Who? John Watson & Sherlock Holmes. Where? 101-B to start, then a fancy hotel somewhere in NYC. When? Tuesday evening. What? John discovers his army uniform in his closet, and wants to get away from the creepy train. Warnings? PTSD, all the feelings, kinkiness.
Things had certainly been brighter since the train had stopped. Of course, that was mostly due to the lack of murders, but honestly John was just glad to be able to get some air and space. Being cooped up on the train hadn't suited him well at all, and with everything that had happened, it hadn't been an easy journey so far. New York meant dates and guns, and it couldn't get much better than that in John's opinion.
Perhaps he should have realised that it was all going too well to have any chance of lasting. If the train was a sentient train, it certainly wasn't a very friendly one in John's opinion. But as he returned to his room that evening, there wasn't even a negative thought in his mind. He'd only meant to grab a jacket for their evening excursion - no matter what he could have prepared himself for next, he would never have guessed at what was going to happen next.
He'd stood for a good few minutes just staring into the closet. It couldn't be - there had been some kind of mistake - perhaps his new roommate had put it there for some reason? Stolen a uniform? Still, the tremor in his hand was back as he reached out to slowly remove the uniform from the closet. British army. His own name. The red cross on the sleeve. The epaulettes of a captain.
A short cry of panic escaped his throat, and he clamped a hand over his mouth for a moment, trying to think it through. It had to be a replica. A convincing copy. But even that thought was not comforting - why would someone go to that effort? Just to make him panic? Almost as an afterthought, he started to open the pockets - plastic gloves, a pen, a map with his own handwriting on it. His heart was pounding in his chest, he felt sick and dizzy, his mouth dry with panic - how could it be here? What did it mean?