A study in Pocketlock Chapter 2: Introductions, a sherlock fanfic

A stern look of concentration slowly overtook the one of shock on John's face. His instincts as a doctor were quickly kicking in. Yes, the thing or man or whatever it was on the floor could not exist, not really, but without medical attention it, he was going to bleed out and die.

Quickly groping in his pocket for a handkerchief John pulled one out and used it to gently pick up the tiny man. He fit in the palm of his hand and could have used the handkerchief as a blanket, but John had no time to marvel. The strange thing's breaths were getting shallower, and blood continued to pour from the ghastly wound on its leg.

John quickly spirited it to the kitchen table, where he laid it down delicately. His mind racing through the procedures he should take he strode to his bedroom, to fetch the first aid kit he carried with him unfailingly.

Sherlock could not suppress the grunt of pain as the human lifted him from the ground, jostling his wounds no matter how gently.

Sherlock had never enjoyed being picked up by humans. It was horrendously intimidating, and he hated the thought of being helpless. Control was invaluable to him, but it was all too easily taken away, when his kind were seen.

It was a bit of a surprise that Mr. Watson had forgone the customary disbelieving triad on how he must have been dreaming, or how impossible Sherlock's existence was.

Instead, without a word, the human carried him into the kitchen, lay him gently on the table, and headed off to his room to fetch something.

Sherlock, through immense effort, managed to push himself into a sitting position. If he could only get down from this table, there was an entrance to the wall tunnels just behind the fridge. Perhaps he could make it before Mr. Watson returned, most likely with a dissecting trey, if his blithe acceptance of the smaller mans existence was any indication.

Painfully, he began to stagger towards the edge of the table.

John returned to find the small man up and struggling to get to the edge of the table. "Whoa there!" he cried, running over and blocking his way with a hand. Setting the first aid kit down within reach he attempted to gently, if firmly, get the creature to lay down again. "Don't move, you'll kill yourself at that rate!" he warned. Keeping a hand cautiously in front of the man he used the other one to open the first aid kit. "Just let me get that would taken care of or you'll bleed to death."

"Whoa there!"

Sherlock startled slightly when the hand swooped down in front of him.

"You'll kill yourself at that rate!" John continued, and much to Sherlock's surprise and distaste, gently pushed him back down, his weakened body giving in all to easily to the giant's demands.

"Just let me get that wound taken care of or you'll bleed to death."

The man rummaged around in what looked like a rather more professional first aid kit than the one Mrs. Hudson owned. The one he'd pilfered from often for experiments or other projects.

He tried to take his mind off of the involuntary terror that wracked his body by observing the human. Filing facts and deductions away into carefully organized lines.

It was most likely the blood loss that lead him to murmur them out loud.

"You're a Doctor, professionally. Recently spent time in Afghanistan with the armed forces, army doctor I would imagine. You were honorably discharged after receiving your leg injury, have only returned to London recently and have yet to find a job. You crave a sense of independence but your army pension is laughable, well, they always are, and so you've chosen this flat based on its price rather than desirability, seeing as you barely glanced at it when Mrs. Hudson let you in..." He trailed off, mind fuzzy and wounds screaming.

John glanced down at the man in surprise, only just refraining from jumping in shock after hearing him speak. Sure, he had been prattling to the strange being, but never once had he contemplated that it might speak back.

"How?" John started, confused as to the true stream of facts coming from the small man. He shook his head determinedly and continued unrolling a length of bandage, carefully but quickly cutting it into smaller strips. Taking out the bottle of antiseptic he poured a bit on a cotton swab and prepared to clean the man's leg. Looking him straight in the eyes, and wondering at the intensity with which they stared back, John warned, "Get ready. This is going to sting."

Sherlock grunted loudly, his hands clenching and unclenching as fire seemed to consume his body. But to his credit he stayed as still as he could so as not to hinder the man in his attempts to save him.

Whatever else he thought about the man, he had an astonishing practicality. It was really quite impressive to see in a human. Perhaps it was born of his time in the Middle East. An army doctor had to be practical and focused while the world went to hell around them, otherwise their patients died.

"I d-don't suppose you have any morphine in that pack." He joked grimly through his clenched teeth.

John smiled grimly at the remark, tossing the bloodied cotton swab into the bin beside him. "No morphine, but once you're bandaged I can get you some aspirin," he promised. Really, the small man was doing fantastically well for the amount of pain he must be feeling. Most men would have passed out already.

John took a closer look at the injury, carefully cutting away the ragged cloth around it. It was serious, all right; on a normal sized man he would have sewn it up, but since that was impossible under these circumstances he settled for a bit of antibiotic gel and a lot of luck. Once that was applied he wrapped the bandages, lifting the man's leg up at gently as he could to wrap them around. Once every part of the tear was covered in sterile cloth he fastened it with a small piece of tape, though that piece still took up most of the man's thigh. Once this was all over John was going to have a lot of questions for him- starting with just what, exactly, he was.

"There we are," John said, removing his hands with a breath of relief. "It'll be nasty for a while, but at least the bleeding will stop and it will heal."

He wished that he could say he felt much better, but he didn't. He knew his body would not be up to his normal standards for quite some time, but he could at least take a small bit of comfort in knowing that Mister Watson was finished prodding and probing his open gashes.

"Thank you," he croaked, his voice ragged due to immense strain his body had just been under.

"You're welcome," John replied, and began to pack everything back up. He could tell that the man was still in quite a bit of pain, and probably wouldn't appreciate John asking questions. So instead he took out a pill of aspirin and crushed it with a knife, leaving a powder behind that was fine enough for the man to swallow. Glancing about John spied an empty bottle cap left by the recycling, and after rinsing it out he filled it with cool water from the tap and set it down next to the powder.

"There you are," he said, just a mite proud of himself for thinking it all through so nicely. "Don't take more than a handful, but that should help with the pain."

Sherlock forced his tired muscles into action, sitting up painfully as Doctor Watson set the finely crushed aspirin and a cap full of water within easy reach.

"A handful would be far too much in my current state," he muttered, again speaking when he'd have normally kept quiet, still quite delirious, for him at least, from the blood loss.

He leaned forward, taking a small and careful pinch of the white powder between his fingers, swallowing it quickly with just the smallest sip of water from the cap. He would have preferred something much stronger, but that was an area where humans won over him yet again.

He slumped back down, exhausted, but wide awake.

John tried not to frown at the muttered words. Of course it would be too much if the proportions were equal, but how was he to know?

He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at the figure sprawled out on the kitchen table. It was impossible, yet, here it was; John had touched him, felt the blood and the warmth coursing through him. No doubts about it, the man was undeniably real.

"What are you?" he quietly asked. He couldn't hold back his questions anymore, at least not this one. The rest were arbitrary compared to the need for a name.

He chuckled quietly, the soft sound turning into a painful cough in his battered chest. He swallowed heavily, trying to regain his voice.

"I have... Have to say, you've lasted an impressively long time without asking." He said. His eyes closed, too dry and tired to stay open, despite his abused body's natural instinct to run and hide.

He was silent for a while, gathering what strength he had. "I am exactly what I appear to be, physically at any rate. A man, like you, if rather shorter." His lips curled in a small, wry sort of smile. He opened his eyes, looking the larger man in his own.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes."

"John Watson," John replied, a bit automatically. He had many more questions, to be sure, but the man - Sherlock, he reminded himself - looked absolutely exhausted. What he needed was rest, and a lot of it.

"You need to get some rest," he announced firmly. Easier said than done, he supposed; he had no idea where Sherlock lived, and at any rate he shouldn't be moved. "Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?" the doctor asked, if a bit awkwardly. After all, it wasn't everyday one found oneself playing host to a five-inch tall man.

"Yes." He answered without hesitation. "If you could help me down from this table and leave I would be most grateful." Right now all Sherlock wanted was to crawl back to his own little flat in the wall and sleep in his own, seldom used bed. He doubted Mister Watson would make it quite that easy for him, of course. But it was worth the asking.

John shook his head. "I can't do that. Your leg is in pretty bad shape right now, if I move you we risk misalignment of any ligaments, muscles, or bones that could be offset." He held his breath and waited for Sherlock to respond. From what he had seen the man could be stubborn to the point of ridiculous- when he came back from getting the kit the man had been trying to jump off the table with a shredded leg. And if he went back to wherever he stayed now, the likelihood was that he would never come back to get the bandages changed or his wound checked. No, John wasn't letting him out of his sight; for more than one reason.

Sherlock growled in frustration. Partly because he knew he wasn't getting out of this so easily, but mostly because he realized that Mr. Watson had a very valid point. "In that case I will need some form of protection, should the rat follow the smell of blood and finish the job it started. A box no smaller than six inches by four, weighted but with enough ventilation to keep breathing comfortable. A large pin for protection, and a handkerchief, to serve as a blanket. I've lost a lot of blood and expect I'll continue to be quite cold tonight."

John sighed; at least Sherlock had agreed to stay, if only for the night. "I'll see what I can do," he breathed, standing up and giving Sherlock a wary look. "Don't try to move, alright?" he cautioned him once more. With the way things had been progressing he would return and find Sherlock on the floor in a bloody mess.

He left the kitchen and headed to the bedroom, thinking through the items Sherlock had requested. The box may be hard to find, but the pin and handkerchief easy" perhaps he should ask Mrs. Hudson for a bit of rat poison to spread about. He didn't at all like the idea of his patient trying to fight off something else in his condition, and he was sure Sherlock found the notion even less pleasant.

Sherlock did not think he'd be able to sleep much tonight. The pain still throbbed through him, and he knew the aspirin would put up a laughable fight against it. He had a worrying feeling that John would feel the need to play nursemaid for the next few days, and while the man was not quite as bothersome as he'd originally thought, he did not want to be confined too long. He didn't like the idea of becoming too comfortable with the human. Yes, he was simply curious now, but Sherlock knew that when Humans became too fascinated by his kind, they tended to exert a more proprietorial air. Down that road, men became pets to larger, more powerful men. Be it in a subtle or overt way.

Perhaps he would not move to a new building entirely, but it would certainly be prudent to stay clear of 221B for a while.

However, since he would be stuck here for some time, it couldn't hurt to talk with John a /bit/. He was after all a little curious about life from a human's point of view.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Ah, that would be John's dinner, no doubt.

John swore under his breath, dropping the things he had gathered on the bed and rushing to the door. He had completely forgotten about dinner. As he passed through the living room he glanced over at Sherlock, who to his relief was still lying prone on the kitchen table. Luckily enough the kitchen was tucked out of eyesight from the door to the flat.

Opening the door as little as he could without seeming rude, John paid the man and took his food. Setting the paper bag on the counter by the sink he went to retrieve Sherlock's supplies. "Back in a mo',"he promised his new acquaintance, and soon returned with a bundle of items. The pin and handkerchief had been easy enough to acquire, but the best he could do for a room was an old topless shoebox he had found at the top of the bare closet.

"There we are," he announced, setting the lot on the kitchen table. "Sorry if it's not exactly like you planned, I did the best I could."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. It was a very weak gesture. "It is more than adequate John, thank you," he said, taking in the sight of the supplies. "You'll need to cut some holes in the bottom, no larger than a twelfth of an inch each, and find something to weigh the box down so it is not easily lifted from the outside," he instructed calmly, as if it had not crossed his mind that he was helping the human effectively trap him.

John frowned and looked about for something to cut the box with. Eventually he found a small knife in one of the drawers. "Dinner first," he said decisively, and began pulling out the Chinese food he had ordered. "Do you, would you like any?" he asked Sherlock tentatively, unsure quite what the small man ate, or if he was even hungry at all. Surely his body could use some nourishment to speed up the healing process.

Besides, John was starving. The box could wait until after food, especially considering that no rat was going to come around while John was in the middle of the kitchen.

Sherlock sighed. He certainly was not hungry, not with the roiling pain and nausea he was experiencing. But the fact was that he had not eaten in almost two days, being quite caught up in a case reported in the newspaper as a string of strange suicides.

Eating would be hard, but he should do it anyway.

"Probably a good idea. I won't require much."

John portioned off a bit of food as neatly as he could, leaving out the messy bits likes sauce and placing it on a napkin close to Sherlock. He never handed anything directly to him; it just seemed a bit too awkward, such an invasion of personal space given their size differences. "It would be a good idea if you could manage it," John encouraged, returning to eating his own portion. "So, erm,"The words came out slowly, almost stammered; he wasn't very good at making conversation, and didn't get much practice with it. "You live in the building then?" Fair enough question he supposed, though he hoped it wasn't too invasive. Sherlock seemed very" private.

Sherlock once again fought to sit up, his leg screaming in protest. He ignored the pain, trying to focus instead on the food he would have to ingest. He suddenly found he did not like the idea of eating with his hands. Not in front of a human audience. It all seemed so... Mouse like. But, as no other options presented themselves, he simply reached forward and grabbed a stir fried pea.

"So... Erm... You live in the building then?" John asked. Ah, here it came. The verbal game of cat and mouse. Humans always fished for information when they had caught one of his kind. The trick was not to reveal anything that could lead back to your kin. Sherlock had no kin, at least not in this building, but still, if he wanted to keep living here he'd have to lead Watson in a slightly skewed direction.

"I use it often. It's a place out of the rain where I can mind my interests in peace. Seems I shall have to find a new workroom now."

Now John felt bad- not only had Sherlock obviously felt the question to be too personal, but now he was forcing this man out of a space he had inhabited for much longer than John. "You don't have to do that, you know," John carefully responding, unsure of how Sherlock would react. "I mean, you could stay. I won't bother you, I promise." He meant it, too; he was curious about Sherlock (who wouldn't be?) but the last thing he wanted to do was make anybody uncomfortable. Especially not somebody with a practically unusable leg and a high possibility of dying without it.

In a strange sort of way, Sherlock wished he could believe the man. He seemed like an easy enough person to get on with, as far as humans went, and frankly he'd become quite attached to the flat in the time that he had lived there, and would miss the ability to walk it freely. But it was... unwise. And it frustrated him.

He put his food aside, barely touched. "I think I would like to rest now." he said, a little coolly.

It was understandable. Sherlock had been through a lot and was obviously unused to company. Still, John couldn't help but feel a bit hurt. "Uh, sure," he said, putting the rest of his food in the refrigerator and hovering nervously. "I'll, erm, be in the bedroom if you need anything." He turned sharply and left the room, thoughts and odd feelings tangling in his head. It had ended up being a very strange day indeed.

Sherlock huffed irritably as the man left without setting up the box. It was obvious he'd disappointed John, possibly even hurting his feelings, but really, was that any call to leave him here without protection? Perhaps some damage control was in order. He was after all dependent on Mister Watson's good graces.

"John!" He shouted, hoping the man could hear him from across the room.

A hopeful little spark kept in John's chest as his name was called, though he would never admit to it. "Yeah?" he asked, popping back into the kitchen. Seeing the supplies left on the table he made the connection. "Oh right, the box, sorry!" He hurried over to remedy the issue, feeling awful about forgetting. In his defense, it had been a while since he had been for to care for a patient. But that, John knew, was no excuse.

John caught on quickly as to the reason he'd been summoned back to the kitchen. Sherlock watched as the larger man set about fixing up his temporary lodgings.

He didn't really know what to say to the man, or if anything needed saying at all. He had never been good with civil conversation, not among his own kind and never with Humans. How was one supposed to proceed?

"I'm... sorry, for being so curt with you. You are doing me an astonishing service." He trailed off, unused to giving thanks to others.

"That's okay," John replied in a small voice, still focusing his attention on the box. "I'm not doing my job as a doctor very well either, so I guess we're both a little off." He did appreciate the thanks though, even in the indirect way Sherlock had given them. For a few horrid moments he had thought the small man had hated him, hated him for being in a place he had no right to be. Despite the fact that he had a perfect right to be there and Sherlock seemed a bit reticent, John still felt a bit that way. Being a rather short man, it was not often that John felt big or imposing. He wasn't sure he liked it all that much, at least not under these strange circumstances.

"Done," the doctor sighed, having arranged the box to Sherlock's specifications. He turned to the man on the table with a small frown. "Is it alright if I, erm, pick you up?" he asked carefully, flushing a bit at the awkwardness of the situation. "It's really the only way to move you with the least amount of harm."

Sherlock relaxed, insofar as that was possible in his current state. It was apparent he had not alienated John after all. He lay back down, resting his back against the unforgiving wood of the table.

"That won't be necessary." He said, closing his eyes and subconsciously steepling his fingers over his chest, the way he always did when he wanted to think without distraction. "Simply upend the box and place it over top of me."

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, holding the box. Everything had been set up like Sherlock asked, but he still didn't feel right practically trapping his patient in a cardboard box. John couldn't help but worry about the small man; he had treated his wound, after all, so in a way Sherlock was his charge now. "Once I go to bed I won't be able to hear you either- not through the box and the wall. If you have anything else to say, now is the time."

Every primitive instinct he had was telling him no, that this was a terrible idea and he should be trying to flee, not submitting to this voluntary imprisonment. He ignored them all.

"I'm ready." He said flatly. "Once the box is in place, find something to weigh it down. A book, a mug, anything should do. Just so long as it insures the box cannot be lifted from the outside. At least," he smiled wryly, "not by anything my size."

"Okay." John said hesitantly, and placed the box gently over his patient. Looking around he grabbed the only mug he owned, his army one, and set it neatly on top. "I'm, uh, going to bed now," he announced, feeling very strange standing in the middle of his kitchen talking to a cardboard box. Luckily he didn't seem to have any neighbors at the moment, and Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs.

So there was nobody to call him crazy. Nobody human, at least.

Sherlock grunted a reply, pulling the handkerchief and the pin close. He really was very cold. He heard John step away from the box and enter the bedroom, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts.

This had been a most unusually unpredictable day.

He thought about John, and he thought about the future, trying to calculate the likelihood of a... Well, call it a partnership, actually working between the two of them. John had offered to let him stay in the flat, and with a human around, he would not have to waste so much time pilfering from Mrs. Hudson.

It would leave him more time for his true passion.

Also, he would not have to wait for Mrs. Hudson to leave every day, if he wanted to use the computer. Sherlock had noticed what had looked like a laptop among Mr. Watson's meager belongings. He was sure the man would let him borrow it, if he asked.

Of course, there were always the usual considerations to take into account. If things did not work out between him and the human, if John grew frustrated or angry with him after the novelty of having a tiny flatmate wore off. He knew he was abrasive at best, abusive at worst.

Of course, John did not seem like the sort to intentionally harm him, but a careless swat or awkward fall could be fatal.

It was amid mixed thoughts like these that the man finally fell into a light sleep, the pain keeping him coasting in and out of consciousness all through the night.

John slipped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly. Sifting through his suitcase he pulled out his nightclothes, ignoring the rest. He lay on the unfamiliar bed with a sigh.

Today had been a very unusual day indeed.

Of all the things to find in a new flat, he had found an impossible man with a seriously injured leg. Oh, and he happened to be less than five inches tall. John wondered idly if he was going crazy, more out of a feeling of obligation than an actual consideration. The events of the day had been all too real to be part of his limited imagination.

He wasn't entirely sure what to think of Sherlock. Most of his attentions had been paid to the wound, not the man himself. Sherlock seemed... distant, and a bit demanding. He was startlingly intelligent. How else could he possibly have known all those things earlier? Still, there was something captivating about the stranger; and not just his size. Something told John that a relationship with the small man would be an interesting one.

It took John a while to fall asleep, what with all the thoughts in his head competing for attention. But when he did, he spent his first night since the accident not haunted by nightmares of the war. Yes, this relationship was going to be interesting indeed.

A/N

Things to look forward to this Sunday:

Finding out who the next Doctor will be.
Pocketlock and John working a case, vigilante style. ;)

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