This probably won't make sense unless you read the first two parts of this series. Friendship fic. Contains discussion of nonsexual adult spanking. Also, sophomoric humor. Enjoy!

Sherlock and John listened helplessly at the sounds of their captors leaving the abandoned house. A car started outside, faintly, and drove off, leaving them in silence. John sighed and Sherlock made an irritated growling sound. They were well and truly stuck.

Sherlock had gotten a tip on his site about a series of robberies that had been taking place in this area. With no outstanding cases, he reluctantly took the tip and he and John headed out to this old house. The tip had turned out to be an utter hoax. Sherlock and John, once inside the house, had been snuck up on and shoved into this tiny airing cupboard. They barely had room to breathe and absolutely no room to move. They were pressed front-to-front, flush against each other from knee to nipple. John stared moodily at Sherlock's chest while the detective's head was leaned back against the wall. He stared longingly out through the thin cracks in the door, into the room beyond lit by brilliant white light.

"That could've gone worse." John said finally.

Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"They could have hurt us."

"They were amateurs, John. Bloody kids—and they did this to us—us! The great consulting detective: Sherlock Holmes!...and his blogger."

"Ta." John muttered sarcastically. "They outnumbered us. They got lucky." They had been taken by surprise too. John shifted, trying to get more space. He only succeeded in bumping the wall and grinding his knee into Sherlock's leg. "Best try to call Lestrade."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Do you have your phone handy?"

"Not handy, no. It's inside my jacket pocket."

Sherlock glanced own disapprovingly at John's zipped jacket, able to feel the rectangular phone wedged between them, buried under layers of fabric.

"Do you have yours?" John asked.

Sherlock reached, aiming for the phone in his front pocket. He sometimes kept it in his back pocket, but thought better of it today. Mrs. Hudson's spanking had made quite the impression yesterday, and the fewer things touching his backside, the better. As it was, his back was pressed pretty hard against the wall and his arse was starting to throb again from the pressure.

He got a solid hold on his phone and pulled it carefully into the light. John leaned back as Sherlock thumbed a few buttons. The speakerphone kicked on and it rang twice.

"Lestrade."

"Lestrade, it's me." Sherlock said. "John and I are trapped. Come get us."

"Where?" Lestrade didn't even sound surprised and John smirked. Sherlock gave him the address.

"That's nowhere near here."

"Very good, Lestrade."

"Are either of you injured?"

"No." John said. "We're fine. Crammed in a cupboard, but fine."

"Oh hi, John."

"Yes, Lestrade, pleasantries aside, come get us."

"Alright. Be there when I get there."

Lestrade clicked off and Sherlock hung up.

Silence for a few moments. John's stomach rumbled.

"Sherlock?"

The man sighed.

"Thanks for apologizing yesterday."

"Oh God, John. Spare me, please."

"Fine." John grunted.

A few moments passed.

"It's just, you don't usually apologize."

"Yes well. I felt—saw the error of my ways." His butt throbbed and he shifted. Stupid spoon.

"How?" John asked carefully.

"What?"

"You never see the error of your ways. You always have a cow whenever I mention the unsolved ones on the blog, and then you go on your website and make up justifications about why you failed to solve something." A beat. "Like that one time you blamed the wind for disturbing evidence."

"I, I do not 'have a cow', utter nonsense." Sherlock spluttered, aiming half a scowl at John's smug look. "I just don't think the general populace needs to know that I sometimes…well, I rarely—very rarely I…" Sherlock sniffed. "Posting the solved cases is good for business!" He insisted airily. He tried to scoot over, hoping to find a hollow in the wood for his bum. No luck. "Posting the unsolved ones isn't."

"But people want to—"

"They need to hear about the solved because if I don't get cases, I go mad." Sherlock interrupted.

"Already are." John muttered.

Sherlock fell quiet and glared icily at John.

"Sorry." John mumbled.

He glared some more. "Just for that, I'm going to do this:"

He farted.

"Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock!" John yelled. "There is no air flow in here!"

"So stop breathing. It's boring anyway." Sherlock snipped.

"You're an insufferable eight year old." John muttered.

Sherlock smirked at his small yet childish victory. He shifted again, trying to soothe his bruised bottom.

"Stop moving." John said, agitated.

"Make me." He shifted again. It was getting really warm in the cupboard. A sheen of sweat covered John's brow, and Sherlock could feel sweat dampening his underarms. Both of them were dressed for the chill outside air, and the long wool coat was starting to act like a furnace. The rising temperature was doing nothing for his already hot backside, and Sherlock leaned forward.

"What are you doing now?"

"I have an itch!" Sherlock griped.

"Rub it out on the wall."

Sherlock raised a brow. "John." He sounded scandalized.

"—not like that!"

*Scuffle, rustle, rustle*

"Ow! You're standing on me—get off my foot!" John protested.

"I can't—it hurts!" Sherlock whined.

John instantly locked eyes onto his. "You're hurt?!" He glanced over what he could see of Sherlock's body. "Did those kids hurt you?"

"No." Sherlock groused, angry at himself for admitting pain.

"What hurts?" John pushed.

"Nothing."

"Dammit, Sherlock, is Lestrade going to have to drive us to hospital—"

"He won't." Sherlock said.

"Are you bleeding?"

"No. Drop it."

"I'm a doctor, I can't drop it. Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

John sighed, long and loud. "Fine. When we get home, see how many of your fridge experiments last through to tomorrow."

"You wouldn't! I'll set your bed on fire if you touch my things."

John could only hope Sherlock would do something so normal and not hang severed toes from his ceiling or something. "Tell me what's wrong!"

"Mrs. Hudson spanked me." Sherlock blurted.

John blinked. "She spanked you?" He blinked again.

"Yeah."

"When—why?"

Sherlock sighed. "Yesterday. For locking you in the lab and forgetting to apologize. Oh get that look off your face—it makes you seem even stupider than you are."

John ignored the insult. "You let her?"

"You try saying no to that bloody spoon when she's in a mood."

"She spanked you with a spoon?!"

"Drop it, John!"

"Did she spank you when you poisoned me with the tea too?"

Sherlock nodded once.

"Well, did, did you mean it?"

Sherlock looked down at John, startled by the hurt in his voice.

"Mean what?"

"The apologies. You only apologized after Mrs. Hudson smacked you."

Sherlock softened. "I meant every word. Truly. I meant what I said that day in the churchyard, John. I don't have friends. I only have one."

John took a moment to let that sink in. "How long has this been going on?" He asked.

"What?"

"Her spanking you. Is it, is it like a regular thing between you?"

"There's nothing between us." Sherlock scathed, "there's no arousal or powerplay—you're thinking of Miss Adler's territory. No—it's a spanking. And it bloody well hurts."

Neither one of them said anything, and John thought he could hear sirens approaching.

"D'you think she'd ever give it to me?" John asked, hushed. He'd never thought that the kind older woman would ever hit anyone. Mrs. Hudson? The same woman who gave him lemon cake and consoled him with scones and crap telly when he couldn't sleep? She had known the detective a long time—and honestly if anyone ever needed a slap across the arse or a punch in the face now and then, it was Sherlock. If the detective wasn't off-limits, well, who knew where he stood?

Sherlock snickered. "I don't know, John. Conduct an experiment and find out." Sherlock's voice was smiling.

"I don't think I want to." John murmured. Feel Mrs. Hudson's wrath? No thanks. If Sherlock was still feeling it today, she must be pretty efficient with that spoon. John smirked at the mental image of Sherlock upended over her lap. Would he ever be in the same position? Would, when the time came, he be willing to submit to the same punitive action? Feet thumped up the stairs.

"Sherlock? John?" Lestrade's voice echoed.

"In here!" Sherlock yelled.

The cupboard door rattled. "It's locked."

"No shit." Sherlock replied.

"Hang on…" The lock jingled and moments later the door was pulled open. Lestrade made a face and stepped back as the sour air hit him full force.

"Bloody hell!" He growled.

"Yeah, blame him." John pointed at the detective and they both wedged themselves out of the cupboard, breathing in deep and stretching stiff muscles.

"Don't Lestrade." Sherlock commanded. John looked up at the grinning DI.

"How'd you end up in there?" Greg looked way too pleased with himself.

"None of your business! C'mon, John." Sherlock started striding away and Greg and John exchanged a look. "Chalk this up to the list of unsolved ones, then?" Greg asked.

"Oh yeah."

End

Thanks for reading!