Prompt: Moriarty traps Sherlock and John in a Cupboard, because Johnlock is his OTP.

I have a difficult time writing characters out of character, so this is the best that I could come up with.

John opened his eyes only to find complete darkness.

"Sherlock?" he croaked, putting his hand to his throat. His mouth was dry.

"Ah, John," said a voice behind him. "I thought I heard you stirring."

"What the hell happened?" John asked, sitting up. The floor beneath him was soft.

"What do you remember?" Sherlock's outline could now be made out. He was sitting very close.

John shut his eyes. They were eating dinner, discussing a case. Sherlock wasn't eating anything, but he was drinking tea. After what had occurred at Baskerville, neither man had ordered sugar with their drinks, but John had noticed that Sherlock began to look concerned midway through their meal.

"We were at dinner," John said slowly. "and now we're here. How did we end up here? Actually, where is here?"

"We appear to be in a cupboard," Sherlock explained. "I believe that our drinks were drugged with flunitrazepam, more commonly known as Royhpnol. My watch tells me that we've been here for several hours. I woke up an hour before you did as I'm a bit more resistant to recreational drugs."

"Wait, we were roofied?"

"Yes, John, pay attention."

"Why can't we call for help?" John asked, putting a hand in his coat pocket. It was empty. He patted his hands by his other pockets; his phone was missing.

"Sherlock, do you know-"

"My phone has been taken too," Sherlock said, standing up. "As for trying to leave, the door is locked, and I thought it unwise to attempt to leave until I knew how you were."

"Oh, well, thanks. Should we get out of here, then?" John stood up and felt his legs buckle beneath him.

"John!" Sherlock stopped him from falling by grabbing him under his arms. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm fine." In actuality, John could hear his heart pounding and was surprised that Sherlock couldn't. Or maybe Sherlock could, and was choosing not to say anything.

Sherlock leaned against the door. "The hinges are on the outside-"

"So it opens outwards."

"Obviously. We just need to apply the right amount of pressure to force it open."

John joined Sherlock at the door. "So, do we just start pushing, or-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Back off the door. When I say 'three', we slam into it. The inertia should cause it to break open. I've been listening for any sounds of life on the outside, and it appears that we are alone."

"Well, that's good, I guess," John said as he stepped away from the door.

"Are you ready?" asked Sherlock.


"One, two, three!"

John threw all of his weight onto the door and felt it break open. He fell on his bad shoulder and gasped at the surge of pain. He shook his head and tried to get rid of the stars he was seeing. "Are you alright?"

"No," Sherlock said as he stood. "I know this room."

John looked up and saw that they were in a bedroom. "What, you've been here before? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

"I'm fine, John." Sherlock walked across the room and opened the door. Dim light spilled into the room and John joined the detective in the doorway. Mycroft Holmes stood at the end of the hallway, an annoyed look etched across his face.

"I thought I heard something out of the ordinary," he said as he stepped towards them. John saw him slip a pistol into his dressing gown. "And would be the cause for a visit at this ungodly hour?"

"Yes, it's quite the story, actually," Sherlock answered. "John and I have been locked in your guest room closet for seven hours."


"I'm used to being kidnapped by you, Mycroft," John added, "but being roofied was a new experience."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about. I had nothing to do with this."

"So why would somebody drug and kidnap us, and then stuff us in your closet?"

Sherlock spoke up again. "Mycroft, I need to have a look at your security tapes."

"Yes, I think you should."

John followed the Holmes brothers into the hall. As they walked, he couldn't help but stare at the paintings on the walls. The elder Holmes brother appeared to have a taste in fine art. "Hold on, I know it's late and I might just be seeing things, but was that a Van Gogh?"

"Yes, John, it was," Sherlock answered. "He got it from Mummy, and it really has nothing to do with the situation at hand. John, I need you to try to remember anything unusual about our waiter. I don't think you could have picked up anything that I didn't, but you never know."

Mycroft chuckled as he unlocked a door. "And what was your waiter like?"

"Twenty-three year old university graduate who obviously couldn't find a job in his degree and is now stuck waiting tables," Sherlock said as he stepped into the room, flicking on a light. "He's also sleeping on a sofa with a cat. That's not important now. These are the security tellies?"

"Yes," Mycroft said, handing his brother a remote.

John looked around the room as Sherlock rewound the tapes. On the shelves were various spy tools that Mycroft acquired through his time at the CIA and MI6. John noticed two phones on a shelf that looked very familiar...

"Sherlock, our phones are in here!" he said as he picked them up. Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes still peeled on the screens. As far as John could tell, the phones looked completely normal.

"That's odd."

"What is?" John asked, turning to the tellies. Three letters flashed against the grainy screens. "IOU. What's IOU?"

Sherlock shook his head. The screens all returned to normal after five minutes.

"They tampered with the tapes," said Mycroft.

"To keep their identities secret," John added. "But why would they do this?"

"To frighten us, obviously," said Sherlock as he stood from his chair. "We've made our own enemies, John, and Mycroft's job has put him in a delicate situation as well. I'll be back tomorrow, Mycroft, to look for more evidence. C'mon, John."

John nodded to Mycroft as he walked them to the door. "G'night, Mycroft."

"Good night, John. Be careful on your way back."

Sherlock hailed a cab, and John climbed inside. "So, IOU," he said, handing Sherlock his phone. "What do you think that's all about?"

Sherlock's face was unreadable as he touched his phone's screen. "No idea."