John's senses still stung from the barrage of sound and light that had only just ended. He was trapped in the Baskerville lab, but he tried not to think about that. He'd been holed up in much more frightening places before—that bunker in Kabul, where the insurgent had nearly blown his head off—

A sudden sound made John's heart leap to his throat. He darted around the room, dragging sheet after sheet off of empty cages, until something leapt in front of him with a shriek. John stumbled away from the monkey with a gasp. Damn. Hell. Fuck. Calm down, Captain Watson, he reprimanded himself. It's just a monkey. It's only a monkey. What would Sherlock say? Be logical, Watson. Be logical.

Still, something or someone else watched John Watson. A tour of duty in enemy territory reminded him not to ignore the way the hair on the back of his neck prickled uncomfortably. This time, he swiped his security card by the second door, the one that you weren't supposed to go through unless you wanted a cold, to no avail. That disappointing whirr made John's stomach turn. Think, John. What can you do?

In an instant, John had his phone out. It rang once…twice… "Where are you? Don't be ridiculous. Pick up….oh, dammit!" John hung up before the call could connect. Maybe he can't help you after all. That's fine. It's fine. You're a soldier, Captain. Act like it.

"Right," John muttered to himself. With his torch shining light ahead of him, he strode through the laboratory. Nothing—then noise, and John ducked into a crouch and sprinted to the main doors. Before he could swipe his card, a growl sent fear spiraling through him. He whirled around; when a snarl nearly elicited a yelp from him, he slapped a hand over his own mouth. Then he ducked down again and ran as he hadn't run in ages.

Run—growls—run—claws on tile—RUN!—a cage to duck into, a barred door to slam shut behind him and lock, a tiny space to collapse in. Safety.

False security. John almost cried out at the thought. He was back in that godforsaken desert with a bullet through his shoulder and a rifle at his head.

Then his phone rang.

John could barely take deep enough breaths to hiss, "It's in here. It's in here with me!"

"Where are you?"
Sherlock demanded, all cool and clinical. John shook his head, even though the other man couldn't see him.

"Get me out, Sherlock. You've got to get me out!" John paused for breath. "The big lab, the lab we first saw—" Another growl dragged a yelp from John's throat. He covered his mouth again.

"John." Sherlock paused, then said again worriedly, "John?"

"Now, Sherlock! Please." John's voice cracked as it hadn't since primary school. He was going to die, he realized. The hound was going to kill him, just as the man in the desert had tried to do; John was going to be torn apart in this godforsaken cage with no way to escape. "Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out. Get me out! You have to get me out! You have to—"


"John!"

When John launched upright, sobbing without meaning to, a tall figure caught him sharply by the shoulders. Pain lanced through the old scar, and John whimpered, but the man holding his shirtfront maintained his grip. "John, listen to me. Where are you? Tell me where you are." John gaped. The other man shook him hard. "Concentrate, John. Focus! Where are you?"

Terror pumped adrenaline through John's veins. He gazed unseeingly at the ghostly man hovering over him before the words sank in. "Two—Two-two-one-b-Baker Street."

The other man nodded crisply. "Who are you?"

"Doctor John Watson, Captain, British Army."

"And who am I?"

"Sherlock," John breathed. As soon as he said it, the shadows seemed to drain away from his bedroom just as surely as fear disappeared from his veins. A strange wetness covered his cheeks; John rolled away from Sherlock's outstretched hands to scrub off his tears on the sheets. When the consulting detective's eyes followed him, rage shot through John. "Why the hell did you do that, Sherlock? Why? Why did you slip that into my coffee? Why did you let me see those things? I'm not some—some bloody experiment! I'm your flatmate! I'm your—"

"—friend," Sherlock cut in. "I know. I am…I am sorry. I didn't assess all the—the risks before I experimented. I forgot to factor in your tendency toward nightmares. It won't happen again."

"No, it bloody well won't!" John swallowed down bitter bile before he snapped, "Friends don't do that to friends."

Immediately, Sherlock shook his head. "Yes, they do. That's why I've never bothered with one before." He watched John's stony expression for a minute. Then, he added quietly, "I've made tea if you want some. It would slow your heart rate some."

As Sherlock made his way out of John's bedroom, the doctor balled his hands into fists. "Idiot! How can a genius be such an idiot?"

Underneath this, the part of John that was still trapped in that cage pleaded, "Get me out, Sherlock. You have to get me out!"

John struggled with his panting a while longer. Then, with a groan, he stumbled downstairs for some of Sherlock's calming tea.