A/N It's interesting to think of them getting into the more horror-movie-esque situations. They'd probably have to deal with some seriously messed-up enemies at one time or another. (Hey, look, it's more angst!)

Thanks to starrysummernights, 666BloodyHell666, Song of Grey Lemons, Natalie Nallareet, Motaku1235 (yes, I have seen it, and Martin was fantastic!), and linguisticRenegade

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

LXXXIIII. Out Cold

Have to reach him. Have to get to him. Have to be with him.

His hands fumble faster and harder against the heavy steel lock, nails scraping fruitlessly along the unscathed metal. An infuriated hiss escapes his lips as the edge of his finger hooks itself around the sharp edge of the contraption, pulls, and then there's a tiny, sparking flame of pain as his skin rips, a tiny bead of blood swelling up on his fingertip.

"Dammit!" he shouts, not caring who hears as he slams a fist into the metal bars. Sherlock's eyes widen behind them, and he takes a couple of steps back, looking small and vulnerable despite his usually intimidating figure, with the dark walls of his prison seeming close in on him, strong and heavy. What kind of sadistic killer must this be? John wonders wildly, his shoulders slumping against the bars but his hands returning to the lock, running along it uselessly.

There are knives—knives dangling from the ceiling, hanging heavily on whisper-thin strings, and it's the most twisted thing he's ever seen, grotesque, like something out of a horror movie. They twist and glitter in the low light, threatening to fall at any second—they are going to fall, eventually; there's no way to escape the iron prison without causing enough movement to release them, and John, John's going to have to watch, watch as the life is sliced out of his flatmate, as the gleefully shimmering blades slip down like a sword-sharp hailstorm, piercing every centimeter of Sherlock's pale skin and splattering the rusted metal walls with deep crimson…

No. No, he has to be able to do this, has to be able to get in first…

"John," Sherlock tries, taking a tentative step forward and curling his sweaty fingers around the bars again, trying to meet his eyes. "Calm down. I'll be fine."

"You won't be fine! You're going to die! This is going to be the death of you, Sherlock, and it's all because I let you walk in there like the idiot that you are, let you into that damned trap…" But he can't talk, can't spare the effort that it takes to enunciate words, he can't—he can't.

"Turn away," Sherlock implores as the daggers sway to and fro, "don't watch—"

"I'm not turning away!" he bellows, and he can feel tears on his cheeks, feel their salt stinging his skin, but he doesn't care, the ache in his throat is nothing compared to that in his chest. "There's got to be a way, there's got to be a way to—"

Before he can get another word out, a pale hand is shooting between the bars, grabbing him by the shirtfront and pulling him in closer, until he's forced as close as possible, and it's like they're in London again, bound by handcuffs and on the opposite sides of the fence where it all started, really, and he can smell the light, minty freshness of Sherlock's breath, he's drowning in the frozen sapphire-jade pools of his eyes. "Listen to me," Sherlock snarls, "this is my dying wish, do you understand? Get away, don't you dare watch. I won't let you do this to yourself."

"I won't let you do this!" John shoots back, fighting down the sob that rears up in his lungs.

Those eyes flash for a moment, then something on Sherlock's face hardens into alarmingly cool resolve. "You're not watching," the detective murmurs, then he's yanking forward, John's head is colliding with the metal bar, and he's not aware of his grip on the lock slackening, nor of slipping silently to the floor.

Nor of the fact that the jarring movement disturbs the knives, rocks them back and forth one too many times, and initiates their fall, a silent cascade of deadly silver rain.