Saturday, 10:25PM

"Bored, BORED, John," Sherlock moaned and resumed pacing up and down the cupboard. They had been in there for less than half an hour, and already, Sherlock was feeling trapped and cornered. Lestrade and his men were waiting next door. John and Sherlock were supposed to witness the murderous attack in their confinement. Of course, they were allowed no lights, and they had agreed on one big candle between them. And then they had sat down and waited – until Sherlock had started pacing about fifteen minutes ago.

"Why don't you do anything?" John hissed, "Search the cupboard, break some things, you know?"

Sherlock looked around but there was not much of interest in there, "There's just books and skiing equipment, John," he dove into a cluttered corner and resurfaced with a wooden box, "Hah!"

"Thank God," John blew out some air, and Sherlock sat down cross-legged with a smile spreading across his pale face. He looked like a kid at Christmas, John found and smiled, too.

"This is a collector's box. Big enough to hold two bottles of wine. Claret, I suppose. Collectors usually go for red wines. This box was issued in 1951. Mahogany. Hinges are hand-forged. This is quality carpentry. The branding has faded but is still recognizable. Any wine fancier would thirst for this – not literally, though. 1951 was a disastrous year for French wines. Almost all of them turned sour. But collectors keep things. They'd never drink them," the detective had attempted to pick the lock all the while he was talking and it was now giving way. John sat up to catch a glimpse of the shiny bottles, "Voilà. Pauillac or Margaux, doctor?"

"You can't expect me to drink them?"

"No?" Sherlock smiled wickedly and used his Swiss knife to open the first bottle. He quickly uncorked the second and handed it to John, who took it with a sigh.

"This might be regarded as bad style, but – sur ce, à la tienne, mon ami," Sherlock lifted the bottle to his lips, and John muttered, "whatever," but followed suit.

-o-

Saturday, 10:42PM

"I might be sick, Sherlock," John burped and held out 'his' bottle to the detective whilst reaching out for the Margaux. He swayed slightly but beheld that Sherlock was more than a little inebriated himself.

"This one's nicer," Sherlock agreed and held on to it, sneering at the Pauillac bottle, "I think it is safe to assume that 1951 was a bad year for Bordeaux."

-o-

Saturday, 10:56PM

"We could play a game," Sherlock suggested weighing the bottle in his right hand.

John nodded. The wine had made him feel sleepy, but the younger man was beginning to get on his nerves already. God, they had only been in here for -John checked his watch- fifty minutes! This was going to be a long night.

"What game?"

"How about this highly acclaimed pre-pubescent bottle game?"

"'Truth or Dare'?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"You expect me to play 'Spin the Bottle'? With you? In a closet? Drunk on vintage wine?"

"I'd always assumed that a certain level of intoxication was anticipated," Sherlock grinned mischievously, adding, "Why would our surroundings be relevant?"

"Have you ever played 'Truth or Dare'?" Sherlock merely raised one eyebrow, and John smiled. He had not expected otherwise.

"I do believe we are quite safe in here," the detective stated the obvious, "what could you possibly dare me with that I wouldn't be able to deduce anyway?"

Now it was John's turn to roll his eyes.

"Ah," the genius' face lit up, "you afraid I might dare you and put you into a compromising situation. Do be assured, I am not planning anything … salacious."