Theme Prompt - Solitude

Sherlock had always been able to do solitude well. He'd had to learn to, to cope with how others treated him. Sherlock had locked his heart away, safe from the taunts of other children. Safe from the confusion and fear in adult faces.

When he became an adult, Sherlock hid behind the words "high-functioning sociopath". The person who was closest to him for the longest time, DI Greg Lestrade, believed that. Believed Sherlock had no heart, no emotions, so when he was rebuffed the first few times he tried to be a friend, Greg backed off. He treated Sherlock paternally businesslike because that's as far as the arrogant detective let him in. So Sherlock lived alone and believed alone was better. Until the day he met John Watson and the stalwart, ex-army doctor saved his life.

But none of these thoughts were going through Sherlock's head as the tranquilizers wore off and he woke up. The first thoughts he had, when he could focus, were the floor is cold, something was lying uncomfortably underneath him, and that something was pleasantly warm. Opening his eyes, Sherlock sucked in a relieved breath when he identified John's familiar and loved face a few inches from his own. His John.

Realizing most of his upper body was sprawled across John's chest and impeding his breathing, Sherlock sat up carefully and looked John over. Other than the puncture wound in his neck, which was starting to purple, John appeared unharmed. Sherlock smiled fondly at the still-unconscious John then checked himself over. He had a similar puncture wound in his neck and a dry and fuzzy mouth but was otherwise uninjured.

He noticed the gallons of water in the corner but decided not to chance them right now. Who knew what they might contain? Sherlock could think of at least 8 noxious substances, ranging from poison to paralytics to corrosives, that the water might feasibly disguise without even trying. It was much safer to wait and deal with the feeling in his mouth.

After checking on John again and determining that he would be unconscious for at least another ten minutes, Sherlock raised his eyes and studied the room. It was a medium-sized room, about 20 feet by 20 feet. The walls had been painted a steel gray and there were mirrors in each wall. Sherlock tilted his head at those for a few moments, a suspicion worming its way into his mind.

Standing slowly, Sherlock walked over to the closest mirror and pointed his finger at it down near the bottom. He pressed on the glass and nodded in satisfaction when the reflected finger touched his real finger. He quickly repeated the test with all the mirrors and had the same result.

"One-way glass," Sherlock murmured. "Someone wants to see in and not be seen. Moriarty?"

He continued to study the room, looking for a weak point or any way to contact the outside world. The door was solid steel, more like a fire door than anything else. It bolted from outside and had three deadbolts. There was no handle on this side of it. He turned back to the bed he saw in the corner and lifted the mattress to see if he could find any removable pieces. The frame was a carved wooden piece with no joins or seams. Which meant no nails or bars he could use as a weapon. The floor was concrete and had no carpeting on it.

A small groan from John caused Sherlock to move to his side and place a gentle hand on the doctor's shoulder. He was impressed with his doctor: he had only been studying the room for 7 minutes and John was already waking up.

"John," Sherlock said softly when John's eyes cracked open. "Are you all right?"

"I guess so," John said, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You don't have a granduncle, do you?"

"I do not," Sherlock replied, confused. "Why do you ask?"

"Because that's how whoever kidnapped us got to us," John explained, grimacing. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for it. "The guy looked older, gray hair and slightly wrinkled face. He was fairly friendly and said he knew your mother."

"Well, in case that ever happens again," Sherlock said with a smile. "My only family includes my brother Mycroft and my mother." John chuckled lightly and looked around the room. He did the same test with the windows and had to laugh at the surprised look on Sherlock's face.

"What, didn't think I knew how to tell a mirror from one-way glass?" John asked, moving to the bed and studying it. "I was a soldier, Sherlock. This room actually reminds me a lot of detention cells. Though a bit bigger than those were."

"You continually surprise me, John," Sherlock said fondly, moving to sit on the bed. "Did the man say anything else to you before we were drugged?" John thought for a moment, coming to join Sherlock on the bed. His mind was still a bit hazy, the tranquilizer taking a while to wear off.

"Just that he didn't get to see you as often as he liked because he and your mother didn't get along," John said. "He seemed so harmless and friendly and I relaxed my guard around him. I'm sorry, Sherlock, this is my fault."

"Nonsense," Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air. "There was no way you could have known. We haven't really discussed my family other than Mycroft. And only him because he constantly keeps butting into my life." John let a small smile slip onto his lips as he leaned into Sherlock. The detective wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, surprising himself by craving and enjoying the touch.

"I think it's Moriarty," John said quietly. "He's the only one who would do this. And don't go back to your memories, Sherlock. I need you here." Sherlock shook his head and fought the memories back, knowing he was less than useless when trapped in his own mind. His arm tightened over John's shoulder and the doctor slung an arm across his waist.

"Stay with me, Sherlock," John continued softly. "You can do it. You're safe with me right now."

"How sweet," a voice drawled. "But such a lie, Johnny-boy. Neither of you are safe here." John tensed, his jaw clenching in anger. He recognized that voice immediately. It was indeed Moriarty who had kidnapped them and locked them in this room.

"What do you want this time?" Sherlock asked, affecting boredom though he was shivering in John's embrace.

"What do I ever want, dearest Sherlock?" Moriarty continued, his voice coming from a speaker implanted in the roof. "I want you to suffer. I want to burn you."

"And sticking us in a room is going to accomplish that?" John asked dryly. "How exactly is it going to do that?" A mad, high-pitched giggle met their ears and went on for entirely too long. A few moments after the laugh stopped, Moriarty cleared his throat.

"You both are going to die a very horrible, lingering death," Moriarty explained, the laughter still evident in his voice. "You are going to watch each other starve to death."