Note: I own nothing here but my own ideas—everything else belongs to Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. Not beta'd or Brit-picked, so all errors are my own.

John woke gently as the morning light caressed his eyelids, painting the world golden. He lay there, warm and content, as his brain slowly woke up and started to complain. His head was killing him, almost like a hangover, but he didn't remember getting drunk last night.

He clenched his eyes tighter closed against the light. What had he done last night?

Well, nothing, really, which was exactly the problem. His entire life had been too filled with 'nothing' since Sherlock walked off the side of a building. He was so busy doing nothing, he didn't even have the energy to become an alcoholic like Harry. It was just too much work. It was easier to go through the motions and … seriously. Why was the room so bright?

He rolled to the side of the bed and swung his legs to the floor. He needed paracetamol, and he needed it now.

It was when his bare feet touched the plush carpeting that he realized he had a problem—because the rug in his bedroom was thin and threadbare. For that matter, his room got sun in the afternoon, not in the morning.

He pried his eyelids open, squinting against the golden light and realized he had no clue where he was. Had he gone home with someone? (Though he couldn't think who, since he couldn't remember leaving the flat yesterday … at all?)

He leaned his elbows on his knees, fighting the pounding in his head for a moment, trying to get his bearings, and then scanned the room again. It looked like a plush hotel suite—impersonal but luxurious.

He truly could not imagine where he was.

He noticed a bottle of painkillers on the bedside table, thoughtfully placed next to a glass of water and blinked at it. He didn't know where he was or how he got here … did he really want to risk taking unknown drugs? His brain throbbed at him, though, and he decided that was all the answer he needed. He'd risk it.

All he wanted to do was lie back down on this remarkably comfortable bed and figure out what was going on, but he'd spent too much time as a soldier, too much time trailing after Sherlock, to be able to relax in an unknown—and therefore possibly hostile—environment. He compromised by sitting back on the bed and looking around while waiting for the pounding to stop.

No, this room didn't look remotely hostile. In fact, it looked lovely. His impression of a luxury hotel room was spot on. Large furniture (too big to lift for a weapon, too heavy to block the door, too sturdy to break into pieces) filled the room—he could see an armoire and chairs in the bedroom, and a sofa and desk in the room beyond …

A room beyond.

Groaning, he heaved himself to his feet and realized he was wearing an unfamiliar pair of pajamas. That was just … creepy, he thought as he noticed a coordinating robe at the foot of the bed. Ignoring that (and the comfortable-looking slippers laid next to the bed), he eased his way toward the door.

A nice, spacious living room, gleaming with sunshine.

Also totally empty.

His curiosity was outweighing the headache now. What was going on? He turned around, taking in the kitchenette in the corner, the desk, the armoire in front of the sitting area. All beautiful. All completely bewildering.

There was a glass slider to the left which opened to his touch to show a large stone terrace surrounded by high walls—too high for basic privacy, he thought. More the kind for keeping prisoners…

He turned back to the main room and took a closer look and felt a chill run along his spine.

There was no door. At all.

He was trapped.

And he had no idea where he was, how he had gotten here, or if anyone would even notice he was missing.

John stood in the middle of the beautiful, perfect living room and wondered what he was going to do next.

###

What he did next was take a shower. The bathroom was of comparable quality with the rest of the suite … his prison … and stocked with all the amenities he could need. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased that he was given a proper razor or not. Most captors made a point of making sure their detainees were not given any means with which they could hurt themselves or others—so what did the razor say about their expectations of John? That he wouldn't be violent? That he wouldn't become suicidal? Not that you can do much harm with a safety razor, he thought, though the mirror was glass and could be broken easily if he felt the need.

Toweling off after his shower, he went back into the bedroom and opened the closet to find it full of comfortable clothes, all his size. Jeans. Flannel shirts. On exploration, the dresser provided underwear, socks, and jumpers.

It was chilling, he thought, how much effort had gone into this gilded cage. And how long the architects apparently intended him to stay.

After he was dressed, he went back to the main room. His headache was better and he was feeling desperate for a cup of tea … and not a little nervous about checking the level of provisions in the kitchenette. If it were stocked for the nuclear holocaust, he might just sit down and cry.

When he looked, though, the cupboards had only a reasonable amount of bachelor-proof staples. Tea. Coffee. Biscuits. Crisps. Things to snack on, but nothing for a proper meal. He was just wondering about that when a bell sounded and a light he hadn't noticed lit over what he had thought was a cupboard but which turned out to be a dumb-waiter system. Just then it held a tray filled with a steaming hot breakfast … he turned to scan the room again, cursing himself for not having noticed the security cameras before. (Of course there were cameras.)

He removed the tray, balancing it carefully on the counter before examining the cupboard, then pressed the button set into the wall next to it, watching as the shelf rotated a full 180 degrees. He could be provided meals without ever seeing the cook—and without being given any way to turn that daily delivery to his advantage. It wasn't big enough to climb into himself, and he couldn't see anything other than the empty slot in front of him. Ingenious, really.

Sighing, he closed the door and turned to the tray. A steaming pot of tea, a jug of milk, eggs, bacon, toast … he had to admit it smelled wonderful. He carried it to the table and sat down, hesitating only momentarily (was it drugged?) before diving in. He was too hungry to care—just as his headache earlier had been too bad to question the pain-killers.

He didn't know what to think about that—that his captor knew him well enough to predict his reactions.

When he was finished, he carried a cup of tea around the room as he explored. The armoire in the sitting area had a television, a DVD player and a wide selection of movies. On checking, he was able to get most channels, though no news networks, which he was sure was no coincidence. The bookcase was filled with books—all of which were to his taste. There was even a Kindle e-reader—though when he checked, it had some extra layers of security. He could buy any book he wanted, but the web features were all disabled. No checking his email from here, he thought.

The desk had an assortment of stationery, which he thought was hilarious. Who was he supposed to write to? His kidnapper? (Though, maybe he'd want to put in a request for a good curry for dinner some night.)

So … books, movies, telly. But nothing resembling news. No periodicals. No way to communicate outside the room (other than a hypothetical note left on the tray with his breakfast dishes). Nothing to actually do. He could go out on the terrace for fresh air—it was even big enough for some exercise—but otherwise … for now, he was stuck.

The question, though, was why? And who?

These were luxury accommodations, to be sure. Custom built for keeping a person in one, comfortable place. Had it been built specifically for him? Or had there been other tenants before? (And if so, what had happened to them?) With the exception of being able to make himself a cup of tea, he was totally reliant on whoever was outside to provide him with food.

He wondered what would happen when the laundry needed to be done. They could easily enough send him clean sheets or whatever via that dumb-waiter system, but what was he supposed to do with the dirty ones? Unless there were a washer and dryer he hadn't noticed and he was expected to do his own?

He was feeling bored and trapped already. What was he doing here?

Whoever had planned his knew him well enough to provide his preferred clothing (in his size, which he was trying not to think about). The books and DVDs were all genres that he liked best, and he was willing to wager that the food provided would all be to his taste. It was a creepy level of personal knowledge that immediately made him think of Mycroft.

But why would Mycroft trap him here? Now that Sherlock was gone, the man had no reason to be involved in John's life at all (since 'sentiment' was so obviously not his thing). But even if he had felt obliged to keep an eye on John out of a sense of duty to his brother, still … why? John might not have been doing much (anything) lately, but that included any type of self-harm. He was eating, he wasn't drinking himself into oblivion every night. He hadn't started cutting or hurting himself.

In other words, he had not given Mycroft any reason to think that John was going to do something stupid … and therefore not given him a reason to high-handedly take John into his special kind of protective custody.

Though John supposed the protection could be because of some outside threat, but then why the secrecy? If one of Sherlock's old enemies was coming after him, he wasn't stubborn enough (he didn't think) to turn an offer of protection down. So again, if this were Mycroft (and there wasn't anyone else John could think of with the money or power to build a prison cell like this), why all the secrecy?

So … an enemy?

He could think of any number of reasons any of Sherlock's old enemies might have wanted to kidnap him in the past, but none of them would have provided such nice living arrangements. They would have been more likely to indulge in the chained-to-a-cement-wall kind of décor.

Well, maybe Moriarty. He was twisted enough to try to trick John with plush surroundings … but he was dead. So was Irene Adler.

It just didn't make sense. He simply did not have enemies (or friends) with this kind of reach.

John looked around the room again. Really, how was it possible that there was no door? Had he been air-lifted to the terrace and brought in that way? Had they sealed the door after he'd been carried in? (Though, if so, how had the workman gotten out?) Was there a hatch in the ceiling? A trap door in the floor? Breaking apart the furniture and trying to batter his way through the wall was starting to sound like the only viable option.

Except for the cameras. He wasn't surprised they were there, but they did put a damper on any covert activities he'd want to stay … covert. Assuming he could think of any.

But really, why was he here?

###

That first day, he didn't do much—just waited on events.

Not that anything eventful happened. The bell by the dumb-waiter had rung twice more with meals, though whoever was on the other side refused to send a new tray until he returned the earlier one with dirty dishes. Feeling rather like a lab rat pressing a lever for food, John had done so.

Not entirely to his surprise, the food was prepared exactly to his liking. It was still creepy.

He prowled his room … suite … cell, fidgeting for something to do. For the first time in weeks, he wanted to do something. (Leave.) The idea of sitting on the invitingly comfortable couch and watching mindless telly repelled him.

These last months of grief for Sherlock had surprised him with their intensity. He wasn't the first friend John had lost, after all, nor the first loved one. Because he admitted that he loved Sherlock like a brother. More than he loved Harry, even. Sherlock might have been one of the most frustrating individuals John knew, but at least he had shown he cared about John as well. Not often, maybe, but he had—which was more than he usually got from his sister.

God. His sister. Harry would be frantic when she found out he was missing. They might not be close, they might drive each other mad, but she had been in full, protective, older-sister mode for months now and having John just disappear? He didn't envy any of the people in her path. Nobody knew better than he what a force of nature she could be when feeling protective. He only wished he could see it.

Mrs. Hudson, too, would worry. Greg Lestrade. His co-workers.

Damn it! Why was this happening to him? It wasn't like he was important anymore—not that he ever was. His only importance had been to Sherlock and that had only been because the man couldn't handle regular friendships. Of course everyone assumed the worst about their relationship—it was the closest thing Sherlock had to one.

But on his own? Just ordinary John Watson? He was a broken-down, ex-army doctor with a recurring psychosomatic limp. He worked as a GP in a local surgery and these days the most exciting moment of his day was choosing where he wanted to order his take-out from. He wasn't important, he wasn't valuable, he wasn't … anything. He certainly didn't warrant this … whatever this was.

He snorted to himself and continued to pace. Even abducted and alone, he was outclassed by his very prison cell. Not that he was complaining. If he had to be kidnapped, he was grateful not to be chained to a wall somewhere, but he felt out of his depth. It was like Buckingham Palace all over again … except there was no Sherlock.

No, there was nothing in John's current life to warrant abduction at all, much less one with this much … class.

He sat down and put his head in his hands. None of this made any sense. He had been here all day and, except for three really excellent meals, nothing had happened.

What he wouldn't do for a drink right now, he thought.

The bell over the dumb-waiter rang and, curious, he heaved himself to his feet and went to check.

Inside, a glass with a double scotch.

His skin crawled (how closely were they watching?) even as he gratefully returned to the couch and took a sip. An appreciative sip, because this was one of the smoothest whiskeys he'd ever tasted.

He held it up in a silent toast and then sat quietly while he drank it all. (It was far too good to rush it.) When he was done, he left the glass on the table and went to bed. He'd struggle with the mystery again in the morning.

###

The days fell into an irritating if peaceful routine.

John waited as patiently as he could at first. Surely his captor would contact him at some point? In his (surprisingly vast) experience with kidnappers, they always felt the need to explain themselves.

But all he had was silence—but for the telly. With the exception of the total lack of any kind of news (which was starting to make him twitch), he couldn't complain about the treatment, not really, but he knew the dangers of solitary confinement, knew how much people needed interaction with other people to keep sane, to keep things in perspective. Individual needs varied, but even the most dedicated hermit needed to stock up on supplies and conversation once in a while—and John was usually anything but a hermit.

So … it was frustrating. And lonely. And boring. Really boring. Because while, yes, he enjoyed reading and telly in his leisure hours, he was used to being busy. (Recent weeks of mourning notwithstanding.) Leisure activities, by definition, aren't meant to be full-time occupations.

He paced around his rooms and, finding cleaning supplies, set to scrubbing the bathroom for want of anything more productive to do. He had found a tiny washer and dryer behind a cupboard door as well, so doing laundry filled up about 8.2 minutes each day.

But mostly, he was bored. He suddenly found himself sympathizing with Sherlock—given a gun, he'd be shooting at the walls, too.

The terrace outside was just big enough for him to run a tight circle, and so he ran laps, trying to fill in some time, work out some energy, but it didn't help, not enough. He still felt trapped.

Well, he was trapped, of course. Captive.

He started keeping track of the days on a piece of paper from the desk. Really, wasn't anyone going to talk to him? Tell him why he was here?

He tried hard to be patient, he did, but by the fifth day, he was ready to climb the walls.

By the tenth, he had actually tried. He had brought the chairs from his sitting room and stacked them by the twelve-foot high wall surrounding his terrace and had carefully climbed to the top, but even with their height, he couldn't reach the top. He shifted his weight, judging the steadiness, trying to decide if he could risk a jump, when he saw the wire running along the top. Electric current, he judged, though he had no way of telling whether it was an alert system or a cross-this-and-die level of voltage.

Whatever it was, it was clear he wasn't getting over the top of that wall—without another chair, he couldn't even see over the top. He turned himself around to sit on the chair, not caring how precarious it was. Even with the extra height, he couldn't see anything useful. The only thing past his terrace were the tall trees rimming it and sky. The only thing in his line of sight was a puffy cloud off to the west.

He wanted to kick in frustration, but he didn't want to risk knocking the chairs over. There was a basic first aid kit in the bathroom, but he didn't have anything to set broken bones with … though he wondered what his captors would do if he hurt himself?

He stared into his beautiful, hated set of rooms and wanted to scream. Maybe hurling himself off this stack of chairs wasn't such a dreadful idea … though he knew that he wasn't likely to cause any real damage, and he really didn't want to suffer any broken bones. Not without good reason, anyway.

He could see the light of the surveillance camera from here and wondered what his kidnappers were thinking. How many people had been held here, anyway? How many of them had tried this exact thing, only to be faced with the knowledge that it was useless. From everything he could tell, escape from here was simply not possible, not without some kind of help.

He felt defeated, and he did not like feeling defeated. Not when he had already lost so much. He couldn't afford to feel this lost, this much out of his depth. He had no idea why he was here and, while he wasn't being harmed, it still hurt. It hurt. What little control he'd had left of his life after Sherlock jumped had been taken away and … what was left?

Nothing.

Because, really, he had barely been more than a shell when he'd been brought here, but now? He was emptier than ever, and didn't even have someone he could yell at, rail at, scream at. He was not a suicidal man, not really, but he was starting to think that it was his only option—if only because it was the only thing he might possibly be able to control.

And so John sat there, high above the terrace on his precarious perch, thinking hard until dusk rolled in and he carefully, shakily, climbed down and carried his chairs back inside.

Back inside, he climbed into bed.

And then he stayed there.

###

When the chime sounded alerting him to his breakfast the next morning, he didn't get up.

When his lunch was announced, all he did was roll over and pull the covers up over his head.

When his dinner came, he didn't move at all.

For the next three days, he didn't get out of bed.

Well, he got out of bed long enough to use the bathroom, but other than taking a drink of water while he was there, he went straight back to bed. By the third day, he wasn't even bothering to do that.

Instead, John curled into his bed and just … drifted. He wandered through the corridors of his life like a museum, remembering the bright, shining days when he'd had a purpose. Medical school. The army. Sherlock. He'd had a good life, really. Fuller than most people's. He'd saved and taken lives. He'd helped hundreds of people, either as patients or crime victims (or potential crime victims). He'd tried to be a good friend, could probably have been a better brother, but really, nothing to complain about.

It had been a good old life. And if it ended here? Well, it was a small loss. It was probably the best time for it, really. The last segment had ended, but he hadn't yet had time to start in another direction. There weren't any people counting on him, so if he were going to disappear, better now than a year from now when he might have had a new set of friends and responsibilities.

Not that he wanted to die. He didn't. But he couldn't take this limbo. If his kidnapper was trying somehow to help him (Mycroft?), then he should know John well enough to know that this was the worst possible time to take away his options. He hadn't yet found something to fight for, so being locked away wasn't going to do him any good—even if he was physically safe. If his kidnapper was an enemy, well, John just couldn't be fussed. Let his enemy gloat over the broken soldier.

This wasn't a death wish. This wasn't even him giving up, he told himself. This was just John Watson taking the only thing he had any control over into his own hands.

###