The halls were well lit, with glass-but-not-clear paneling on the walls. Dark wood also spun up towards the ceiling, lacing and framing the glass. The hallway seemed to stretch for miles, and though we saw many turnoffs into slightly smaller stretches, we had no way of knowing which way would lead us to the Doctor.

We wandered, hands clasped together, for ten or twenty minutes, until Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. He perked up, back straightening, silent. I held my breath, waiting for some sort of explanation or remark, and it came.

"Redbeard," Sherlock whispered.

I coughed, licked my lips. "Sorry, what?"

He turned to his left, looking at me, and his face broke into the greatest smile anyone could ever hope to see. "Old friend. Great friend. Best friend."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh. Well, then."

He gave a slight eyeroll, toothy grin closing into a still-excited beam. "You're more than my best friend now, John Watson."

With a quick squeeze, he let go of my hand and peeled down one of the corridors. I bit my lip, skin tingling where he had touched me, and exhaled as though I hadn't been breathing at all.

"You coming?" Sherlock called from the corridor.

In response, I ran after him.

By the time I'd caught up, the consulting detective had already stopped and was crouching on the ground. In front of him stood a panting red dog, a satisfied look on his face as Sherlock rubbed him here and there.

My friend looked up at me, beaming as he was minutes before. "John, this is Redbeard."

I kneeled next to Sherlock, giving the dog a pat on the head. He panted in response, and I couldn't help but smile. Who could guess that the great Sherlock Holmes had a soft spot for dogs?

Sherlock pulled a maroon bow tie out of his pocket and held it out for Redbeard to sniff. I recognized it as one of the Doctor's. Redbeard took a whiff. "Can you find us the owner, boy?"

The dog tore off, and we sprinted after him. While running through the halls, I looked to Sherlock, careful to keep my balance on the somewhat slick linoleum. "Do you pickpocket everyone?"

He grinned at me briefly and grabbed my hand before turning his head again. "Only when they're annoying."

Redbeard turned one final corner and halted without much warning. I skidded to an ungraceful stop, nearly tripping over my own feet, and quickly kneeled to see what Redbeard had found. Though the Doctor was nowhere to be found, he had definitely been here, for, abandoned on the polished white floor, lay his tweed jacket.

Sherlock kneeled next to me and picked up the jacket (forced to let go of my hand- again). He offered it to Redbeard, who cocked his head, confused. This was as far as he could leave us.

Sherlock gave him a pat on the head and scratched behind his ears. "Good boy."

I sat down all the way, crossing one leg over the other. "So he was definitely here, right."

"Not necessarily."

I waited for an explanation, but it seemed that my colleauge needed to be prompted. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock looked up from the jacket, which he seemed to be inspecting for any further clues. "Well, we aren't the only ones here. There are those... Shakri. They know we're with the Doctor, and if they captured him and realized that we were looking for him, they could easily lure us in with this trap. It's too soon to trust that Jack character, and he seems falsley confident in everything he says or does- sure sign of a liar. No one could have that much trust in himself." He sniffed the coat. "I also wouldn't trust Irene."

"Why not?"

He held the jacket out for me to smell. The strong scent of roses and vanilla immediately overrided all of my senses, and I was left lightheaded. Sherlock pulled the jacket back. "Because that is her perfume."

I wasn't about to ask how or why Sherlock knew what kind of perfume Irene wore, especially now that she was seen by both of us, rather than just me, as a potential enemy.

I began to pet Redbeard, who had sat down next to us, content with his job as a sniffer. "So what are we going to do about it? We can't just leave this here."

Sherlock stood up, and Redbeard and I followed his example. "Actually, yes, we can."

"Sorry?"

He furrowed his brow, as though the answer was obvious. In his head, I suppose, it was. "Whoever left it here did so on purpose. It's a man's tweed jacket- worn in such a way that suggests he almost never takes it off. He didn't just forget it here, and I wouldn't imagine that anyone else could. If we pick it up, and that person- or Shakri, perhaps- makes their way back here, they'll know we've been around if the jacket's gone."

I shrugged. "Well, they'll know someone was around. There's no way for them to tell that it was us specifically."

"Wrong." He turned to the wall, pressing his face against the glass and knocking.

I raised my eyebrows. "Could you elaborate why that's wrong?"

He turned back around, in my direction, and pointed at a puddle of piss on the ground a few feet away. "Because Redbeard just did that."

"So they'll know that he was here, but..."

"Piss puddle means dog. Piss puddle and missing jacket? Dog and humans."

"Could be anyone, still."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "But it's us, and it's not worth the risk."

This was a shock. Sherlock was putting care before the case? Usually, he was a 'go for it, we can figure out the consequences later' sort of man. But avoiding danger instead of getting clues that could lead us out of this place, back home to safety (well, more or less safety, with the lifestyle we had)? What a change in character!

He gave a short wave. "Oh, don't smile like that. Just because I like you and want to keep you out of danger doesn't mean you can look at me like a child who has just learned to speak." Though his words were boorish, his touch was light and soft as he took hold of my hand and began to walk with me, Redbeard trotting on his other side.

 I shrugged. "A man can dream, right?"

Sherlock chuckled, and we moved in silence for ten minutes or so, taking random turns and hoping they would lead us to the Doctor. At some point, I realized how hopelessly lost we were. "Any idea where we're going?"

Sherlock took no time in responding. "No idea."

Just then, we heard a clash from down the hall. With nowhere to hide, Sherlock took it upon himself to decide that, yes, we would run towards the noise, dragging me along with him. There were a few more thumps and bumps from the direction, and each one got louder as we became closer.

Before we could properly react, three Shakri had turned down the hall in our direction, sprinting faster than I'd ever thought I'd see legs go. Sherlock and I turned around and began running, but we were tired and they were inhuman- the odds weren't exactly in our favor.

The Shakri caught up to us very quickly. Redbeard managed to get away down an adjoining hall, but I suppose it wasn't him they were really after. Instead of killing us on sight, I was pleasantly surprised when one of them pulled out two pairs of surprisingly earth-like handcuffs. They wrenched my hand out of Sherlock's, and I realized that I'd been squeezing rather hard, out of fear.

Though their mouths were all open, as they seemed to be stuck so, they didn't say anything or make any noise at all as they pulled us to the wall. One of them knocked a rhythm on one of the glass panels,and the wall lifted, exposing a stairwell that lead into complete darkness.

We were marched down the steps, and found that at the bottom (which was quite a ways down, mind you), a few torches were lit down a long corridor. I quickly realized what was happening, as small, empty jail cells lined both walls. The men shoved Sherlock and I into a cell near the middle of the room, uncuffing us as soon as we were in. They left quickly, as though they didn't want to be around for long.

The cell contained two benches, each mounted to the wall. There was no toilet or sink, so obviously we weren't expected to hang around here long. As for the rest of the cell, it was absolutely empty; nothing to help get us out, and not much to do while we were in.

Sherlock quickly sat down on one of the benches and placed his hands together, under his chin- proper deduction form. "Mind palace," he murmured.

Sherlock was practically gone, and I was alone.