I heard you guys loud and clear so I'm here with chapter two. I have recently seen TEH so I am reworking later chapters to fit with what was presented, and school has started back up so it may be awhile (a week or so) before the next chapter is available. I feel I should also explain that children around Sherlock's age tend to omit or substitute syllables in words which you may see below. I'll stop rambling now. Here is chapter two.

Despite what the consulting detective might imply Captain John Hamish Watson was a man of science. Like most doctors he lived by the idea that if hoof beats are heard in Hyde Park one should think horses not zebras, the most logical answer is usually the correct one. Sitting on the floor of 221B holding what seemed to be a miniature version of his flat mate however, Doctor Watson began to consider how useful this metaphor really was for his life. On one hand he found himself relieved, overjoyed in fact. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend was alive, he could almost cry with happiness. And yet, this situation did not make any semblance of sense. There is no way, absolutely no way that a full grown man could be reduced to the image of himself at the age of, what? Three years. He could almost hear the deep baritone scoff in his head. No, matter cannot be created or destroyed; Sherlock could not have shrunk no matter what seemed to be clinging to his chest. John had nearly convinced himself that this was in fact a crazy dream when he registered the smallest of movements from the figure occupying his lap.

"Sherlock?" The doctor's voice felt rusty from disuse and emotion. Joy and fear were fighting for the stage the sadness had just recently vacated, "Sherlock," He whispered again, "hey did you fall asleep?"

John mentally kicked himself the moment the words left his lips. This was a ridiculous insane situation, and he was asking his flat mate if he had fallen asleep. Really?! Although given the circumstances he supposed he could forgive himself for not knowing where to start.

"No," came the t-shirt muffled response not in the familiar rumble, but a child's lighter pitched croak indicative of crying and sleep. It made sense really, considering how much smaller this body was, of course Sherlock's vocal chords would be shorter, causing his voice to be a much higher. Despite himself John felt a smile pull at his lips. The blatant lie about something as simple as a necessity like sleeping was just so very Sherlock, he welcomed the normalcy despite how distorted. The blonde closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, and let out a breath he did not realize he was holding. Sherlock was alive. Everything was okay, weird, but okay. Unfortunately this feeling did not last long.

The army doctor's arms (which were still wrapped around the small being) were very quickly disengaged. Before John could process this happening the sound of small hurried footsteps heading towards the flat door pulled him out of his short lived emotional respite.

"Sherlock?" John scrambled to his feet just in time to see the tail of a gray t-shirt slide around the doorframe. "Sherlock!"

The doctor had chased the consulting detective all throughout London and was used to keeping a break neck pace to stay close to the longer legged man, however the brunette's current state seemed to slow his momentum to a great degree. As it was John caught up to Sherlock frozen three steps from the bottom of the stairs, gawking at the mangled corpse a meter before him. Initially John had expected the detective to begin his usual investigation; moving to and fro around the body picking up every minute piece of information about the man his carcass could provide. This is not what happened. John stooped down (strange, usually he had to look up) to spy a glance at the pale face. To his shock it was displaying an emotion the doctor had never witnessed on his calculating friend: fear. Pure, unbridled fear.

"Sherlock, hey it's okay. He can't hurt you now." John soothed in his most practiced doctor voice, the one he used to comfort on the battle field, and consul frightened children at the surgery. When he received no retort about how obvious he was being the doctor reached out his hand and genteelly placed it on his flat mate's shoulder. This he soon learned was a mistake.

"Don't touch me!" The voice shrieked as the small body pinned itself to the railings of the stairs.

"Sherlo-," the doctor began, but suddenly stopped when he saw the wide gray eyes fixed on him, fear visible in the breath that shook his chest.

"HELP! Someone help me please! Help!"

"Sherlock, listen you're safe, I promise you're…" the doctor stopped his plea when his pint sized friend tried to flee only to be stopped by the now cool blood loch.

"Help!" The frantic prayer fell into hysterics as the boy melted into a pile of fear and tears as he clung to the bottom rung of the stairwell. Unable to go forward because of the death before him, and the path back to the flat blocked by a very confused doctor he seemed to try to make himself smaller as though doing this would allow him to disappear.

The army doctor too deflated as the uncertainty hit him. His flat mate was suffering from severe distress he knew he had to help him, but he did not know how. Unable to come up with any other course of action Watson leaned over to pick up the blubbering mass at his feet.

"No!" came a raw shriek as small hands tightened around the wooden rung. As gently as he could John reached down and carefully unwrapped the tiny appendages, once this task was complete he stood up with the light load wrapped in his arms. He had prepared to be bombarded by little hands and feet as he made his way back up to the flat, but it seemed the hysterical fit led to an inability to fight back even as the mantras of no and please continued. John was entirely grateful that Mrs. Hudson had chosen this week to visit her sister.

Once back in the flat John made quick work of the lock and chain. The mass in his arms had seemed to settle down considerably so he was taken by surprise when he felt teeth bury themselves in his right bicep. Base reaction caused him to drop the bundle as years in the army allowed a slew of colorful words to leave his mouth, by the time the doctor had control of himself again Sherlock had pulled himself into the small space between the wall and couch. Unsure of what to do and as he had given into his two other instincts sets already John begrudgingly walked into the kitchen to clean his freshly acquired wound. While waiting for the water to get hot so he could sterilize the bite Watson's eyes glanced over to the calendar. It was a Thursday; made sense he had never quite gotten the hang of Thursdays. John's mind would have continued wandering down this path, but it was interrupted by a small sound in the living room.

"Pardon?" The doctor intoned as he rolled up his sleeve. The bite was bleeding, but was not too deep. The blonde was relieved to see it would not need stiches.

"I said," began the small frightened voice, "'when are you gonna kill me?'"

"What?!" the injury was forgotten as John whipped around. While the room was still absent of one albeit short detective, the sound of sniveling was still present. Making his way to the being's last known location John got down on his haunches to peer into the small space. It was dark, too dark to see anything occupying the space, but the soft shuffling confirmed the doctor's thoughts. "I'm… I'm not going to hurt you Sherlock."

"Don't lie to me," the disembodied voice mumbled, "There's a dead man down stairs. He was pushed, and has been down there for a long time. You worked together… didn't you?"

Silence once more filled the flat. It permeated the small space as John tried to comprehend what was being said to him. "Sherlock," he started sounding calmer than he thought possible "I've never met that man, and I would never hurt you. I promise."

"I'm not stupid," the statement was meant to be full of venom, but failed, "I… I saw the skull on your mental with the knife next to it. Is that what you'll use? That knife?"

John did not know how to respond to that. He really did not know how to deal with any of this. Sherlock was acting like they had never met before, like he had never seen his skull, like he was a… John's mouth suddenly became dry, "Sherlock, what's the last thing you remember?"

This time the anger was present in the high voice, "I went to bed last night in MY ROOM, and now I'm here. Its ob'ious that you took me, and you're gonna kill me," he voice broke with tears "stop talkin' and just do it already!"

As the sound of desperate balling filled the air John tried to breathe and found it extremely difficult. His best friend was a child, a child who did not recognize him. He would not let himself think this was worse than watching Sherlock die, than Sherlock being dead, but it was difficult. The Sherlock he knew was gone, and now he was a petrifying kidnapper/killer in the eyes of his terrible, wonderful flat mate. Tears began to fill John's eyes as the prospect of a life without Sherlock filled his mind. No more giggling at crime scenes, fights about the milk (why did he leave this morning? If he had stayed…), odd experiments in the kitchen, violin playing at all hours of the night, no more amazing deductions… John's brain skidded to a halt at that thought, there was a chance, "Sherlock, Sherlock listen to me please," he pleaded, "Listen Sherlock you are amazing, actually you're brilliant, and you can know everything about a person just by looking at them." The tears had calmed down considerably; John prayed that meant the child was listening to him as he continued on, "Sherlock I need you to do that now. Look at me and tell me what you see. Sherlock please, please."

Sniffling could still be heard from the shadow, but it did not sound nearly as hopeless as before. "I… I'm not very good yet," the shaky voice started, "Mycoff just started teachin' me…"

"It's okay Sherlock, it's okay please just try, please." John knew he was betting on a wild card. This Sherlock, had already made some faulty deductions about the situation, but he was banking on the fact that Sherlock may be able to read people better than circumstances. He realized it was a long shot, but it was also his last chance to get any kind of trust from the child.

A breath was drawn in the darkness and John felt his heart jump in anticipation for whatever the results would be. "You… you were in the army, your hair is short, and most people don't keep it that short."

"Good that's good Sherlock." John coaxed the nervous sounding deductions, so different than what he was used to hearing "Yes, I was in the army."

"Where you were, it was hot. Your hands and neck are both dark, but it is from a long time ago. The tan faded but the dark skin is perm'nent."

"Brilliant Sherlock! What else?"

"I… I don't know," the voice became quiet, unsure.

John's heart fell. For a child what Sherlock had done was amazing, but being in the army was no reason for the boy to trust him. He was unsure what he had expected, and had started to get up when a tiny arm shot out of the shadow. "Wait!"

John settled back down and paused while the hand retracted.

"You're sad."

"Yes," John admitted "I am."

More silence, the doctor's ears seemed to strain for an eternity before the voice came again, "John?" It breathed.

A shuffling sound came from the depths of the shadow until a brown head of curls was visible. Stopping at the entrance of his fortress the child sat back still safely out of reach of the doctor. John gasped as he suddenly took in the face before him; the angular cheek bones were now covered in a layer of fat giving the once thin face a rounded shape and somehow the detective's eyes seemed to have become larger. What broke the doctor's heart though was the puffy redness around the eyes, the tear stains dawning the cheeks, and the visible snot under his nose. But before where John had seen fear in the gray eyes the child looked at him now with confusion and what may have been hope.

John gasped "Yes. Yes that's right Sherlock. It's me. It's John." Tears stung at the corners of his eyes. The doctor in him could not help but think both men were going to be severely dehydrated if things continued this way, but his slowly raising hope made it hard to care. "How," he whispered "did you deduce that?"

The child's head cocked slightly to the left as John suddenly felt the familiar sensation of being picked apart. He had not realized how much he missed it until that moment.

"I… I didn't."

John stared back at the child trying (and failing) to mirror his activity. What did he mean he didn't deduce him? "What do you me…?" The question died on his lips as the child emerged completely from his oasis of darkness and dust bunnies. John froze as the child approached him, eyes locked onto his visage. "What are you…?" Once again the question expired in the doctor's throat as a pale hand reached toward his face. Inhaling sharply the child seemed to steel his courage as he closed the remaining distance and placed his hand on the blonde's cheek, gray eyes searched blue under drawn eyebrows.

"John," the child whispered, "you're John." The next thing the doctor knew small arms had encircled his neck. John quickly reciprocated.

Thank you for reading; review if you feel obliged.

Have a wonderful day and a fabulous tomorrow!

Nikola