on his or Sherlock's body before they were shot.
Except that there were no windows in the room so how would they get shot from a sniper? On the other hand how would they ever escape if the door was barricaded?
It was Sherlock who broke the silence first. "We have to go in John."
"I know." To hell if I am going to look like a coward he thought and stepped into the room.
His first mistake.
As soon as both his feet were on the black laminate flooring steel shutters slammed down blocking the one and only entrance. And exit.
They both instantly called each other's name and pounded on the metal. Moriarty obviously wants us to still be able to hear each other, but hear what? Sherlock's brain flooded with ideas of how and why the shutters were there but could come up with nothing as to how he should go out getting John back.
"John you need to stay calm, what do you see?"
John turned with his back against the wall and surveyed the room slowly. He tried to deduce like Sherlock did but still couldn't stop his heart rate to increase at the possibility that the oxygen in the room would run out and he would never see Sherlock again. "Well the room is obviously black with red light. I can see the photos now, they are of... No fucking way!" John was simultaneously angrier and yet more scared as he saw what was depicted in the photos.
"What is it John? You have to tell me every detail."
"They are photos from the army." his voice and his whole body was shaking, "every one of them is of either civilians or soldiers and their wounds in Afghanistan. Bullet wounds, shrapnel from explosions and even the dead. How the HELL did he get his hands on these? No..." He had moved further into the room and come across a picture of his dead best friend from the army: Tim Bruiser. Tim had been shot three times in the chest and once in the head. His death had a huge impact on John during the war especially as he was shot at the same time as him so he had always felt guilty for surviving. This was one the reasons the therapist had given for his psychosomatic limp; that John had felt he should have come away from war with something visibly wrong with him without taking off his top.
"John. John? What is it?" John could hear the urgency seeping through into Sherlock's voice which snapped him out if his memories.
"I found a picture of my mate Tim. He died the day I got shot, poor bloke. He and I were close. We... Sherlock there's a message." John had looked up to see writing on the ceiling in white (that looked red due to the light).
"It says 'turn off the light' he let out a sarcastic bark of a laugh, "like hell I will."
"John you should do what it says. There is no way I can get you out of here without a blowtorch and he has made it so all we can do is follow what he tells us."
"That's easy for you to say, you're not stuck in a room full of sick pictures of wounded people that I honestly don't want to know how he got a hold of."
"John do you trust me?"
"Of course I do but..."
"Then turn off the lights"
John took a deep breath to calm himself and flicked the switch next to the door.
Instantly the room filled with a softer red glow as luminous paint, which couldn't be seen with the lights on, revealed itself on the walls. Where a window would normally be there was a painting of a man, which John immediately recognised as himself. He could see where the bullet had tore through the skin of his shoulder and his mind was instantly enveloped with memories of his time in Afghanistan. He tore his eyes away and turned round, only to be faced with another painting of a heart-shaped grenade on fire. He understood what this meant and tried to shout out but it was too late...
0
As soon as John flicked the switch Sherlock realised how stupid he had been. The wall to the left of him was false and as the lights inside the room had switched off the LED lights inside the wall had switched on. It now bore the message 'Ha ha you're dead' and a crude image of an arrow through the heart.
"Jo..."
BOOM!
-I told someone this would be up by Sunday but it was my birthday on Tuesday and the whole world decided it wanted to see me before then so I had no time to write because I was traveling, so I am deeply sorry-