A/N: You guys are amazing... I was NOT expecting this kind of reaction, especially for my first fanfic EVAR! So feel happy, because your response has inspired me to write MOAR! :D

A couple of "warnings" : You have to have read the first chapter before you read this (although I'm assuming that's what has happened) as I completely made it the same basic scenario (that filing cabinet has almost become it's own character in my mind... didn't know what I would do without it). The second is that this story isn't as funny. My sister was like... okay well that was good or whatever but now I want TEH ANGST... I tried to make it have a funny tone most of the time, but there are some angsty parts. Don't like, blame her. :P

Also, I took lines here and there and even a whole paragraph from the other chapter. This was on purpose, so don't freak out. :P

PS. I am American obviously, and saying bloody all the time is about the extent of my British slang knowledge... corrections/suggestions are always welcome. :)

It happened between the sixty-fourth and sixty-fifth floor.

John heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Shit."

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

Of course. He couldn't have bloody fallen off a wall or something. No. Of course he had to get stuck in a goddamned elevator, trapped in a five-by-fucking-five-by-seven metal box, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground, shoulder to shoulder with a five-foot filing cabinet on one side, and an arrogant, smug, and manic sociopath on the other.

Shit.

Okay. Focus, John.

Old memories flashed across his mind, fighting to be acknowledged. John pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them away. You're not there anymore.

Focus.

"John." John lifted his hands from his face and lowered them to his sides, careful not to clench his fists. Sherlock would notice. Obviously.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Are you... you seem a little..."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Just have a bit of a headache."

"Ah, well then." Sherlock leaned nonchalantly against the hideous green filing cabinet as he pulled out his Blackberry.

Bastard. The lanky detective was so at ease, he might have been nestled into the curve of a grand piano, crooning a ballad.

"Why don't you grab a file then, and start reading. I'll get Lestrade to come and get us out of here. Shouldn't be a problem... obviously the power has just gone out – there don't seem to have been any mechanical problems."

"You have a signal in here?"

"Obviously." Sherlock pouted a little, presumably at John's idiocy, and began rapidly pressing buttons on his phone.

"Wait, are you texting him?"

The detective didn't lift his eyes. "Of course, John. You know I hate calling people."

"Well, yes, but... isn't this kind of urgent?" John hated the panic that had crept into his voice. He cleared his throat, pulled open the drawer closest to him, and pulled out a file folder at random, studiously avoiding Sherlock's face.

Sherlock raised his eyes from the screen in front of him and flashed his flatmate a look. His gaze never left John's face as he hit the number three speed dial on his phone.

"Lestrade – yes, of course it's Sherlock, who else would it be? Listen, I need your help."

John couldn't hear the DI's words, but heard the snort of laughter from where he was standing.

"Yes, the great consulting detective needs your help, ha bloody ha. And no— no." Sherlock lowered his voice. "I will discuss that with you later. Not while J—not while... well, this is not an ideal time. Listen. I need you to come get us...

One hour.

Slightly less time than it takes to watch one episode of the Star Trek: The Next Generation on DVD back to back with that How I Met Your Mother that Sherlock had randomly recorded last week ("John, apparently this Barney character is a high-functioning sociopath—more research is clearly needed on the subject")

One hour.

The time it takes to bake a cake from scratch if you're really good at measuring, or from a mix if you're really, really bad at it.

One hour.

The perfect amount of time for a nap after you've returned from your latest kidnapping experience at the hands of a foreign drug cartel before you sit down with a nice cuppa and later, maybe some Thai takeout.

One hour.

The time, apparently, it takes for Lestrade to grab one bored copper from the Yard and drive over to the office building where John and Sherlock are currently trapped in a fucking metal box suspended several hundred feet in the air.

One hour.

Fucking eternity.

What he did not do was slide clumsily to the floor. He, very deliberately, sat himself down on the floor and primly opened up the filing folder, examining the contents as closely as one possibly can with his eyes closed. He did not sit on the floor so that the ceiling of the elevator would seem farther away, and he definitely did not do it because he thought his legs might give out at any moment. He was simply exhausted from all the running after taxi cabs and jumping off of buildings that was such a routine part of life when you live with the world's only consulting detective, and when said detective asked him why on earth he had slid onto the floor like that, John, this is what John told him.

"I see," was his only reply.

hr

And he did see. It was his job.

When John slid to the floor (and he definitely had slid), Sherlock immediately noticed four things:

One: When he even bothers to try to keep his eyes open, John's pupils are dilated wide, so that Sherlock can barely see the irises.

Two: There is a sheen of sweat covering John's forehead. Too much for the limited physical activity the two had done in the last hour. Too much to be explained by the actually quite cool temperature of the elevator carriage.

Three: John's breathing is slow and steady. No hyperventilation, then. But something is off, the breaths seem a little too steady... Sherlock starts to count, carefully studying a file all the while. Inhale: One... Two... Three... Four... Exhale: One... Two...Three...Four...

Conclusion: John is not hyperventilating because he is trying desperately to not start hyperventilating.

Four: John is holding the file in his hands very tightly, as if to keep them from shaking, but it is not working.

These four facts coupled with the knowledge that: a) These symptoms had begun only after they entered the elevator (and never, ever before) and b) John was trying to hide them from Sherlock led to only one conclusion.

Claustrophobia.

And, judging from his physical reaction, John was probably about to have a panic attack. While trapped in an elevator. With only a slightly homophobic filing cabinet and a sociopathic detective to help him through the ordeal.

If he didn't know any better, Sherlock would have thought he was actually feeling sorry for John right about now.

First thing. Am I alive?

Yes. Too much pain for this to be death. Next.

Smell: Burnt flesh. Melted plastic. Gasoline. Next.

Taste: Blood. Dirt. Next.

Hear: Noise. Shells. John. Screaming. English? No, Farsi. Next.

Don't hear: Breathing, moaning in the passenger seat. Next.

Touch: Back against seat. Chest against dash. Cold hand on shoulder. Next.

See: Twisted metal. Thighs, soaked with blood. Next.

Pain: Seatbelt cutting across neck. Arm crushed against door. Intolerable heat. Legs pinned. Next.

Feel: Trapped. Helpless. Stop.

Except it's more like

I am going to die. Dead, already dead John, listen. I can't move, can't breathe, trapped can't move, can't The noise. I can't hear, can't think I will be baked alive. Can't breathe. Something is burning and it is me it is my skin I can feel it I can smell it. Pressed, squeezed Legs are sliced off can't move cold burning my shoulder the noise crashing helpless

Shoulder. John, listen.

trapped heart pounding hard too hard too hard to live John, breathe with me no air too much air. I will die here, burning, burningCold shoulder, helpless

Shoulder. John, listen.

Cold, not hot. Listen, John. Breathe with me.

Cold, not hot. Shoulder. Breathe.

Shoulder. Cold, not hot. Sherlock. Breathe.

Sherlock was pretty damn relieved when John started to breathe with him, started to focus his eyes on him, grabbed ahold of the cold hand that was gripping his shoulder (obviously his good shoulder, John, did you think I would just forget something like that?), slightly less relieved when he clung to it. But he didn't shake him off.

When it seemed that John's breathing and pulse had more or less returned to normal, Sherlock prised John's fingers off his wrist and thumped himself inelegantly onto the floor next to his friend. Hesitated for just a moment before he entwined John's shaking fingers with his own long cold ones. Didn't say a word as John lay his head on his shoulder, didn't move a muscle when John's short hair tickled his neck. Didn't relax his grip even when the even breaths skittering across his chest told Sherlock that John was asleep.

The homophobic filing cabinet decided it would cut them some slack this time.

This was not what he had expected to happen when the elevator door opened.

It had been an easy enough matter to fix the elevator. There had simply been a power outage in the building, and all they'd had to do was reboot the system in the control room. Bam.

Lestrade and the bored copper he had grabbed back at the Yard waited in the lobby, a black dolly up against the wall.

What he had expected was for Sherlock to come bounding out of the elevator, complaining about how bored he was and just generally making a nuisance of himself as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the sensitive equipment the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the van.

Or, you know, maybe Sherlock would have leapt out of the carriage and dashed out into the night, off to confront some criminal or other as Lestrade and the long-suffering John Watson tried to get the sensitive equipment that the brilliant duo had lifted from the sixty-eighth floor onto the dolly and into the van... provided Sherlock hadn't just stolen the van to get where he was going.

What he definitely, absolutely bloody well had not in one million years expected was for the world's only consulting detective to fling himself out of the elevator and around the DI's neck, tears sliding silently down his face. He didn't see John stumble out of the elevator, didn't notice him clinging to the dolly.

"Geoff," he shuddered, face pressed against the policeman's shoulder. "What took you so long?"

The spare copper gaped. Lestrade managed to mumble, "Traffic?" His eyes slid over to John, who was leaning against the wall, arm draped over the handle of the dolly. The doctor shrugged.

Sherlock flicked his gaze over toward his flatmate, saw him leaning calmly against the wall. He relinquished his hold on the Detective Inspector and dramatically wiped at his eyes. A memory niggled at the back of Lestrade's brain. Back when... The... bomber? Ian Monkford's car... his wife...

"Right then. I will meet you all at the van... I assume you took the Toyota." Three pairs of eyes watched him stalk out the revolving door.

John clapped his hands together. The other two men turned to look at him. "Okay then," said John, his voice a little more hoarse than normal, Lestrade thought. "Let's get this thing loaded up, shall we?"

So yeah. Not as funny. And the end is weird. Hopefully it was still good tho... I've been looking at it too long to even know anymore. :\