A/N: The length of the chapters I wrote varies. Sometimes a lot. Fair warning for the future. Oh, and I just really want Sherlock to have a lisp. He's just...so much cuter.
"We're going to find out what's in that bottle!" Sherlock had that glint in his eyes that screamed a bit not good to John. "No, Sherlock. No. We don't even know what could be in there!"
"If we knew what was in there what would be the point? Honestly, John." Sherlock said exasperated, "Where's your sense of adventure and excitement." John sighed. Sherlock knew him too well. "Fine. Give it here." As soon as John sat back in his chair taking a sip, Mycroft walked in. "Bit early for a drink, isn't it, boys?"
"Shut up, Mycroft. What do you want?" Sherlock hissed, never moving his head or missing a beat.
"Simply to wish my brother a happy birthday." He said with his best fake smile.
"Well now you have. Good bye." Sherlock took a long sip out of his now-empty glass and closed his eyes. John thought that wasn't such a bad idea. Whatever was in that drink was making him drowsy. Mycroft stood there awkwardly a moment and then excused himself to the bathroom.
John took another sip of his drink and tried to stay awake. Not the best plan, but he thought he could stay awake. His body just kept insisting that it was so tired but he tried to stay awake until the Doctor could get back and help him…he could do it…
He soon slipped into a sleep so deep he didn't even hear the glass shatter on the floor when he dropped it.
Mycroft heard the shattering glass and was immediately worried. His mind flipped over to that man on the CCTV cameras. Who was he, and why did he come to Sherlock? It wasn't uncommon, but this man was…for lack of a better word, different. And the shattering glass was a concern. Did he come back and start a fight? He didn't hear anymore glass, or anything else for that matter. No footsteps, no crying out, not even a muttered curse at a clumsy hand. Something was wrong.
He walked out to the living room to find a pile of clothes where each man was sitting a moment earlier, with a lump in each pile. But the strange thing was that the lumps appeared to be shrinking. They stopped at the point where if you stretched a lump out, it might barely reach a meter high. Mycroft carefully approached the lump under Sherlock's clothes on a whim. To his surprise, a bundle of black curls popped up around the hole in the shirt for the neck, but it didn't do anything else.
He pulled down the shirt and soon saw what the black curls were attached to: Sherlock's head. Only Sherlock was about 3 years old instead of about 30. Mycroft stammered, "Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock?!"
The bundle moaned and said, "Leave me alone, Mycwoft, I'm twying to sleep!" And he whipped his arm out still in its shirt sleeve for good measure. Surprised by the amount of fabric flopping when he did this (as opposed to the usual none), he sat up and blinked, thoroughly confused. "Wha-…JOHN!"
The other lump poked its head out of the neck hole and tripped over the rest of the jumper, and fell out onto the floor. John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock gaped at John, until the Doctor ran in yelling, "Sherlock! Don't drink that! It's the wrong…um…bottle…"
And they all just stood there until Sherlock spat out, "Well, gee, you think?!"
