litost.

     Scrambling to her feet and reaching for her bow, she’s even more surprised when her fingers close around not wood, but the synthetic material of the bow she’d used during her first Hunger Games.  Even more frightened than moments ago, adrenaline courses through her veins, flooding her system and putting her on edge.  It’s then that she notices she isn’t alone; she can hear footsteps and then two voices, male, and definitely older than her.  

[Why John?  Computer simulation is controlled.  Experiment:  Control variable, fixed variable, testing variable, what are they testing?  Why John?  Who else is this linked to?  Why link us at all?  What do these links even do?]  

"How did you get here?"  Sherlock demanded.  He invades John’s personal space and grabs John’s shoulders.  "Concentrate, tell me what you can remember.  It’s vital that you describe the experience as much as possible.  Quickly!"  

[Everyone else will be down here in the labyrinth as well.  Just the other citizens of Hive City alone will be a challenge, never mind what dangers the labyrinth has in store.]  He’s never felt more woefully unprepared in his entire life.  

Truth be told, he was used to being stuck in so many situations with Sherlock he simply assumed that it was one of those situations. "Is there someone trying to kill us?" He questioned, resting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to steady himself. "I don't really like this at all.. I hope this isn't Moriarty."

Just when he finally had managed to get some ground under him, it has been yanked away again.  When was the last time he had a full night of sleep?  A proper meal?  Sherlock can’t remember and he’s pretty sure he hasn’t deliberately deleted the information this time.

cout « “experiments:” « “aΓiadne’s thread will lead you from the labyrinth, though not ” « “you alone” « endl; cout « “experiments: ” « “your lives are “linked”” « endl; cout « “experiments: ” « “fight your way to the “core” and the answers you seek will be revealed” « endl;  

Sherlock rubs the compass that’s appeared in the middle of his wrist.  Someone’s rewriting the rules of reality here, and he’s not sure who or why.  All he has to go on is the process of how he got here.

in the midst of the confusion, the floors dropped out beneath the wary citizens, dissolving quickly into shifting pixels, only to close again overhead once the freefall began. though, there were no winds to be felt, no momentum to be gained. instead, they floated, suspended in the darkness, till the lapse of time could be forgotten.

 Shifting pixels though.  Reality doesn’t work with pixels.  Pixels are for computers.  

Oh.  

Occam’s Razor.  The simplest solution is probably the right one.  He’s in a computer simulation, or some form of it.  That framework is much easier to understand.  

Sherlock still has no idea where he is though, or what the linked lives are supposed to mean.

John Watson said he was only Sherlock’s flatmate.  Yet here he is, telling stories about the Work.  Sherlock doesn’t work with people.  He is famous for not being able to get along with people, everyone at the Yard says so.  He has tolerated having assistants at points, but in the end they can never keep up and it’s just easier to have them do the boring things that he doesn’t care about.  

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t understand John Watson.  His hands shovel soup and bread into his mouth, because he needs the excuse to not say anything more.  John Watson wants something from Sherlock, and Sherlock has no idea what it is.  It’s not like John needs a flatmate anymore.  

[Tremor in hands.  Still anxious.  What could I do now to hurt him?]  

He finishes the last of the bread.  

But. John could not explain it. John felt alive with Sherlock, with him leading him off. Every day was an adventure, every interview a chance at something new. John felt as if Sherlock brought him along just for his remarks, but he knew better. John was not tied to a desk, left to his own thoughts, filled with depression and noise.

With Sherlock, there had been freedom. Although there was a blood price -- he and Sherlock had both gotten hurt multiple times on multiple cases, and John often got so stressed at their work that there were days where he simply gave up and just laid on the couch.

"You say that as if you fear death, like it has some meaning." In his world, it didn’t matter if you lived or died. If you were to be killed, you would simply be reborn and replaced. The only reason he detested germs was because he hated feeling and being filthy. He liked being clean.