Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.
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Best Not To Be Repeated
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Part 1
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John Watson smiled as he was on the brink of waking up, unaware that he was doing so. He hadn't had an afternoon nap in ages, and he felt very cosy; outside, heavy rain was drumming against the windows, and he'd lit a fire in the fireplace earlier, making the living room quite snug.
"Fascinating," he heard Sherlock's voice somewhere in the flat; it was rather soft, seemingly distant, but John nevertheless heard a note of satisfaction, which was a relief, actually: a whole week of exceptionally bad weather, no case and no John to take it out on, since the doctor had been working at the clinic every day for a fortnight- Sherlock had been so high-strung and irritable that John had briefly considered to give his friend a taste of his own medicine and drug him, just to have some peace and celebrate the beginning of a week off.
Fortunately, Sherlock had seemed to have found something to occupy himself with when John had come home in the early afternoon, giving him the opportunity for a sound nap (which also was a nice way to celebrate having the following week off).
Unhurriedly, he blinked his eyes open and sat up, stretching and yawning; all he wanted from the rest of the day was a cupt of tea right then, a nice meal for dinner and to continue the book he was reading afterwards, preferably accompanied by a glass of wine; it'd make the perfect end for a rather enjoyable afternoon.
He looked around for Sherlock: ah, there he was, on the- wait, what? John blinked and rubbed his eyes, not quite sure about what he was seeing. His flatmate was standing on the kitchen table, which in itself was not even out of the ordinary, considering Sherlock's general disrespect for furniture. The fact which had John rubbing his eyes however was that Sherlock was about the size of a Barbie doll.
The doctor just sat and stared for a while. One part of his mind was urging him to pinch himself, but the part which was responsible for motor function was also staring, open-mouthed at that.
Sherlock finally seemed to have noticed he had an audience, and beckoned him over, beaming: "Oh, John, good!"
That's why he sounded so far away, John thought, dazedly, his voice isn't as loud because he's so small. Am I still asleep? I must be dreaming. Maybe I'm having a fever.
Slowly, he got to his feet and walked over to the kitchen.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked spiritedly, "you look rather pale."
"Erm," said John.
"I was experimenting," Sherlock said. "It all worked marvellously."
"You shrunk yourself."
"Yes. Though I prefer the term 'molecular restructuring'."
"Is it permanent?"
"God, no. It'll only last a week, if I calculated it correctly."
"A week!"
Sherlock quickly covered his ears with his hands: "Please don't shout. It's very loud for me."
"Oh. Sorry." John made an effort to lower his voice a bit: "How did you do that, Sherlock? It's impossible!"
Sherlock grinned, obviously proud of himself: "It was, until now. And I still think it generally is."
He sighed: "Do you remember the French decathlete and the 1.812 matchboxes?"
John nodded: "Yeah?"
Sherlock looked smug: "All empty except one. The inexplicable."
"And?"
"And voilá!"
"Voilá what?" John was beginning to lose his patience. "How did you use it? For what, exactly? What else did you use?"
Sherlock shushed him: "Not so loud!"
"Sorry."
"I didn't use anything else. Just- it."
For the second time in less than five minutes, John stared at his flatmate incredulously, this time however for entirely different reasons.
"You didn't know what it could do, and you used it?" he found it very hard not to yell. "That's incredibly dangerous and stupid, Sherlock, you of all people should know that!"
"I experimented with it all morning," Sherlock said, lightly, "I only used it on myself once I had enough data."
"Well, that makes it so much better, of course," John fumed, "if you've got data."
"Really, John, I don't see what the fuss is about."
"You're eight inches tall!"
"Shhhh!"
John however had only just begun: "What will you do if the effect is irreversible? And how will you get around? What will you wear, apart from what you've got on now? What if one of your many enemies gets wind of this, huh? And what if there are any long-term effects?"
Sherlock waved him off: "It'll be okay. I will of course need an assistant." He looked at John with an expression as though he had just told him he had won the lottery.
"Oh, so it's my lucky day!"
His sarcasm was lost on the detective, who clapped his hands and rubbed them together expectantly: "Right. What about some tea to celebrate?"
John folded his arms in front of his chest: "I could just leave. I could go out for dinner and come back late, and you'd have to stay on this table all the while."
"You wouldn't do that," Sherlock replied off-handedly, "it's against your ethics. Besides, my phone is right here."
"What, this one?" John picked it up and put it in his pocket.
"Fine," Sherlock imitated him by also folding his arms, "you've made your point."
"Which is?"
John seemed to enjoy this far too much, after all he knew how much Sherlock valued his independence.
"I need you to assist me," he ground out.
"Assist?"
Sherlock growled in exasperation: "Help, then. I need you to help me. There, I said it."
"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" Now it was John who was looking smug.
"Is that the matchbox?" he then asked.
Sherlock nodded: "Best hide it somewhere."
"I'll put it with my gun."
"I said hide."
John sighed.
Ten minutes later, the doctor sat down with his cuppa; it had already proven a challenge to find something which Sherlock could use as a cup. They didn't have any thimbles, so they had finally settled on a plastic bottle cap, which was less than ideal.
"I'll have to go shopping for you," John said, frowning, as he watched Sherlock pulling all kinds of faces while he tried to drink.
"We couldn't possibly just shrink some stuff for you to use, could we?" he then added, an idea he hadn't considered before.
Sherlock raised the cap a little higher so that his face was hidden behind it: "No. It's gone out."
"Out? You mean, the-power-is-used-up out?"
"Yep."
John sighed. "Great."
"You'll have to measure me," Sherlock then said. "For scientific purposes."
"You're not planning to publish your findings, are you?"
"Of course not," Sherlock replied calmly, "but there might be more of those things, wherever it came from. I'll give the file to Mycroft. He might have use for it one day."
"Don't tell me he knows about this."
"Not yet. It's likely he'll come by though, I've never managed to keep him away for too long, after all."
John stirred his tea, deciding to tackle only one problem at the time: "Okay. So I'll go and buy a few items for you. As I've said, you'll need clothes, for example."
Sherlock looked down on himself: he was wearing only a shirt and his trousers, socks and shoes; in his enthusiasm he hadn't thought of putting on his jacket, or even his coat.
"Yes," he cleared his throat, "might be a good idea. I do have my least favourite dressing gown, though."
"You shrank it as well?"
"I had to do a few test runs, obviously, I told you I needed data. So I shrank my dressing gown, among other things. Then the skull. And then a spider."
"A spi- hang on. What other things?"
"Whatever was lying around," Sherlock replied vaguely and indicated a few tiny items John hadn't noticed before because they were lying behind the microscope.
John narrowed his eyes: "That's the book I'm reading! Sherlock!"
"Calm down, it'll pop back to its normal size in a week!"
"I don't want to wait a week! I want to read it now! Tonight! What else did you shrink, huh? My wallet, perhaps?"
"You're being ridiculous."
"I am being ridiculous? Tell that to the spider!" John took a deep breath to calm himself. "To recap: you shrank yourself and my book and the skull, but you didn't consider using the... the thing on anything which might actually be useful, like a toothbrush, or cutlery."
"We'll make do," Sherlock said, off-handedly. "And it does come in handy that you've got a week off from Monday."
"Great," John regarded him resignedly: "I'll have to take you with me everywhere I go, won't I? Can't very well leave you alone."
"You could hide me in the bedroom somewhere."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Too many things that could happen to you."
"I'll be careful."
"Yeah, but what if the neighbour's cat comes visiting?"
"Just make sure that all the windows are closed."
"What if you need the loo?"
"Please."
"Oh, so what- you're above bodily functions now?"
"No, but we could... arrange for something before you leave."
"I'm not leaving you, end of discussion. It's too risky. I'm sorry, but you inflicted this on yourself, and me, by extension, so you'll have to accept that I'm setting the rules."
Sherlock looked so disgruntled that it bordered on comical.
John sighed: "Sherlock- please do take this serious. We have to be careful, and not only in here. If someone sees you and it leaks to the press, your life will be in serious danger."
"I imagine so," Sherlock said, smugly, "considering my many enemies."
"You seem proud."
"I'm not."
"Yes, you are. It's impressive how you're not taking the whole situation serious."
"And you're contradicting yourself. If you don't want anyone to see me, it's probably wise not to take me with me you if you go shopping."
"I'm not leaving you here on your own," John said firmly. "Either you'll come with me, or I'll have to tell Mrs Hudson."
"You wouldn't."
"I would. She'd probably find you cute. Maybe she'd even sew you some clothes."
Sherlock's eyes widened at the idea: "Fine," he then growled. "I'll come with you."
"Good," John said. "We can test it right away."
Now they needed to find a suitable means of transportation, since Sherlock was still too big for John's shirt pockets or any other inner pockets, and putting him into one of the patch pockets on his coat might draw too much attention on them in case the detective moved.
After some deliberation, John decided to use an old messenger bag of his. It was made of canvas and would allow Sherlock to breathe. The detective stepped on John's hand hesitantly, seemingly not much heavier than the cockatiel Harry once had, and peeked into the bag: "It's smelly," he complained.
"You'll live." John carefully lowered him down and put Sherlock's mobile down next to him: "If you need anything and I don't notice it, call me."
Sherlock gave a resigned sigh: "Let me guess: but don't say anything, in case people might hear."
"Exactly." John gave Sherlock one last smile before closing the bag: "Relax. It'll be fine."
Trying not to jostle it, he slung the bag over his shoulder; he had shortened the strap a bit so that the bag would sit just next to his hip.
"Are you okay?" he asked in an undertone once he had pulled the door to the house close behind him.
"Yes, yes, fine," Sherlock's considerably smaller voice answered, sounding impatient.
John refrained from asking him again, even after the hubbub of the tube; he had one hand on the bag all the time in order to steady it, but he couldn't prevent people from bumping into him a few times. Since Easter was coming up, it was rather crowded.
Half an hour after he had entered the first shop, John felt like he needed a break from all the people around him. He found a customer toilet and locked himself in, then he opened his bag to see how Sherlock was doing. He was sitting in one corner, holding his head and looking decidedly green around the gills.
"Motion sickness?" John asked in a low voice.
Sherlock groaned: "And the bloody phone fell on me."
"Are you okay?"
Sherlock huffed: "Hm. Apart from the large bump on my head. Great idea, this."
"May I remind you whose fault it is that we're in this situation at all?"
"You may not." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Since he really looked peaky, John took pity on him, reaching into the bag: "Come here."
With another theatrical groan, Sherlock scrambled over to John's hand and sat down in it. The doctor lifted him out of the bag: "How about we try the inner pocket of my coat?"
"It's too small, I thought we established that."
"We could cut a hole into the side, so you can stretch out your legs. It's probably not as comfy, but it won't jostle you so much. I'll sew it back shut once you're back to normal."
"Fine. But try not to crush me."
"Behold the famous Sherlock Holmes, ladies and gentlemen, he's ever so grateful for all the massive favours one's doing him."
"Not funny."
"And yet rather satisfying."
Ten minutes later, Sherlock had settled into the coat pocket, protesting only a little. Even though it was a tad cramped, it was by far preferable to the smelly old bag; the lining of the pocket was silky, and he could feel John's heartbeat, which in combination with his friend's familiar scent was rather pleasant, soothing even.
Sherlock's nausea slowly receded as he stared into the darkness, listening; apparently, they were in a toy shop, judging from the excited children and the insufferably silly music he could hear. If he strained his ears, he could catch snippets of conversations, consisting mostly of exasperated mothers berating their offspring.
It soon became dull not to be able to see though, and he increasingly felt the aftermath of the transformation, a dull ache throughout his body like a profound muscle soreness; with a sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes.
When John returned to Baker Street two hours later, he felt mentally exhausted. This was not how he had imagined the rest of the day to look like.
"Well, that was tedious," he said, putting the bags down on the kitchen table. "Sherlock?"
He didn't get an answer. With a curse, John tore open the zipper of his coat, hoping he hadn't accidently suffocated his friend. His hands were trembling when he peeled down the rim of the inner pocket. Sherlock had slumped down, and his eyes were closed. He was fast asleep, from the looks of it, probably lulled by the warmth and darkness, and the 'molecular restructuring' very likely had put some strain on his body as well.
To make sure though, John gently prodded him with his finger: "Sherlock?"
"Hm?"
"You okay?"
"Hm." He seemed unwilling to wake up.
"We're home."
"Great."
"How's your head?"
"Bumpy."
"Who's our prime minister?"
"Don't have a concussion, John. Leave me be."
"Fine." John manoevred him out of the pocket and carried him into his bedroom where he put him down on the bed, careful not to twist the gangly limbs. Sherlock curled up on his side, not opening his eyes once; he must be absolutely knackered.
John covered him with a soft flannel and put the mobile within reach, then went back to the shopping bags and began to unpack; he had spent a ridiculous amount of money for the items he had just bought. He looked around, wondering where to put them so that Mrs Hudson wouldn't see them, and realized it was impossible to hide Sherlock's condition in the long run. The landlady came upstairs all the time, and if she knew, it'd make everything a bit easier.
With a beer and a sigh, he sat down in his armchair after lighting a fire in the fireplace; it'd have been nice to have his novel at hand now, but unless he wanted to use a magnifying glass, that was not an option.
John had nodded off at one point and was thoroughly confused when something woke him up; it took him a few seconds to remember what had happened and to realize that it was in fact the buzzing of his phone that had startled him from slumber.
"Sherlock?" he said by the way of a greeting.
"You fell asleep in your armchair."
"You fell asleep in my pocket."
"Yes, erm. I was bored."
John could not stop himself from smiling: "What do you need?"
There was the slightest of hesitations:"The loo."
"Be there in a sec."
Sherlock had wrapped himself into the flannel; it was rather chilly in the bedroom, and his dressing gown was still lying on the kitchen table.
"How's your head?" John asked.
"Sore," Sherlock replied truthfully. "But I'll live."
John offered him his hand again, which he considered a more polite way to carry the shrunken detective around than just grabbing him like a doll. With a sigh, Sherlock sat down in the palm; while he considered it as a tad embarrassing, it was preferable to trying to keep his balance while standing.
"So, where do you want me to put you down?" John hadn't given the bathroom topic any thought so far.
"On the toilet seat," Sherlock said, irritably, as though that was a given.
"Oh no." John shook his head, "you might slip off and fall. It's either the sink or the tub, your choice."
Knowing he wouldn't get far with an argument, Sherlock muttered "Doesn't matter which." He was flushed deeply red already, it was obvious that he also had not given the matter any thought beforehand. Inwardly, John grinned; he was not above a bit of gloating.
"The sink it is, then," he said.
After he had set Sherlock down and put everything he might need in reach, he left the bathroom, still grinning.
John made vegetable soup that evening; he did not feel up to the task of figuring out which things Sherlock could or could not eat in his current state, so he solved the problem by pureeing it, just as he would have done with pumpkin soup.
Sherlock watched him with a bored expression, sitting on the kitchen table in a blue doll's house armchair John couldn't resist buying for him.
He had already inspected whatever else John brought home, and he had to admit that most of the things indeed seem useful. John had even bought him some tableware and cutlery, also intended for a doll's house; he hoped that one of the surprisingly sturdy metal knives could be sharpened enough to be used as a razor. He had had other ideas about that, naturally, but John had objected to all of them: no, he did not want to break off a piece from the blade of a cardboard cutter. Neither did he want to find a glass shard of a suitable size. Suddenly, it was all about safety with John.
Sherlock huffed, huddling in on himself; he was wearing the dressing gown, and even though it was his least favourite one, it was remarkably comfortable. The chair was not too bad either, and it had been a good idea at that.
"We should tell Mrs Hudson," John said while they were eating.
Sherlock froze: "No! Why?"
"She's always around, one way or another, and it'd be easiest if she knew. Besides, it'd be a lot easier for me too. I won't have to cancel my appointment at the dentist next week, for example."
"Why would you have to cancel it?"
John sighed. "Not the point. Let's just tell her, okay?"
"She'll be over the moon," Sherlock said darkly.
John grinned: "As long as she doesn't faint..."
They decided to postpone until the following morning, however. After dinner, John stretched out on the sofa to watch TV; he had put the miniature armchair on the coffee table for Sherlock, and it was peaceful and quiet for about twenty minutes.
"I wish I had my violin," the detective announced, getting to his feet and wandering around the limited space that was available.
"You'll manage one week without it," John muttered, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Sherlock, who was bored, peered over the table's edge and decided it was too high to try and climb down. He then eyed the distance to the sofa; probably manageable with a good jump.
It was only when he had toppled over the mostly empty fruit bowl (plus the solitary apple and the wooden bottle opener which had been in it) whilst attempting to climb it that John sat up: "Jesus," he groaned wearily while he put the fruit bowl out of reach and lifted Sherlock up, this time not caring whether his friend minded or not: "Is this what the coming week is going to look like?"
"What are you doing?" Sherlock squirmed.
"Checking you for injuries."
"I'm fine. Put me down."
"No."
"I'm fine, John!"
"You're fine when I say it."
"I'll bite you."
"Then I'll put you into a drawer and give you plenty of time to think about what you've done."
Sherlock huffed, but remained silent, enduring John's gentle examination with barely contained impatience.
"You're fine," the doctor eventually announced.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Not at all. I'll be glad once this is over."
"Ha. Now put me down."
"Promise you'll sit down and be quiet."
"I'll not promise any such thing."
"My hand it is, then."
"I hate this. I hadn't expected to be so at your mercy."
"It's all down to you, Sherlock. Behave and we'll be getting along splendidly."
A minute later, Sherlock had curled up in the armchair, brooding, and disinterestedly watched the TV show with John.
When the doctor switched off the TV two hours later, both of them were rather drowsy. Sherlock usually stayed up late, but despite his earlier nap, he still felt the after-effects of the transformation, so he agreed to go to bed even though it was only eleven.
John had not been able to get a miniature toothbrush or anything which might have worked as a substitute, so Sherlock made do with toothpaste and his finger.
"I didn't find proper pyjamas," John had said, a little awkwardly, when he had shown Sherlock his purchases, "but I found a t-shirt and this tracksuit, so you could at least wear the pants if you like."
Sherlock had barely been able to subdue a shudder, since the jacket was of a garishly turquoise colour, and the fabric did not live up to his usual standards.
"Who's Ken?" he asked, inspecting the box.
"Barbie's boyfriend."
"Huh." Sherlock very obviously did not know who Barbie was either, but he was not interested enough to make further enquiries. The grey pants would do, despite their hideous turquoise stripes which matched the jacket; at least the legs seemed long enough. The sleeveless t-shirt was black and of similarly abominable material, but Sherlock still preferred it to sleeping naked.
John put him down on his bed with a rolled up flannel for a pillow, a piece of a former tea towel for a sheet and an old woolen scarf for a duvet; his mobile phone was lying close by.
The doctor did not particularly like the idea of Sherlock being alone downstairs in his current state, but they both wanted to keep their privacy.
"Call me if you need anything," he said, "good night."
"Hm." Sherlock had already begun to unbutton his shirt. With a sigh, John left the room.
Exhaustion had the doctor sleep deep and dreamlessly. No phone call disturbed him, and it was a luxury not to be woken up by his alarm clock.
Yawning, he rubbed his eyes; half past eight. Wondering whether Sherlock was up yet, he got out of bed and put on his dressing gown. A small part of him was still hoping it might all have been a dream, but there was too much evidence of the opposite around; most prominently, the small blue armchair.
All was quiet downstairs. He peered into the detective's bedroom, half-expecting to find him still fast asleep, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.
John, fuelled by the unpleasant drop of his stomach, did not hesitate: "Sherlock?"
For a moment, nothing happened, and all the doctor heard was the blood rushing in his ears, then: "John..." Sherlock's voice had come from somewhere in the bedroom. Somewhere on the floor.
John circled the bed:"Sherlock, what are you- oh no." Sherlock was just about to try and sit up. From the looks of it, he had attempted to climb down the bed with the aid of the scarf; obviously, it had not worked out quite as he had planned.
"Are you okay?" John squatted down next to him.
"Yes," Sherlock was pale and a bit dazed and gratefully accepted John's finger to support himself; the doctor could feel him trembling a little, and his hands were cold.
"Did you lose consciousness?"
"Y-yes. Can't have been long though."
John squinted to look into his eyes: "Are you nauseous or seeing double?"
"No, it's okay."
"Honestly?"
"Yes, stop fussing."
"What happened? Why didn't you call me?"
"The battery of my phone died."
"What? I checked it last night, it still had enough power."
"Yeah... I woke up around two and couldn't go back to sleep, so I did a bit of online research."
"Idiot," John said fondly. "And where did you want to go?"
"The bathroom."
"Ah."
"It's rather urgent now."
"Are you up for an airlift?"
"Just do it already." Sherlock did not manage to sound as impatient as he would have liked, and quickly scrambled onto John's hand, which was blissfully warm. He did not know how long exactly he had been out, but when he had come to, he had been freezing.
Ten minutes later, Sherlock sat in the miniature armchair, wrapped in a flannel while his doctor was doing his best to wrap a bandage around Sherlock's right wrist without hurting him. It was difficult with Sherlock being so small, so John had made him promise to say it if it hurt, because he usually was either too distracted by something or another, or his pride prevented him from doing so.
It took three attempts: the first one ended with Sherlock making a strange little mewling sound, followed by John apologizing. The second one ended with Sherlock sucking in his breath in order to keep quiet, followed by John apologizing and cursing under his breath.
Once the bandage was in place, Sherlock sagged back into the armchair, which had once more been placed on the kitchen table, and tried to make it look nonchalant.
"What else?" John asked, patiently.
"It's just the wrist. I'm fine."
"I know I'm repeating myself, but you're fine when I say you are. You just fell from your bed-"
"Not all the way."
"You lost your grip and fell the equivalent of maybe three meters."
"It's not that high, it sounds worse than it was."
"Yeah, I'm sure." John looked at him sternly, which miraculously worked every time. "Which is why you've sprained your wrist and bumped your head again, losing consciousness for a moment."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but leaned forward and fumbled with the right leg of his trousers, not quite managing to pull it up at first because of his wrist, which elicited a string of elaborate curses. When he finally did, John raised one eyebrow: "And you were going to hide that for how long?"
Sherlock's knee was swollen and angrily red at that. He acted unfazed: "It'll be okay."
"Yes, after we cooled it a bit."
"We don't need to cool it," Sherlock waved it aside (with his good hand).
"Okay, walk for me."
"What?"
"You heard me. Show me if you can put your weight on it without any difficulty."
"I prefer to stay where I am. I bumped my head, remember?"
John smiled: "I'll get you some ice."
He chipped a bit of ice off from the inside of their fridge's freezing compartment, which he then wrapped into a bit of clingfilm and a piece of cloth he had cut off of the former tea towel he had already used for making a sheet.
"You can alternately use it on your knee and your head," he suggested, setting a small stack of matchboxes in front of the armchair. Sherlock watched with narrowed eyes as John put a bit cotton wool on top of the stack before gently lifting his friend's injured leg to rest on it.
Sherlock immediately took it down again.
John sighed: "Really? Why are you being so obstinate, Sherlock? You're only making this even more difficult."
"I don't need to be coddled."
"I'm not coddling you, I'm treating you."
"Not that big a difference. You probably like that you're having the upper hand."
"For God's sake, I'd have done the same if you were normal-sized! And may I remind you once again that it's you who's responsible for this! Perhaps it's news for you, Sherlock, but when I planned this week's leave, I did not expect to have to be your baby-sitter twenty-four seven! Now put your damn leg back on the matchboxes!"
With that, he turned away in order to boil some water and make breakfast.
Gingerly, though with a frown, Sherlock did as he had been told, placing the ice pack on his knee, which admittedly brought some immediate relief.
John muttered unintelligible things under his breath while he was rummaging around and put things on the table, but his mood seemed to have recovered once he sat down with his tea.
Sherlock had tea, a bit of toast and scrambled egg, refusing the bacon, which he said looked funny with the current proportions and was probably way too salty as well.
John was watching him closely while they ate; a bit of colour had returned to Sherlock's face, and he did not seem to need painkillers.
"Didn't go too well so far, did it?" he remarked.
"Teething troubles," Sherlock muttered dismissively.
John however shook his head: "We need to be more careful," he said seriously. "There's too much which- what are you staring at?"
"I never noticed how much hair you've got in your nose," Sherlock murmured, mesmerized. "Maybe I could-"
"No!" John had said that so loud and with so much emphasis that Sherlock actually flinched.
"You are still not taking this serious," John continued, obviously angry again. "Do I really have to explain it to you, Sherlock? This isn't about me having the upper hand, for God's sake! This is about what could happen, and the worst-case scenario would be if something happened to you which required any kind of medical attention that no one could give you right now! I can help you with minor things while you're this small, but you won't find any surgeon who'd even take out your appendix, and that's not because they wouldn't want to, but because they wouldn't be able to do it. Hell, even a simply IV line is out of the question right now, so please- no more climbing or any similarly harebrained activities like that!"
Sherlock avoided his gaze, pursing his lips in a way that translated to I heard you, and I know that you are right. I can't admit that, however, because admitting it would also mean to admit that shrinking myself was indeed a bit stupid (if fascinating and I'd definitely do it again!). So I'll just act unconcerned for the time being, and maybe a tad contrite to appease you.
"You're such a dick sometimes," John added, sounding calmer already.
He was just about to put the dishes into the sink when there were steps on the stairs, followed by Mrs Hudson's trademark yodeling: "Yoohoo, boys?"
For a moment, John froze, then he wheeled around and threw a tea towel over the armchair and its occupant: "Sorry," he hissed.
The appalled protest from the under the tea towel immediately ceased when the door to the kitchen opened and their landlady poked her head in: "Good morning," she said brightly, "I've made scones."
"Oh, great," John suddenly did not know what to do with his hands.
Mrs Hudson put the plate on the table, glancing at the curiously shaped tea-towel: "Is Sherlock not up yet? I thought I heard you talking."
John wished he could simply fob her off; it would be so easy to just tell her Sherlock was still in bed and that he had been talking to himself. Which was not going to help their situation however, so he cleared his throat: "Fancy a cuppa?"
The tea towel made an impatient sound and John was beginning to sweat. Luckily enough though, Mrs Hudson had just bent down to pick up something which had been lying on the floor, so she had not heard it.
"That'd be lovely, dear." She sat down at the table and held up the item she had just found: "What's this?"
It was the book Sherlock had shrunk.
"Oh, that...," John once more cleared his throat in order to gain time, "erm.. they gave it out at Waterstone's, it's a... promotional gift. It's a bookmark, see, but I accidentally ripped off the ribbon."
"Things are getting so fancy these days," Mrs Hudson remarked, obviously believing him. She put the book on the table, glancing at the tea towel again.
"Mrs Hudson- there's something I've got to tell you."
"What is it, dear?"
"You know how Sherlock likes to experiment, and sometimes he's... frightfully ignorant of what the consequences might be."
The tea towel gasped indignantly. Mrs Hudson frowned: "Did you hear that?"
John ignored her, quickly continueing what he was saying: "What I was just saying... Sherlock did an experiment yesterday, and now we're having a bit of a situation. A highly unusual situation."
"Oh dear, is he okay?"
"Yes, he is. It's just..." John struggled to find the right words, aware of Mrs Hudson's anxious stare. In the end, he simply shrugged: "He shrunk himself."
Mrs Hudson shook her head: "He shrunk himself? What do you mean?"
"I'll show you. But please, stay calm. It's only for a few days."
With a deep breath, he pulled away the tea towel which had been hiding Sherlock. Who looked livid, but pulled the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile now: "Morning!"
Mrs Hudson squealed, nearly falling off her chair as she instinctively backed away: "Sherlock? But that's impossible!"
"John, pinch her. She thinks she's hallucinating."
"I'm not going to pinch her." John had quickly circled the table and put his arm around the old lady's shoulder to steady her: "Are you okay?"
She was trembling and could not take her eyes off her miniature tenant, but she nodded: "How... how did you do that? John, how did he do that?"
"I'd very much like to know that myself."
"You don't know?"
"It's inexplicable," Sherlock provided. "Which reminds me- do not touch any matchboxes in this flat."
Mrs Hudson scrunched up her nose: You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"
Five minutes later, after she had had two brandys and gotten over the first shock, she was a lot calmer already. "What happened to your knee, dear?" she asked.
"A little accident. Not important."
John smirked: "We've already learned the hard way that nothing is easy while Sherlock's so small."
"Well, that makes sense. He can't very well get around on his own like this, can he?"
"No, he can't. Someone's got to be with him all the time."
"Oh yes, just rub it in, will you?"
"You shut up."
Sherlock glared at John, folding his arms in front of his chest.
"Aww, you are kind of adorable like this!" Mrs Hudson said, contemplatively.
"No more brandy for her," Sherlock growled. "John, I told you she'd do that!"
His friend squinted, pretending to rack his brain: "If I recall correctly, I told you."
"If you insist."
"So," John resumed the initial conversation, "we, though to be honest mostly I, would be very grateful if you could help out a little."
"Of course, dear. I can babysit him whenever you need me to."
"For the love of- give me some of that brandy, John," Sherlock demanded.
"No."
"Damn. I should've shrunk the gun. Or some cigarettes."
Once Mrs Hudson had left, promising not to tell anyone and to find out whether Mrs Turner still had some of her granddaughter's doll's clothes, Sherlock ruffled his hair with his uninjured hand, a typical gesture whenever he was upset or impatient or both.
"She took it rather well," John said, "stop being such a drama queen."
"Excuse me? I'm the one who's being adorable."
"Not as much as you seem to think."
"Haha." Sherlock sat back: "We still need to do some tests. Apart from my size, I'd like to measure the volume of my voice, my general strength, my auditive-"
"I need to do the laundry first. And you should rest for a while. You're still rather pale."
"I'm always pale."
"Not like this morning. Besides, measuring your strength will hardly be accurate if you can't use both hands."
"True," Sherlock conceded. "Well, it can wait a few days."
John cleared the table, then turned to Sherlock: "Should I wash your shirt as well, while I'm at it? I'll also do a load of underwear later on."
Sherlock's cheeks flushed a little, but he nodded his consent. There was nothing to it: he only had one pair of briefs, which admittedly should be laundered occasionally.
John went into Sherlock's bedroom and picked up the shirt, which he put in a mesh laundry net to prevent it from getting lost or mangled in the machine.
"I'll just pop down to the basement," he announced once he had gathered everything he needed, "would you rather like to be in the living room and watch TV?"
"No thanks," Sherlock said smugly, pulling John's book out from behind his back, "I think I'll read."
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To Be Continued
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Thank you for reading!
I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes (tenses, I know).
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