Benedict Cumberbatch and Elvis Presley are stuck in Underground Metro System Failure and forced to have a deep conversation.

"Well, this is a bit of a pickle, innit?" Benedict remarked, adjusting his scarf, "Quite reminiscent of a Beckett play, really, the existential dread of subterranean confinement."

Elvis drawled, "Hound dog ain't got nothin' on this kinda blues, Doc. Trapped like a rhinestone in a coal mine."

"Indeed, Mr. Presley, but consider the metaphor: are we not all, in some sense, trapped within the confines of our own expectations?" Benedict pondered, stroking his chin.

"Expectations, huh? I reckon I busted a few of them wide open. Shook 'em up real good, just like that hip of mine," Elvis chuckled, a hint of pride in his voice.

"But did those expectations, once shattered, not simply reform into new, perhaps more insidious, limitations?" Benedict countered, his brow furrowed in thought.

Elvis sighed, "Man, you sure can make a fella think. Back home, we just called that 'trouble.'"

"Perhaps 'trouble' is merely the catalyst for self-discovery, the crucible in which we forge our truest selves," Benedict offered, a flicker of hope in his eyes.

"Maybe so, maybe so. But right now, I'd trade all the self-discovery in the world for a peanut butter and banana sandwich," Elvis confessed with a grin.

"A most pragmatic sentiment, Mr. Presley. Though, I confess, a cup of Earl Grey would be my preference in this subterranean purgatory," Benedict admitted.

"Well, Doc, if we ever get out of this here hole, first round's on me. Peanut butter and banana, or Earl Grey, your choice," Elvis concluded, extending a hand.