John got up and paced one more time, not that there was any easy way out of here. The old well walls were mossy and damp even if, thankfully there wasn’t much water left.
And of course there was no mobile signal.
“Forty three,” said Sherlock.
John looked at him. “What?”
“You’ve paced the space 43 times. Find anything new?” Sherlock was perched on a rock, hands steepeled at his mouth. At least the cut on his forehead had stopped bleeding.
“No, Sherlock, I haven’t.” John sighed and leaned against the damp wall. The sun was setting and he wondered just how dark it would get in here.
Sherlock lapsed into silence for a few minutes before speaking again. “Tell me a secret, John.”
John blinked. “What?”
“We may as well pass the time.”
John ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, I don’t know. Why don’t you go first?”
Sherlock stood and walked over to him, crowding John against the stone. John swallowed. “Sherlock?”
“This stone above your head is loose. I may be able to climb.”
John let out a breath. “And maybe break your neck this time. Just wait, if there isn’t help by morning, then I’l let you.”
“Fine.” Sherlock tucked John under the Belstaff. “But there’s no reason for you to freeze.”
Sometimes I remember that Sherlock Holmes was on that Tarmac, about to be exiled on New Years Day and I die a little inside. Imagine the acute sense of hopelessness he would have felt on New Years Eve. Everyone else gets their new beginning. And he was hours away from his end. Could he hear fireworks from his cell? Did he even know what time it was in solitary confinement? He only got to spend one New Year with just him and John alone, the way it should be. I bet the sound of Auld Lang Syne on the violin was echoing around his head.
