John didn't know much about Gregory Baker or whoever his captor may be, but based on what he knew about the man, he'd guess he was not that different from Jim. And if they were anything alike, John could guess (deduce, he could hear Jim correct him) that Greg had forgotten about feeding him, probably forgetting about eating himself. He'd certainly seemed preoccupied as he hurried out of John's... room?
But when he received no breakfast the next morning, John began to worry. He wondered if this was the beginning of his end.
"So that's it, Greg? Or whatever your name may be. I have nothing better to call you. You're just going to starve me to death? Because if not, I wouldn't say no to a bit of toast and jam," John spoke to the camera since he had nothing else to direct his comments to. Despite himself, John couldn't stop the natural curiousity he felt nagging at him. What had concerned the man so much he'd left in such a hurry? Was he going to hurt Jim? And, still, why had he taken John in the first place?
John guessed it was around the time he had previously received dinner when his captor came back into the room, holding a large tray of steak, rice, and potatoes and a jug of ice water with a cup to pour it into.
"I apologize, John. I forgot that some people are accustomed to eating... much more often than I am. Forgive me also for my exit yesterday, I simply realized an oversight." Sherlock handed John the tray, sighed, and slid down the wall beside John. He hesitated before continuing his apology. This was by far the hardest apology he'd had to give in a long, long time. "I also apologize for my outburst last night. I know Jim means a lot to you, and I should have exercised more self control."
"I think I'm going to kill you tomorrow," he told John, continuing on. He figured there was no use sugar coating the fact, and he might as well be honest with him about it.
"You seem... uneasy with that," John mentioned, albeit a little hopefully. "I mean, it's just that one of the first things you told me was that you were probably going to kill me, so it's not as though this is unexpected for either of us." John couldn't believe how... normal, this sounded. This was anything but a normal conversation. Sherlock nodded.
"No, no John, I never actually intended on killing you. Don't mistake me John, I have no qualms killing you, or killing in general even. It's just I've never actually done it, and my plan for you had always been to merely drive you insane beyond the point of being able to live a normal life. Tomorrow, however, I will be a killer. I... don't know how I feel about that," Sherlock admitted.
"You haven't killed before?" John asked curiously.
"No. So far, the most notable crime I can claim responsibility for is breaking into a few Duke's summer homes a year or so back. Got quite a bit of money out of it, too."
"I remember reading the papers about it, that was you?" Sherlock beamed.
"Yes, it was rather simple, too. Much less complicated than you'd think," he told John. There was silence for a few moments, and then John broke it.
"If you don't mind me asking... how are you going to do it?"
"Kill you?" Sherlock asked. John nodded.
"I'm not sure. It won't be a gun or a knife- either would be too messy, and far too easy to trace. I considered cyanide, but I feel it's too drawn out a death. I'd prefer something quick, straight to the point. That's more my style. Perhaps I'll have you jump off the roof. It won't hurt- the building is quite high and you'll be dead immediately on impact. Then whoever finds you will be hard pressed not to deem it suicide," Sherlock told him.
"Jumping," John considered this. He'd never been a man afraid of heights, but jumping to his death seemed so... he couldn't picture it.
"What's your name? I mean, if I'm going to die tomorrow anyways, does it matter if I know your name or not?" Sherlock looked at John and burst out laughing.
"That still bothers you?" he asked, shaking his head. "You're worried about the wrong things, John. For a man faced with the prospect of death, you don't seem particularly worried."
"I suppose there's not much to do about it. I've already tried escaping and all it got me was a bloodied hand. If I'm going to die, there's no use in dwelling on it," he shrugged. Sherlock nodded.
"That's a very intelligent way of thinking, John Watson. Very intelligent indeed." Sherlock sat silently for the next three hours, during which time John ate his dinner, studied his captor a bit, then went to the remnants of the window. Through the boards, he could just make out the sunset over the abandoned buildings- the last he might ever see. He'd always imagined he'd die an early death, but he would have thought it would be in the middle of the Afghan desert, not on the concrete pavement outside a warehouse, jumping on the orders of a fellow Brit.
He fell asleep before Sherlock came out of his reverie. He watched the man before him, sleeping now. He had thought John to be just another ordinary person, but now he found John was not who he appeared to be. The world saw in John a brave, courageous army veteran who risked his life to save others. A man of good looks but average intelligence, which many might say he made up for with the large amount of heart he put into everything he did.
Sherlock didn't just see him though, he observed. And what he observed, Sherlock felt was worth studying. Perhaps, just perhaps, it would be worth keeping John around a while longer.
Sherlock got up and had reached the door, meaning to leave, when he caught side of the window on the wall to his left. After a little deliberation, Sherlock left and returned with a marker.
When John awoke, he was greeted with large, black writing on the window in front of him.
'Sherlock Holmes'