It was night at 221B Baker Street. Outside the streetlamps had been lit for a good amount of hours, and even I was beginning to get tired. On my way to my room I looked in on Sherlock's. To no surprise of mine, he was still wide awake, fiddling with some new science project of his.

"I'm going to bed," I enlightened him. He hardly even looked up from his (admittedly confusing) work.

"Yes, goodnight Watson," he muttered in reply, carefully measuring out some sort of powder. I left him to it, whatever it was, and retired to my bedroom. Perhaps in the morning he would be done and I could ask him what it was. I knew he wouldn't sleep, and would hardly talk, until he was finished. It was just how he worked.

I woke up earlier than I had expected, as my eyes still felt heavy with sleep. As I became more aware, it came to my attention that the ground underneath me was rather hard. For some reason, I wasn't in my bed anymore. Slowly I opened my eyes, only to see the familiar ceiling of our apartment far above me. So where...?

I sat up, and immediately stiffened with surprise. Around me various scientific instruments lay, though they were of an impossible size. In other words, I seemed to be sitting on Sherlock's lab table; though, if those beakers were of the size he normally used, I couldn't have been more than six inches tall.

A dream, I decided. A rather unusual dream brought on by the stresses of constantly getting dragged into Sherlock's messes and mysteries. Nothing more. Still a bit unnerved by the entire concept, I shut my eyes and attempted to fall back into a dreamless sleep.

"My, you are adorable," said a loud, yet familiar voice from in front of me. My eyes flew open, and with a yell I scrambled back from the sight in front of me. It was Sherlock, except he appeared to have grown to the same scale as the scientific equipment around me. His enormous face was looking at me with what appeared to be wry amusement.

"I didn't expect it to actually work," he mused, quieter this time. Strange, this felt unusually real for a dream. I could feel my heart palpitating anxiously against my chest, and everything looked realistically clear. It was unlike any dream I had ever had, and I was beginning to fear that it wasn't a dream after all. With Sherlock Holmes as a roommate, anything was possible.

"Sherlock?" I asked hesitantly, not bothering to stand up. It wouldn't have made a difference anyways.

The larger-than-normal Sherlock smiled exuberantly. "Amazing! I take it you have all of your usual facilities in place then, Watson?"

"I suppose… for a dream," I replied carefully, trying to gauge his reaction for its realism.

Sherlock frowned. "Dream? No, I assure you my dear Watson, what you are experiencing is entirely real." I swallowed nervously, attempting to make sense of this new proposition. So where was I, then? I was little more than five inches tall, stuck on Sherlock's lab table, in my sleeping attire. Sherlock, however, didn't seem surprised by this situation at all…

"Sherlock," I said coldly, looking up at him. "How exactly did this happen?"

He looked slightly surprised at this question. "Why, by me of course!" He smiled, and my heart fell as I realized my suspicions were correct. "Do you know of any other scientific mind that could achieve something such as this?"

I stood up, feeling only frustration with his innocent assertion. "So you shrunk me," I exclaimed, my voice rising with emotion, "in my sleep, without my knowledge?!"

Sherlock's eyes were shining with excitement, and it was with a heavy heart that I labeled this argument a lost cause. "For science, Watson, for science!" he hastily explained. "Can you imagine what we have done here? What it will lead to?"

I sighed, and said, "No, at the moment I can't imagine it. This may have something to do with the fact that I am standing on you lab table no taller than a child's toy! What did I say about your experiments? You didn't even ask me, Sherlock!"

My friend looked at me without emotion, seemingly unmoved by my long string of angry complaints. "But if I had asked you, you would have said no," he said softly.

"Yes I would have, because this is just crazy!" I yelled. Unfortunately, at my new stature I didn't seem to have much of an impact with my anger. It's rather hard to be intimidating when you're the size of someone's finger.

Sherlock beamed and, without warning, picked me up between his thumb and forefinger. "You are just too cute when you're angry," he said teasingly, holding me up at eye level.

I crossed my arms and glared at him, becoming increasingly aware of the disadvantages of this new situation. "Put me down," I demanded through gritted teeth. He smiled and set me back down on the table.

"Are you starting to feel better?" he asked, a smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth.

"No," I sad bluntly. With determination I added, "I demand that you give me the antidote. I have things to do tomorrow, I need to get back to normal." Sherlock stood there silently, looking at me with a strange expression. "Sherlock, change me back. Now!" I said, beginning to panic.

He shook his head slightly. "I haven't thought of an antidote. In fact, that idea hadn't even occurred to me until you mentioned it."

I sat down, stunned, and looked up at him beseechingly. "You're a genius," I said, upset. "How could you not have thought of a way back?"

He shrugged. "I get involved with my work, you know that. By becoming focused on creating the substance itself, I failed to look ahead. A simple mistake, really."

"Simple," I breathed, closing my eyes. I couldn't believe Sherlock had done this to me. This was really too much, even considering everything we had gone through together. "There has to be a way…" I said, opening my eyes again. He had fallen asleep in his chair, and I had absolutely no chance of waking him up. "Wonderful," I muttered to myself, sitting down and staring at him. "Sherlock, we had better find a way out of this mess…"