The room was seven-by-seven-by-seven and it felt like being crammed into a box.
There was just enough room to pace, but pacing five feet down the side of a narrow bed and then having to turn around because you'd reached the toilet (at the back of the room) or the locked iron door (at the front of the room) just didn't have the same anxiety-busting effect as genuine pacing.
What's more, he had the frequent sensation that he was sinking back into a whirlpool, pulling the room in with him. It came towards him, but, like an optical illusion, never got any closer.
That was the concussion no doubt.
Sherlock gave up and sat down on the bed.
He had to admit, he was guilty recently, of not thinking things through.
All those years of abstaining from relationships because he'd thought they were an unwelcome distraction. Then he falls in love with one person - one, bloody person - and it turns out they're not a distraction, in fact, they compliment his work and make him better in every conceivable way.
Only it turns out love's drawbacks are worse than mere distraction. Love makes you crazy. You end up in jail for murder and once there, you're so worried about the person you love that you flip out and end up in solitary. And there's no logical reason for any of it, because it takes you further and further away from the person you love... from John.
He'd known love would be trouble, but he'd never thought it would be this much trouble. Especially not unrequited love.
They won't even tell him how long he's in for. It could be days, it could be weeks. Weeks! It was only the second day and it was already unbearable.
The thought of being shut in a box for weeks, not knowing what happened to John at Tussaud's, and if John's okay, of John showing up to visit each week and being turned away, of Mary having the baby and Sherlock being unable to feign unconvincing interest in the baby photos…
Nothing but himself, four windowless walls, a ceiling and a floor.
He got up and started pacing again, the cases spinning around in his head.
He decided to go through it again, try to make his stretch in solitary useful in some way. At Baker St., he often spent hours just sitting, thinking, reasoning around a problem, talking to John whether he was there or not, until the solution presented itself. This didn't have to be any different.
Even if he was trapped.
So, the day before, after speaking with Lestrade, Sherlock had gone to his cell to 'rest' under Dr. Carver's orders, reached under his mattress and found the files Chapman had left there for his 'light reading'.
Before he'd knocked the radio out of her hand and burnt that bridge, of course.
"Four of the twenty are in for stabbing," Sherlock said aloud.
"Any similarities to the Jonesy murder, aside from the weapon?" he imagined John asking.
"Not even the weapon, really," said Sherlock. "Carl Merryweather slit a business rival's throat - dagger was the victim's, had it on display, merchandise from some fantasy TV show. Tim Kramer and Louis Brennan, two separate muggings gone wrong, one a single-blade pen-knife, one the corkscrew of a Swiss army knife. Philip Clarke, was a kitchen knife..."
"Same M.O. then?"
"More rage and stupidity like the rest. His wife made a below-the-belt insult in a row, he grabbed the knife from the kitchen worktop."
"Good job I've not got a temper," said John. "You insult me all the time."
"You have got a temper!" Sherlock protested.
"Oh really?" said John. "Do you know what would calm me down?"
He moved in for a kiss...
Sherlock shook his head, shaking John out of it. Now wasn't time for fantasies. Especially not ones where John turned completely innocent conversations into witless innuendo.
You'd think his subconscious would turn up something a little more exciting and original.
Yet he frequently found that John was exciting enough just as he was and didn't need embellishments from Sherlock's imagination.
"Anyone got a link to the victim?" imaginary John asked, getting back to the case.
"Only the coke."
"Well yeah, that's why you asked for those twenty files in particular, wasn't it? Jonesy was giving coke to Dicky, these are Dicky's customers. Did any of them know Jonesy was the source? Maybe they wanted a freebie and things turned violent."
"Maybe. I figured out Jonesy was the dealer, perhaps someone else did too."
"Of course you'd figure it out," said John.
"Of course," agreed Sherlock.
"Anyone got a link to you?"
"Four," said Sherlock.
"Tell me."
"Well, Richard Markham of course. Dicky."
"That arsehole," said John, clenching his fists. "Just say the word and I'll knock him out."
Sherlock snorted a quiet laugh. Would the John react like that if he told him? Probably, yes, almost definitely. "Thank you. That won't be necessary."
"How's the concussion, anyway?" John asked, suddenly concerned.
"A bit nauseous, and my head's a bit…" he trailed off. "Don't worry - I'm… fine."
"Come here," said John, and moved over to give Sherlock a hug.
He put his arms around Sherlock and Sherlock relaxed into it for a moment, but then shook the image out of his mind, irritated, and sat imaginary John back down on the bed at a platonic distance.
"I said it's fine," snapped Sherlock.
John rolled his eyes. "We can't even hug, now? Your fantasies..."
"What?"
"They're a bit..."
Sherlock frowned. "What?"
"Well, they're a bit tame, aren't they? Wouldn't you like to..."
John looked him up and down, suggestively.
"Just focus on the case, John," said Sherlock, irritated.
"If you say so. Did Dicky's file turn up anything useful?"
"No. I arrested him, so I already knew about his crime. As you'd expect, since being incarcerated, he's been reprimanded several times for violence, had several periods in solitary, several additions to his sentence."
"Because of the drugs?"
"No. Hmmm, that's... there's nothing in the file about the drugs. Strange that a man so useless at keeping himself out of trouble has managed to avoid being detected as the prison drug dealer."
"Is he a suspect?"
"I considered it, but I think... no. Jonesy was his drugs supply, why cut it off?"
"Who else?" asked John.
"Thomas Dimes. But his ego's too big for the anonymity of framing me in secret. Like Dicky he would prefer to get his revenge on me in public."
John looked at him sympathetically, put a comforting hand on his and squeezed.
Sherlock shrugged him off. "Honestly John, I can take care of myself."
"Clearly," said John, brushing his fingers lightly across Sherlock's black eye.
Sherlock flinched, but John didn't stop. His fingers ran around into Sherlock's hair. "I could give you some better ideas for a fantasy..." he said, and he leaned forward for a kiss...
Sherlock ducked out of the way. "Get some better lines, John."
"It's your imagination," said John with a shrug, looking put-out but resigned, just like the third time he found eyeballs in the coffee jar.
Sherlock resumed his pacing. "Chrissy Horton is an old... associate."
He skipped the part about knowing him from his days as an addict.
"He has no reason to hold a grudge against me and he's an idiot rather than a serial killer - in for cooking a lethally bad batch of meth."
"And the fourth?" asked John.
"Roy Sampson. His sister, Sandra Sampson, was a former client of ours..."
"Oh yes," said John. "Came to us for help with a stalker and ended up being arrested by Lestrade for... fraud, was it? Does Roy know?"
"Not sure, I didn't even know until I saw the file. He's either a brilliant actor or none-the-wiser and, additionally, he doesn't have a history of violent crime - poisoning is a very different crime to stabbing."
"Sounds like he's the best bet though?"
"Going after him would be twisting the facts to suit a theory - not even a theory either, more like a slim possibility."
As Sherlock paced in his box, he ran through the files again in his mind as best as he could and still came up with nothing.
John was gone.
Sherlock sighed and stretched out on the uncomfortable bed, staring up at the ceiling.
He wondered how the real John was doing. Had he come up against security? Had he been hurt?
He never used to worry. It was illogical. Firstly, it would have no effect on the outcome of what happened to John. Secondly, John could usually take care of himself. And thirdly, now that he had calmed down, he'd realised that the chances of death by security guard were very low and the only realistic worst-case scenario was John getting arrested.
That was putting aside the fact he was investigating Moriarty of course. Had John had found anything on that front in Tussaud's?
Sherlock knew for a fact that there wouldn't be anything there that Moriarty had left by accident - that would be far too sloppy. But the man did like to play games and even a planted clue could lead to something.
A planted clue.
If John found a clue, would he realise it was planted?
Unlikely.
Sherlock stood up, suddenly panicked. He had to get out of there and help John, he just had to. He wondered what he would need to do to get a phone call - it was Tuesday, but in solitary this right was denied to him, no matter how many tokens he'd earned.
He banged on the inside of the door. "Hey!" he yelled.
Silence.
"I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade, it's an emergency. I'm a detective, it's about a case, a really important case," he yelled.
"Nice try, Holmes!" shouted Mr. Chapman, muffled through the thick walls.
"Idiot!" Sherlock shouted through. "Lives are at stake."
"You mess with my wife, I mess with you," Chapman shouted back.
"Ex-wife!" Sherlock called, and he slammed his palm against the wall. It was infuriating being so dependent on the guards' whims for even the most basic of privileges, for even the right to contact his friends or have access to a pen or...
Suddenly he remembered something and banged on the door again.
"Hey!" he yelled. "Hey, Chapman!"
Silence.
"Hey, is anyone there? I need my prescription! Listen to me!"
He knew what he had to do. The bed was screwed down, but he could still make a mess. He threw the mattress across the room and started tearing up his sheets and pillow. He destroyed everything he could and then collapsed in the middle of it all and screamed as loudly as he could.
Poor Sherlock! :( So, whaddaya think? Comments please...