Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.
Thanks once more to those who read, favourited and/or dropped a few words!
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Best Not To Be Repeated
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Part 2
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On his way back from the basement, John popped into 221A to talk to Mrs Hudson. She was rummaging through a pile of shawls: "Ah, here it is. Look, John, I never wear this one, it's just not my colour. How about I cut it up for Sherlock so he can use it as a blanket? That flannel doesn't seem warm enough in the long run."
John, once more touched by her kindness and unconditional love, smiled: "That's a good idea, if you really don't need it any more."
"No, no, one's always got too much stuff anyway."
"Listen, I just wanted to talk to you in private."
"What is it, dear?"
"Well, the whole situation, really. We must make absolutely sure that no one sees Sherlock like this, he is completely helpless."
Mrs Hudson busied herself with folding the other shawls and avoided his gaze; she did not like to be reminded of Sherlock's susceptibilites, and especially not now.
"We'll be careful, then," she said. "You said it'll only last till Saturday, didn't you?"
"Yes, at least that's what Sherlock estimated..." He trailed off.
"Are you all right, dear?"
With a sigh, John sat down at her table. "It's just... it's so typical. He rushes into something head first and leaves me to sort out the consequences. He didn't give it any thought, he just did it. And now I'm the one who's worrying about him, I'm the one who's trying to sort out clothes and stuff for him, I'm the one who watered down his tea and forbid any coffee because his body in its current state might not tolerate it.
I'm doing it for him because I care for him, you know I do. And the worst thing is that he'll probably never even thank me for it, he just takes me for granted."
Mrs Hudson regarded him with an expression full of commiseration and a small smile which slowly widened. "He doesn't take you for granted, dear," she said serenely. "He may not be able to show it or lose any words about it, but he actually is grateful. He was very lonely before you came along, you've changed a lot. He is happier now, more content. And even if he is rude to you, he'll in some way or other express his gratitude, probably when you're least expecting it."
John considered this, then he sighed: "Right. Thanks. I didn't want to complain, actually."
"I know, dear," the old lady patted his hand, "It's good to vent once in a while, considering what you're putting up with."
The rest of Sunday went surprisingly quiet. John lit a fire in the fireplace, put the miniature armchair and the stack of matchboxes in front of it for Sherlock and worked on his blog for a while.
The detective, for want of anything better to do, actually began reading John's book and proclaimed to be mildly interested. Half an hour later, he had dozed off. John sat down in his own armchair and watched Sherlock for a while; he looked much younger and deceitfully harmless in his sleep.
And Mrs Hudson was right, John had to admit, there was something rather adorable about him with the way he was slumped in his chair, head tilted sideways, oblivious that he was being observed. Maybe it was the vulnerability which came with sleeping like this, which in Sherlock's case represented the exact opposite to his usual alertness; he never let his guard down in front of other people if he could help it.
It had taken John a while to get to know the real Sherlock after they had moved in together, but he, much more quickly so in fact than the strange man who had first spiked John's curiosity in the lab at Barts, had won John's affections in practically no time. He was quirky and sometimes annoying, but he also was someone John could talk to, who listened (as long as he was not thinking about a case or being on cold turkey) and who could not help but being charming when he was relaxed.
Which probably was the reason why John put up with all the nonsense, he told himself, already feeling slightly guilty about his small outburst at Mrs Hudson's earlier.
"Are you done yet?" Sherlock asked three days later.
"I think it's still too hot."
"Let me try-"
"No, you'll scald yourself."
John patiently added a bit of cold water. He was filling up an antique gravy boat with bath water for Sherlock; after a lot of deliberation on what to use as a bathtub, the detective had come up with the idea. After ten more minutes of heated arguing, John had heard himself agreeing to sneaking into Mrs Hudson's flat and borrow her grandmother's gravy boat for the occasion.
"She's never using it anyway, it's just sitting on her sideboard," Sherlock had said when John had expressed his doubts once he had retrieved the piece. "And washing-up liquid is soap as well, after all."
"Yes," John had said, thoughtfully, "but. A naked butt is a naked butt."
"She'll never know," Sherlock replied, evasively, to his annoyance unable to hide that he was blushing.
The gravy boat had worked wonderfully nevertheless, which was why John had had to borrow the thing a second time.
John now tried the temperature again by running a bit of water over his inner wrist, then nodded: "It should be okay now."
John had put the gravy boat in the bathroom sink for convenience; he dried his hands and turned to go. Sherlock shed his dressing gown and slipped into the hot water, mindful of his still smarting wrist and knee. The latter was not as badly swollen anymore, but John had refused to use the pain-relieving gel he usually applied in such situations because he had been worried that even a low dosage of the ingredients might be too high for Sherlock's smaller body. He therefore had been forced to sit around a lot, resulting in a lot of complaining and grumpiness.
Shaving had not worked so well either; he had succeeded with one of the sharpened knives, but he had also cut himself two times, which, despite the rather copious bleeding, hurt his pride more than his face.
On the whole, he had imagined it all quite differently, more adventurous and less... cautious.
He had suggested rope ladders the other day to at least enable him to get on and off furniture, but John had laughed: "Seriously? Where are we going to get them, in a pet shop? And how are you going to climb them?" He had, of course, been referring to Sherlock's injuries. Even though those were minor, they still did not allow for the kind of climbing a rope ladder required, which Sherlock unfortunately and inexplicably had not considered. He must be slipping; hopefully, his experiment had not destroyed precious brain cells. He was going to have to take an intelligence test once he was back to normal, just to be sure.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back; there were certain aspects about that afternoon he would have to delete. John, who had had a dentist's appointment, had taken him down to Mrs Hudson, and things had quickly deteriorated from there.
First of all, she had talked non-stop. Sherlock was experienced in ignoring her subtly enough that she did not necessarily notice it, but not today. Today, he had been forced to cooperate while she was doing what John actually had predicted in jest, namely sewing clothes for him.
Even though he did appreciate her efforts, cooperate was a loathsome term. Yet John had made him swear on the skull, because Sherlock's mood had been ogreish all morning (fuelled even further by a call from Lestrade who had asked for Sherlock's help with a case, which John had turned down under the pretext of Sherlock having the flu), and the doctor did not want his friend to put their landlady off. At least not too much. So he had had to promise he would not be too rude.
If there was one thing Sherlock abhorred more than anything however, it was being forced to do something he did not particularly want to do, and it did not exactly improve his mood. John knew that, so it was not solely Sherlock's fault that he had at one point lost his temper and had ripped the half-finished t-shirt off: "Never call me cute again!" before limping to the far side of the table and sitting down with his back to the old lady, fuming.
Things like that worked while he was his normal size. Maybe it had to do with his height, or his deep voice. In his current incarnation however, he seemed unable to intimidate Mrs Hudson as usual, and he had actually flinched- the abomination!- when she, after a moment of scandalised silence, had all but shouted: "Sherlock Holmes! This is not how you talk to your elders!" (where on earth had she taken that from?)
A moment later, he felt himself clutched, and before he knew it, she had lifted him up and walked out of the kitchen. All his indignant protest had not stopped her, which was why he found himself in her bathtub shortly afterwards.
"I think you need some time to recollect your manners," Mrs Hudson said and slammed the door shut behind her.
Sherlock had been too dumbstruck to do anything for at least a minute.
When Mrs Hudson had come back in half an hour later, he had acted appropriately apologetic to get back in her good books, at least enough for her to take him out of the tub and back to the kitchen. He had been ever so relieved when John returned.
Mrs Hudson's anger had evaporated by then; Sherlock had continued to appear contrite and a bit subdued in addition to using his body language to his advantage, which had worked fabulously: a tilt of the head here, a surreptitious yawn there. Hugging himself with a forlorn expression while pretending not to notice that he was being watched was very effective as well, and whenever he had moved around the table, he had been careful to emphasize his limp.
Mrs Hudson initially had been rather short with him, which lessened considerably after a while as Sherlock noticed with satisfaction, and she did not tell John what had transpired. It was so easy to play people.
If Sherlock was completely honest though, he did feel a tiny bit guilty for snapping at her. Apparently, he was not coping all too well with being so small, it made him feel too vulnerable. He could not wait until Saturday, when it hopefully was going to be over.
On the following morning, Lestrade called once more.
"How's the patient?" he asked in a buoyant tone. "Driving you up the wall?"
John turned towards Sherlock, who was lounging in his miniature armchair with closed eyes and pretended not to be listening: "You have no idea," he said.
Lestrade chuckled: "Listen, I know he's ill, but I've got a file I'd like him to look at. It's rather urgent, and I thought I might drop it off and he can have a go whenever he feels up to it?" The slight inflection at the end of the sentence betrayed his chipper tone. John bit his lip; he liked Greg, and he did not want to tell him any more lies than necessary. Apart from that, Sherlock was very likely going to be able to help, and it might even lift his mood.
"Okay," he said, "I think we can give it a shot."
Sherlock's eyebrow quirked at that.
After they had rung off, John put the phone down in a hurry: "We have to hide you and everything that's suspicious."
"Oh dear," Sherlock said drily, "good luck with that."
"I obviously meant everything diminutive which shouldn't be here."
"Don't worry, he won't notice. He's Lestrade, he never notices anything."
"Well," John said, holding out his palm for his friend to step on, "we're not taking any chances."
When Lestrade arrived twenty minutes later, the living room and kitchen were devoid of any traces of 221B's doll-sized inhabitant.
The DI looked around expectantly: "Sherlock's actually in bed then?"
"Er yes, he is. Fast asleep when I last checked on him."
"Huh." Lestrade frowned. "Too bad. I'd have preferred to give him this in person." He held up a rather thick folder: "This is the file of one Peter Carmichael. He has been in prison for the last five years, drug trafficking being the main charge back then." He paused, seemingly uneasy about what he said next: "He's out now, and to be honest, I've got a weird feeling about him."
John looked at him with narrowed eyes: "Explain?"
Lestrade looked positively uncomfortable now: "Well. He almost escaped conviction back then. It was Sherlock who found the vital piece of evidence at the last minute."
The information was not unexpected, of course, but John still felt his stomach drop. "Shit," he murmured. "Shitshitshitshitshitshitshit."
Lestrade was not wont of John showing such a rather distraught reaction. Usually, the doctor remained calm whenever he was presented with a difficult situation, and if he resorted to swearing, it usually was a bit more elaborate. This however spoke of immediate and genuine- well, maybe not trepidation, but John seemed... apprehensive.
"It might just be me," Lestrade sought to appease him, "probably nothing to worry about."
"But you wouldn't have come here with his file if you'd only had a hunch," John guessed.
Lestrade pushed his coat back and put his hands on his hips: "No," he admitted. "I wouldn't. While he was in prison, Carmichael apparently was very vocal about wanting revenge on Sherlock."
John visibly tensed: "Shit!"
Lestrade shrugged: "Look, I'm sure Sherlock's perfectly safe. Carmichael'd be stupid to try something so soon after his release."
John barely listened to him, as his mind was reeling. "Mycroft," he said, "we need Mycroft. He hasn't shown up all week, damn it. The one time we need him..." He patted down his pockets for Sherlock's phone.
Frowning once more, Lestrade stopped him with one hand on his arm: "What's going on, why're you so nervous about this?"
John forced himself to calm down; Lestrade had no way of knowing, of course.
"Just let me call Mycroft first," he said, "I'll tell you afterwards."
Sherlock had been rather averse to the idea of letting Lestrade in on the secret as well: "We certainly won't tell him," he said, indignantly, when John asked him.
"It's only three more days, I doubt that Carmichael will try anything during that time. And anyway, isn't it enough if Mycroft knows?"
"Mycroft doesn't know. I only asked him to put maximum security on Baker Street for a while."
"He's curious, he'll drop by," Sherlock said, "because naturally, he'll want to know why we suddenly need maximum security."
"Which is why I told him about Carmichael. And he won't be able to come here so soon, because he's in China until Monday."
Sherlock huffed: "He'll want to stick his humongous nose in anyway. He isn't as easily fobbed off as Lestrade."
"Speaking of whom," John replied, "he's our friend. And it might come in useful."
"Just like Mrs Hudson, yes?" Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I feel like an animal in a zoo."
"Don't be so melodramatic. It's for your own good."
Lestrade stared at Sherlock open-mouthed for a full minute. Then, without saying anything, he slowly extended one finger and poked the shrunk detective ever so slightly.
"I'll bite," Sherlock warned him.
"It's really you," the DI said breathlessly, "that's bloody unbelievable."
"Oh, I know what comes next," Sherlock muttered, "How did you do it? The inexplicable. What, really? Wow! Dull..."
John shifted his weight from one foot to the other: "Sherlock, this is serious, stop with the jokes already!"
"Don't shout at me!"
"I'm not shouting!"
"Yes, you are!"
For a few seconds, John and Lestrade both just stared at the small man who was standing in front of them (well, on the mantlepiece), wearing his dressing gown and pressing his hands over his ears in protest. Neither of them could help it, they simultaneously burst into laughter a moment later because Sherlock did look a little ridiculous (and cute, Mrs Hudson would probably have added).
"I really don't see what's so funny about this," he said petulantly once his friends had stopped laughing.
"Unless someone showed you a mirror," John quipped. This time, it took a while longer until they managed to regain their composure.
As it were, Peter Carmichael was run over by a car two days after his release from prison, and was dead before the ambulance arrived.
Mycroft called John to tell him about it, and even though Sherlock had acted unconcerned, the overall relief in the flat was palpable.
On Saturday morning the atmosphere was rather cheerful for three reasons: Sherlock's experiment was going to expire that day, no one had accidentally found out about it, and the miniature detective had gotten through the whole thing mostly unharmed. There had been no more incidents at night, and even though Sherlock had worked out several escape plans in his mind, he had not tried to scarper, which showed a remarkable effort of patience on his side.
After breakfast, John went to the shops to get groceries and maybe a bottle of champagne which they could use to celebrate later on, once Sherlock had been restored to normal.
The small man was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table, sorting through a tray of bat bones and making drawings of them with a piece of pencil he had sharpened with the small knife. It was rather comfortable not to have to use tweezers and a magnifying lense for once, and he actually enjoyed himself.
Mrs Hudson came in, carrying a bucket of soapy water: "Good morning," she said brightly and set the bucket down on the stool next to the table before leaning forward to look at the drawings: "What are you doing?"
Sherlock inwardly counted till five. He had never understood the need to ask something which was so obvious. John however had explained to him that people often asked those things just to have a conversation opener, even when it was obvious what the other person was doing. Therefore, he remained calm when he answered: "I've had these bones around for ages. They need to be sorted." There, he had done rather well instead of snapping at the old lady.
She smiled: "They are so delicate, aren't they?"
"Yes." His inner John kicked him. "This was a mouse-tailed bat. Their body is only two point four inches long at the most, and they weigh less than 15 grams."
"Oh, how lovely," Mrs Hudson clapped her rubber gloved hands together and went to open the window: "Well, I'll let you continue with it. Do you mind if I bustle about a little?"
One, two, three, four, five. "No, I don't."
"Okay, I'll- oh, that's my phone. Be right back!" She went back downstairs, and Sherlock could hear her chirp once she had answered the call; her sister, then. Might take a while.
He re-immersed himself into his task; these bones really were delicate, it was fascinating. He got to his feet and began to lay them out according to their original placement; how some people could not see the beauty in the composition of skeletons was beyond him.
A dull thud which had the table rocking ever so slightly made him look up.
Instantly, he froze. Mrs Hudson had opened the window. And now he was staring at the neighbour's cat who had just jumped onto the table and crouched down in front of him, large yellow eyes fixed on him in a way that made a shiver run down his spine.
His mind was reeling; maybe if he said something, the cat would realize that he was not an animal of prey, but funnily enough, his voice did not obey; all that could be heard was a feeble, rather hoarse croak. Slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, Sherlock backed away from the cat, towards the edge of the table. His phone was lying nearby, but he doubted that he would be fast enough to get any further than reaching and unlocking it if he made a dash for it. The cat's tail was flicking excitedly, and Sherlock was relieved to notice he had reached the table's edge.
There was only way of escape now: the bucket of water. He glanced over his shoulder: the drop was comparable to that of a five-meter-board. He hoped that the water was deep enough, but he did not wait any longer: just as he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, he whirled around and leapt.
Time seemed to slow down. God, how stupid and ridiculous this was. The week was nearly over, he had largely managed to stay out of harm's way, and now this. What if he had miscalculated the angle?
He had not, though. With a loud splash, he landed in the bucket, plunging down all the way to the bottom. Gasping and gagging, he surfaced, spitting out water which tasted like lemon soap; the coldness was breathtaking. What was worse however was that he could not reach the bucket's rim, as the water level was approximately eight or nine inches below it.
The cat had crouched down at the table's edge now and tried to reach Sherlock with its paw; fortunately though, he was too far down.
Ignoring the animal, he shouted for Mrs Hudson, but she did not seem to hear him. Hopefully, either she or John would come back soon; his fingers and toes were already going numb.
The cat had disappeared from his view; good, maybe it had left altogether. Sherlock tried to propel himself up enough to reach the rim, but to no avail. He cursed, teeth chattering from the cold. Great. He sneezed, which was partly induced by the cold, partly by the soap; the scent was rather intense, biting into his nose and his tongue.
God, it was cold. He tried to move a bit more in order to keep his blood circulation going, but it was becoming inceasingly hard.
And then the bucket suddenly shook, shifting a little before it almost comically slowly slipped sideways and began to tilt. Time slowed down once more as Sherlock realized what had just happened and what was going to happen. The darn cat had jumped onto the stool. How had it managed that with only a very small space to land on? Sherlock made a note to read about that. If he survived this day, that was, because the bucket was falling now, and Sherlock was falling with it.
Later on, he did not remember the impact. There was a lot of noise; the water rushed onto the hardwood floor in a small but, if you were in it, violent deluge, carrying the helpless detective along. There was water everywhere; he did not know which side was up, and he could barely breathe because the surface seemed to have disappeared. And then he painfully collided with something solid; the impact took the last of his remaining breath away and swept him into darkness.
He did not hear the voices or the hurried footsteps on the stairs.
John had just closed the front door behind him when he heard an odd sound upstairs. Ever since he had moved into 221B, he had learned that odd sounds could mean both something good and something bad, and that, no matter which it was, it was advisable to hurry if one heard them. So he dropped his shopping bags and ran up the stairs: "Sherlock?"
"John?" he heard Mrs Hudson's voice behind him, but he did not pause: "Sherlock!"
There was no reply.
The kitchen table was a mess of scattered bones, the floor wet; apparently, Mrs Hudson's cleaning bucket had toppled over for some reason. Sherlock was nowhere in sight.
"Oh, my God," Mrs Hudson now said, panting ever so slightly after rushing up the stairs, "what happened? The bucket was sitting on this stool!"
John's stomach dropped unpleasantly. "Sherlock!"
Only when he picked up the bucket did he see his friend; he was lying next to the sliding door which connected the kitchen and the living room, a small, apparently drenched heap.
Mrs Hudson made a small mewling sound at the sight.
"Sherlock." John, not heeding the wetness, knelt down next to him and very cautiously touched his back; he could not see Sherlock's face yet, but he seemed unconscious. John gingerly turned Sherlock onto his back; he was breathing, thank God, but he was bleeding from a cut underneath his hairline. He looked utterly pale, and his skin was icy cold, his lips having a blue tinge.
"Get me an old towel," John ordered, talking to Mrs Hudson, "the softest you got, and not a freshly laundered one. Then boil some water, quickly."
"Sherlock," John said, trying to rouse him,"can you hear me?" He did not dare to move his friend as long as he did not know whether there was any damage apart from the wound on his forehead, and judging from the temperature of his skin, Sherlock also needed to get warm as soon as possible.
"Sherlock!" He touched the detective's face with the tip of his finger. "Sherlock, wake up."
After a moment or two, Sherlock moved ever so slightly; his body tensed as he gained consciousness, and he began to tremble from the cold. Which was a good sign, meaning he was sufficiently alert.
"Take your time," John said, "open your eyes when you can."
It took another minute or so until Sherlock began to blink. He coughed up a bit of water, weakly turning his head to the side, and John felt helpless.
"Sherlock," he repeated, a rush of adrenaline surging through him when his friend's gaze found his own, slighly unfocused.
"Are you in pain?" John asked, "does it hurt when you breathe?"
"C-cold," Sherlock mumbled; he was shaking by now, and quickly closed his eyes again.
Mrs Hudson came back in: "Here, it's the softest I could find."
"Okay, take the scissors out of the top drawer and cut it in half."
The old lady looked a little alarmed, but did as she was told.
John decided to risk it: "I'm going to pick you up, Sherlock. Tell me if anything hurts. Mrs Hudson, I'll need your help."
"Of course, dear."
Together, they carefully lifted Sherlock onto the towel; he groaned a bit, and twisted his upper body sideways, bringing up more of the water. Of course, John thought, trying to steady his friend while the heaving abated, there had been some kind of cleanser in the water.
"Mrs Hudson," he said in an undertone, "can you bring me the bottle of the soap you used?"
After a moment of comprehension, she rushed off, returning only a minute later. John was relieved to see it was organic and non-toxic.
The vomiting had stopped in the meantime, but Sherlock still looked worse for wear.
While Mrs Hudson set about cleaning up the mess, John carried Sherlock into his bedroom where he quickly peeled him out of his wet clothes and dried him off as best as possible, then he wrapped the second towel around him and laid him onto the hot water bottle Mrs Hudson had meanwhile prepared, rubbing the small man's hands and his feet until they were not that icy anymore.
Next, he took care of the head wound; fortunately, it had stopped bleeding. Sherlock, who had so far been mostly unresponsive, winced when John applied a bit of antiseptic gel, and his eyes, which were reddened because the soap had irritated them, fluttered open.
"Hey," John said gently, his voice full of affection. "How are you feeling?"
"Awful," Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "Cat came in."
God. John forbid himself to think about what other consequences they might have had to face, and concentrated on his friend instead, whose trembling was subsiding: "Are you still queasy?""
"A bit."
"Getting warm, at least?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll be right back."
John went into the bathroom and paused for a moment, only now realizing that he was trembling himself. This incident could have ended so much worse, he was glad that it was about to be over some time today.
When he came back into the bedroom, Sherlock's trembling had lessened to short bouts of intermittent trembling. His eyes were closed, but when John sat down on the mattress, he opened them again, blinking dazedly at his friend.
John smiled: "I'll have a look at you now, if you don't mind."
He gently palpated Sherlock's limbs, then helped him to sit up and examined his torso; his ribs and his left hip were thoroughly contused, but nothing seemed broken. All in all, he was battered and bruised and actually did have a concussion this time, but he could still count himself lucky.
John could feel Sherlock's still accelerated heartbeat, evidence of shock, and found that he did not want to let go of him so soon; he seemed as frail as a bird, and it frankly was a little alarming that he put up no resistance at all. But his core temperature still was too low, and it was not going to help if he stayed upright for too long; he might get seriously nauseous. So John eased Sherlock back down, wrapped the towel around him and covered it with the piece of former shawl which had served as a blanket this past week: "Try not to fall asleep yet. I'll bring you a cold cloth for your eyes."
"The cat? Oh no," Mrs Hudson covered her mouth with her hand. "It's all my fault then! I left the window open when I went to take the phone call!"
"It's okay," the last thing John needed right then was a fit of hysterics. "It could have been me as well."
"But it wasn't you, was it, it was me!"
"Mrs Hudson, please calm down. There's no point in blaming yourself."
She drew a trembling hand over her forehead, but nodded: "All right- what can I do?"
"Some tea would be lovely."
"Coming up," Mrs Hudson said, shakily, and went about it with a mournful expression. At least the cat seemed to have fled, but to be sure, the old lady had a good look around while she waited for the water to boil.
John sat with Sherlock the whole morning, worrying. What if his body was too weakened to change back, was he stuck like this then? What if it did change back but it went wrong? What if the concussion caused further damage? What if Sherlock did have internal injuries that John had overlooked?
Thoughts like these were reeling in the doctor's mind as he kept watch over the detective, who had fallen asleep after drinking a bit of tea.
After a while, John gently lifted Sherlock off the hot water bottle and settled him on the mattress; he opened his eyes ever so briefly, but did not wake up. His skin felt warm to the touch now, and John only hoped he was not going to develop a fever. Sherlock had not been coherent enough to tell him the details of what had transpired, therefore John had no way of knowing how long his friend had been in the water, for example.
He wished, not for the first time during this week, that Sherlock had never gotten hold of that darn matchbox. He had already checked it, but it had not refuelled in the meantime; there was not even the faintest glow.
Sherlock woke up in the afternoon; John had roused him a few times in order to check whether he was all right, but this time, it happened of its own volition. For a while, Sherlock only blinked dazedly, then his gaze focused on John.
"How are you?" the doctor asked.
"It seems that I can't stay out of trouble," Sherlock muttered.
"Right." John smiled, despite himself. "Do you need anything? Something to drink?"
"No."
"Your eyes feeling okay?"
"Yes."
"Okay. You should rest a bit more, then." John did not want to trouble his friend unnecessarily, but he was unable to keep the slight hesitation out of his voice.
"But?" Sherlock asked, sounding wearily; of course he had picked it up. And of course, he was too curious to let it go by.
John shrugged:"Do you think you'll change back like this?"
"No idea." With that, Sherlock closed his eyes again.
"You're not... worried?"
"No." Sherlock sighed. "Not worth the trouble."
"Not worth the-" John snorted, pursing his lips. "As long as I'm the one who's got to deal with most of it, you mean."
"Exactly," Sherlock muttered, not bothering to open his eyes again. "You'll be there, after all."
"Will I!" Fuming, John got to his feet and stormed into the hall. He had half a mind to go out and get some air, but despite it all, he could not bring himself to leave the flat. He went into the living room instead, silently ranting about Holmeses in general and Sherlock in particular until he felt calm enough to sit down.
With a sigh, he flopped down into his armchair and leaned back, closing his own eyes for a moment; thank God the cat hadn't gotten Sherlock, what a close shave it had been. What a mess.
When he woke up, he was momentarily confused, needing a few seconds to recall what time of day it was and why he was napping in his chair. He blinked and groaned when he noticed the crick in his neck, but sat up when he registered someone else's presence nearby. In his own armchair opposite of him sat Sherlock, staring at John with a pensive expression.
"Oh Jesus, it worked!" John was immediately wide awake. "You're back to your normal size. I'm so glad, Sherlock!"
The detective frowned: "What are you talking about?"
John however barely listened to him: "Yes, I know, you didn't doubt it'd work. Still! How's your head, should you be up yet? You look much better." He stopped himself when he noticed the absence of a wound on Sherlock's forehead.
"How's your head, if anything," Sherlock replied, "seems like you've worked too much lately."
Now John frowned as well: "What- so- you mean- you did not... shrink yourself?"
Sherlock's eyebrows nearly disappeared in his hairline as he regarded the doctor now: "Not to my knowledge, no."
"Oh." Strangely enough, a small part of John actually was disappointed. "But- you shrank my novel and then told me how it'd end!"
"This one?" Sherlock held up the book John was reading. "I didn't read it, but honestly- even you can probably figure out how a book about Thomas Cromwell and Anne Boleyn is possibly going to end."
"Yeah, I suppose," John muttered, dazedly. "So- it was all a dream? You didn't jump into Mrs Hudson's bucket to escape the cat?"
"I swear on Mycroft's umbrella that I didn't," Sherlock said, amused.
"Well, then," John gave him a brief smile. "That's all the better for Mrs Hudson's gravy boat. It never saw a naked butt after all."
"You don't make a lot of sense right now," Sherlock remarked, "are you sure you're all right?"
"Yes," John sagged back into his chair. "I think I am." Wow. Maybe he should consider writing books for a living.
"Tell me more about that dream."
"Really? And why are you so calm? When I left for work this morning, you were up and ready to shoot the wall!"
"Yes, but in the meantime, Lestrade called me to a crime scene, and I solved the case within record time."
"Must have been extraordinary if it lasts this long."
"You're making me sound so difficult."
"Oh, far be it from me. So, tea?"
"The water's just boiled. Oh, and Mrs Hudson brought some cake earlier."
"Yes," John said, slowly, "I thought I had smelled some cake." He got up to make the tea, looking around: no miniature items were lying around, no small blue armchair which actually belonged in a doll's house was standing on the coffee table.
Sherlock followed him into the kitchen: "So, how did I shrink myself?"
John paused: "You never told me what you did with the matchbox. You know, the inexplicable one."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Nothing, it just... I was just wondering about that."
"I gave it to Mycroft," Sherlock said lightly.
"Huh." John set two mugs on the worktop and looked around for the box of teabags; he caught Sherlock's gaze for a moment, and smiled.
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm just really glad to see your old self," John answered truthfully.
"O-kay? Now, how did I shrink myself?"
John carefully unwrapped the teabags: "You built a machine."
"What kind of machine?"
"A big one, with lots of blinking lights. I don't know how, I didn't see how you did it."
"Did I build it here, in 221B?"
"No, you rented a storage room."
Sherlock pondered this for a while:"I don't think that's how I'd actually do it."
"No?"
"No. I'd do it right here, in 221C."
"Well," John quipped while he poured hot water into the mugs, "good luck with that."
"But I'm not actually going to build one," Sherlock said. "I wouldn't even know how to begin." He yawned. "Should we get some take-out tonight?"
Could it be that Sherlock Holmes was actually tired? John hardly dared to believe his luck.
"Sure," he said, handing Sherlock his tea, "and maybe some wine."
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The End
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Thank you for reading, I'd appreciate some feedback!
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