A/N: Feels just like the old collection. -csf
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'Please let me outta here.'
My voice comes across detached, numbed, empty. Sherlock stops clawing at the stalled lift doors, that he was uselessly trying to pry open with his bare hands out of frustration. We've been stuck in the New Scotland Yard's rarely used lift for ten minutes, according to my wristwatch.
Could have been more than 12 hours, or even a day, the fresh doubt settles in my head.
No, of course not. Sherlock and I took the lift to go down to the rarely visited Evidence Room. The detective was on hot pursuit of a nefarious people trafficker. What he didn't quite account for was the lift with the "Out of Order" sign stuck to the doors was actually... out of order.
Not every piece of evidence is significant, and not every hastily put together sign is a decoy to avoid our petty criminal acts, Sherlock.
My friend grabbed the piece of paper before I spotted it, pressed the call button, the lift opened the doors, all lights were on, match point for Sherlock Holmes.
We could have taken the stairs, but no. Had to get there quicker.
And once we had retrieved illegally the evidence from aisle 7, shelf 2, code 133-09-2019, getting out of a building swarming with cops became the priority. Or maybe Sherlock forgot the ripped off sign, who knows. It's too mundane for the spoiled detective, I suppose.
The lift responded to the buttons Sherlock pressed as we stepped inside. Closed its metallic coffin doors on us. Started the ride with a jolt. Halted suddenly with a bigger jolt. The lights went off. The metal screeched to a halt. The control panel then burst into electric sparks. Sherlock grabbed me, pulling me well away. Then the whole cabin suddenly dropped ten inches in a menacing drastic threat. Halted under the sound of a steel cable whiplashing freely against the lift shaft walls – oddly reminiscent of electric storm lightening as the tense, coiled power is unleashed too quickly. Sherlock grabbed my arm harder, I may have been struggling. I stilled in the dark as the smell of burnt wires filled the cabinet, tickling my throat.
I clear my throat at the recollection. The terrible scent has dissipated somewhat since. The darkness has been replaced by my phone's torch light, casting ominous shadows on us from below, as if we were in a modern campfire of sorts (our imprisonment being the scary story by the fire).
'John? Are you alright, John?'
I chuckle, comes across slightly high pitched and much too strained.
'Just peachy, mate.'
His comeback is delayed and controlled when it finally comes: 'Glad to hear that, John.'
'And the doors?' Again, too much emotion in my voice. I try to gulp it down my parched throat.
'I haven't given up yet, John. And someone will come for us.'
'No one knows we're here', I disagree.
'A defect in the lift will have alerted security.'
'They'll think it was whatever fault there was before causing it. Sherlock, why did we had to take the lift?'
This time he has no answer. That, in itself, makes me the more concerned.
'John, what's wrong?' Sherlock's voice pierces our small world of lights and shadows.
'Nothing.'
'Your left hand is trembling again.'
'Maybe I just want to punch the doors, ever thought of that?'
'Useless, but be my guest.'
I sigh and do no such thing, hanging my head and willing my blood to flow to my extremities. Cold hands, cold feet, shallow breathing, heavy feeling of impending doom, it's like I'm on the verge of some panic attack. I pinch my nose, closing my eyes hard. Why on earth would I be terrified of broken lifts? It's inconvenient, not half as insane as that time the army convoy got flipped over by a roadside IED and I got trapped under the metal carcass of a several tons vehicle, tires burning lazily filling the inside with unbreathable swirling smoke and—
I shake my head violently. I made it out. I'm in London now.
My right leg buckles under me and it's by Sherlock's instinctive reaction of grabbing hold of me that I don't crash down.
'John, what's the matter?'
I can hear the concern in his voice, one he won't bother concealing. Also some impatience, because I'm not disclosing what he cannot quite grasp. But it's the concern that marks me. Either he gives up his usual play of distance for an audience or he doesn't think a lot of the current happenings will stick in a panic overridden mind like mine. He's got a point. Memories are often patchy during panic attacks, and that's why I most certainly am refusing to take a plunge in one just now.
Sherlock is confused, I can tell, as doctor Watson emerges and calmly covers Sherlock's hand with his, assuring: 'All gone now. Am fine.'
He seems taken back, one imperious eyebrow shooting up in his forehead in defiance, but he won't contradict me.
'Good. And just so you know, there's plenty of air in here, John. You have recently eaten and I had two humbugs, the temperature is likely to rise and not drop so we can remove the extra clothes layers as required. We'll give Lestrade as much time as he requires to deduce our whereabouts and come release us from captivity.'
'Yes. Yes, of course.' Stop deducing this will take so long, will you? You're Sherlock Holmes, you're always right.
I let my sweaty back lean against the back wall of the tiny lift – are the walls crushing in on us like the movies? is this box becoming smaller by the minute? – and from there I allow myself to slide down to the ground, where I find a secure, solid place on the floor. I'm rubbing my throbbing leg in circles when I ask out loud:
'Still no network on our phones?'
'No, John. I believe it's standard protocol inside and in the immediate vicinity of the evidence room. It helps eliminate the unwanted publication of evidence regarding ongoing cases.'
'Which is exactly what we came down here for', I accuse.
'Great, John, you're finally catching up.'
'Funny', I accuse sarcastically. I take as deep breath as my oddly bruised sternum allows me. It feels it doesn't quite inflate my lungs. Useless air, useless breathing, my body is shutting down. Too much smoke. Pained gasps. I need to go help the hurt soldiers. Snap out of it, Watson! You can smell the sand that the hot drafts of burnt rubber smoke drag to your parched mouth. The moans are dying out. Night is falling, plunging you into darkness. No one will come, you know no one ever comes. You know—
'John!'
I snap my eyes open, the diffuse light in the lift piercing my retinas with uncalled for pain. Right, panic attack. Just another symptom. Breathe right, wiggle your toes, focus on the here and now. Sherlock is here. You are safe.
Only now I realise Sherlock has taken off his coat, balled it negligently, and stashed it behind my back, propping me to a seating position. I've been sliding across the disgusting square of floor.
'John', he repeats my name, trailing his deep honest eyes into mine. 'Stay with me.'
'I'm alright now.'
Still he won't believe me. Instead he shuffles from a squatting position almost in front of me to a seating one, comfortable stance at my side. We're now both staring at the useless metal doors. I can just about tell imprints of Sherlock's fists, where they banged the surface, his anger righteously defending me.
'I didn't mean for this interlude in the investigation, John.'
He means, I'm sorry, John.
'I know. It's not all your fault. I'm not angry at you. I'm mostly angry at me, if I'm honest.' I turn my head to face his profile. At once he moves his head to face me straight on. Don't be silly, John.
'How's the battle going?'
I skip a beat. Does he know about Afghanistan, so real to me right now? Does he mean the panic attack he can't have missed? I focus instead on the fact that he called it the Battle. Even if I lose the battle, I won't lose the War, is implied.
'It's...' I sigh. I don't know.
'Will it help if I—'
He hesitates as if he's about to do something so uncharacteristic that is totally foreign to him, that he needs to stop and input directives on the use of each arm muscle; contracting, extending, circling me. Slowly, assuring himself and me that I can extricate myself if I choose to.
It's an awkward hug, a sideways hug. A well-meant but overthought hug. But I'm John Watson. This I know how to do.
I snuggle closer, leaning my head to his collarbone, marvelling at how well our height difference serves us now. He instinctively crosses his arm around my waist, pinning me in. I should feel constricted, trapped, fighting the remnants of a near panic attack. Instead I give in to my deep exhaustion, close my eyes and focus on his steady heartbeats. His hold becomes natural, willing, friendly, protective. I'm getting sleepy, very sleepy.
That's typical of people who experience panic attacks, actually. The crash.
'Shh. Don't overthink, John. Just drop it, John, let it go. I've got you', he whispers, knowing just what to say.
'I'm alright now', I say; and it's finally true. I'm now better than alright. 'Lemme know when they come open the doors', I beg, no more than a whisper.
'Of course, John.'
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'It was positively tedious, Lestrade! John even fell asleep! You took ages before you got us out of that lift! A lift that is the property of Scotland Yard, I may add. Is this how you treat all your consultants?' Sherlock elaborates in overproduced tirades, gesticulating wildly in the patient DI's office.
'No, just the annoying ones. The ones that won't follow the rules and ignore Out of Order signs', Lestrade sustains easily.
'You don't deserve the four cases I solved while we were bored out of our minds, trapped in a faulty metal box!'
Greg frowns altogether, much more engaged all of a sudden.
'How many case evidence boxes did you go through?'
'Just the one', Sherlock assures, tapping his phone. 'The other two cases are from the first boxes I consulted erroneously, codes 134 and 143.' He dramatically opens his Drafts and hits Send on his phone. Greg's phone chirps happily in reply. The detective just sent over the case deductions.
'And the fourth case?' Greg asks, still perplexed.
Sherlock glances at the friend he hugged, before alleging: 'I miscounted. Three should be enough to keep you busy for now, inspector.'
'Yeah, of course. Need a ride home? I've got the keys to one of the Yard's van, my car is in the shop.'
Sherlock eyes narrow as he takes in my blanching, across the tiny room.
'We'll walk, Lestrade.'
'But it's cold and rainy outside.'
I smirk. 'Positively cheerful weather tonight', I assure both my friends. 'I love British weather.'
Cold and rainy will do me just fine tonight.
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