Working on a fic that’s a bit about Sherlock’s PTSD, trying to anyway. Slightly more than six sentences:
John walked into what might have once been a ballroom, all large expanse of floor. Sherlock moved past him, out towards the middle of the room. He smiled a little at the graceful steps, visible even in the dim light. Ever since his return, Sherlock had been tight, tense, wound. But for the moment he looked free, even moving among the dust.
Suddenly Sherlock’s steps faltered. Without thought, John hurried towards his side, and perhaps that was the fatal mistake. Sherlock turned and put a hand out in warning a moment before the floor gave way and they plummeted into darkness.