December 17:th - Kidnapped, Revisited (With Even Less Success)
John looked at the kitchen bench with some consternation. A cake had appeared again, this time with utterly adorable, shaky writing on the top. He shook himself out of it. That was ridiculous. It was Mrs Hudson who had brought it up, surely, and finding anything she did adorable except in a strictly motherly fashion was simply potty. Maybe Sherlock's strangeness was finally getting to him...
Abruptly, John turned and walked through the doorway, trying not to think about it. He did manage to get his mind right off of it, because instead of empty air leading into their sitting room, he stepped right through the open door to the conspiring TARDIS.
He realised his mistake, of course, though he could not understand how it could happen. It did though, and since he had spent the last week living with his flatmate, and said flatmate's pet carpet which moved and liked to bask before the fire, he couldn't deny that curious things did occur. He tried to open the door, which had swung itself shut behind him immediately, but it was locked. It opened after a few seconds of struggle, but they were no longer at Baker Street.
The door opened willingly now, revealing a large space. It looked like someone's living room, only a museum version of it. As John watched, he spotted movement. That was exactly when he decided that he didn't usually respond well to kidnappings, and there was no reason for him to be more cooperative only because it was a magical kidnapping. He stepped back inside the TARDIS (or, the odd box he'd mistakenly stepped into, from his view), sat down on the floor, and awaited it giving up and taking him back home.
He hadn't been sat there much longer than five minutes, when there was a flicker in the open door, and a red cloak floated in, twirling different ways as if looking around before it finally came up towards him like a curious child... or a magic carpet.
"Hi" he greeted the floating garment, reaching out a hand as you would for a sniffing dog, before catching himself and lowering it. It came up and twisted around him, flowing between his body and one of his arms on its own, much like a cat might do with your legs to scent mark you. Before he could react, it instead folded itself over one of the panels in the strange place they were at. He was still staring at it as a voice - a voice which made John swallow without knowing why - called out some words he could not quite recognise, and it raced towards the voice.
More words, the door behing shut from the outside, and then the door was opened again by a tutting Mrs Hudson, complaining about her hip, as if him being kidnapped by magical boxes were an everyday event. She made him eat some cake, oddly smug when he said it was nice, and disappeared before he could get anything out of her.
What on earth was going on with everybody? Next Lestrade would show up asking them to solve the twenty year old disappearance of an octupus and Andersson would ask Sherlock out on a date. It was still a week to Christmas Eve, and everyone had already gone overboard on the treats, or something. With a sigh, John went back to bed. He hated being kidnapped.
So in my head, the cloak behaves like a cat and the carpet is more like a dog. If that makes any kind of sense at all.
I do not own anything you recognise - I don't even know where some of it is from!
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To irene: Thank you very much! That means a lot. :)