I woke up in the morning feeling stifled and hot. Raising my head a bit, I saw that not only was the handkerchief resting upon me, but so was Sherlock's hand. Pushing on his closest finger I attempted to move out from under it, but my motion only caused him to hold onto me more. "Sherlock," I complained quietly to myself, "must you always put me in these situations?"
Eventually, despite his involuntary actions working against me, I managed to free myself from the grip of his long fingers. I sat up higher on the pillow, catching my breath and looking down at Sherlock's hand, which was now curled around my blanket. With a sigh of resignation I stood up and scrambled my way off of the pillow towards Sherlock's side of the bed.
He had turned in his sleep and, lying on his side, his face was now turned in my direction. I sat on the bed, leaning on the pillow behind me, and settled in to wait until he woke up. I wasn't particularly hungry, so I saw no need to disturb his sleep. I found it interesting that his features seemed softened in sleep, not quite so angular or sharp. Even his lips held the smallest trace of a smile. Looking at him this way, it was rather hard to feel angry with him for the result of his innocent curiosity. After all, he hadn't meant to inconvenience me. It just sort of… happened.
After waiting for a while, I had begun to doze again. Suddenly, his entire form shifted, and with a content little humming noise he opened his eyes. Spotting me sitting there he smiled, and said, "Good morning, Watson. Sleep well?"
"I suppose," I replied lightly. He turned over, drawing back the hand that had lain on top of me. The handkerchief was still clutched in it, and he looked at it for a beat before discarding it on the night table. With a large yawn he sat up, creating quite a lot of motion on the bed and almost causing me to fall over. Swinging his legs over he got out of bed, and I scrambled to the edge of it in order to talk to him better. "Sherlock…" I said hesitantly, as he stretched his long arms into the air. "Are you sure I should come with you today?"
He looked at me in surprise. "Of course, Watson. I have already mentioned I may need you."
"Yes, but, don't you think it rather dangerous for someone of my… condition?" I shuddered to think of what trouble I could find myself in out there. I found quite enough trouble already when I was normal sized, and I couldn't bring myself to consider the dangers that awaited me now.
Sherlock chuckled, though I didn't see anything humorous in my concerns. "Really, Watson, you've never been one to balk from danger. And besides, I'll be with you. What could go wrong?"
"Quite a lot," I mumbled under my breath, too quietly for him to hear. However, the look he gave me suggested that he got the gist regardless. "Alright, alright," I said, putting my hands up, "I know when I've lost a battle." He put down his hand, palm up, next to me. Though it still felt strange, I climbed onto it and sat cross-legged without saying a word. Sherlock picked me up and walked out of the room, headed towards the kitchen. I held onto his index finger along the way; I had confidence that he wouldn't drop me, though that confidence would cease if his mind wandered too much or he began a mental debate with himself over some matter. Better to be safe than sorry, I figured.
After breakfast Sherlock announced, "Well, I'm going to wash up before we depart for Miss Struthers' residence. Would you like to do the same?"
I sighed, leaning back on the jam pot as I pondered his question. "Yes, that sounds wonderful, but I'm not entirely sure how it could be achieved. After all, the bath is a bit large for me at the moment." I wondered how long it would take me to stop adding words like 'current' or 'at the moment'. Would I, someday, get used to my situation. It seemed likely, though I surely hoped not; if I didn't drive Sherlock to find an antidote, who would?
Sherlock smiled at me and said, "Watson, such problems are miniscule, even for you!" I scowled at the not entirely subtle reference to my height; his teasing was hard to swallow when I had no chance of returning it. "We'll simply fill the sink for you," he continued. I had to admit, it sounded like a good idea, and soon Sherlock had spirited me off to the bathroom.
Plugging the drain he began filling the sink with hot water, the steam rising up from it sending shivers down my back. "Here's a towel for you," said Sherlock, setting a folded cotton handkerchief by the side of the basin, "and a fresh change of clothes. I'll come and get you in a quarter hour?"
"Yes, that should be plenty of time," I assured him, attempting a smile. He smiled innocently in return and stopped the rush of water, leaving me to myself and closing the bathroom door behind him.
Sighing with a mix of irritation and relief, I slipped out of my clothes and into the warm water. At my size, the sink seemed even larger than the bathtub used to: about the size of a small community pool, if I were to compare it. Needless to say the bath was relaxing, and I was able to forget some of my concerns for a short time. When I got out I dried off and put on one of the outfits Sherlock had purchased the previous day. To my surprise they fit rather well, and I was able to feel refreshed and normal for the first time since Sherlock started this experiment.
When Sherlock returned I was standing on the edge of the sink, attempting to comb my hair the right way with my fingers. "I gather that worked out suitably?" he said, picking me up with one hand.
"Yes, it was fine," I said, still looking down at the floor apprehensively. "As soon as my hair dries I'll be as good as new." We had been walking towards the living room, but when I said that he stopped.
"Here, I'll dry it for you," he said, blowing my hair out of my face with a gentle breath. Once my hair was drier he continued walking, as if nothing unusual had happened.
I blinked dumbly, trying to gauge how normal that action was given our abnormal circumstances. "Er, thanks," I said hesitantly, unsure of how to react. What was it about this man that kept me in a perpetual state of surprise? He set me down on the living room floor once we got there, leaving me to my thoughts so that he could go take a bath himself. I absentmindedly pulled at the fibers of the carpet, trying for the millionth time to wrap my head around things. The world just didn't work this way, as far as I knew, yet here I was standing no more than five inches tall on our living room floor. It seemed it would take me a while to get accustomed to life like this.
When Sherlock returned from washing up he picked me up off of the floor, and placed me in the breast pocket of his coat. "Why am I in here?" I asked, trying to find a foothold on the fabric. "Couldn't you just carry me?"
Sherlock smiled, opening the door to the hallway of out apartment building. "I could, though I didn't think you would want me to. After all, that would attract a rather lot of attention to you, wouldn't it?"
He was right, of course, and I didn't bother replying. As he locked the door behind us I sat down inside the pocket, making myself comfortable. Without warning Sherlock dropped the door key into my pocket, and I yelped as it nearly hit me in the head. He chuckled, filling me with vibrations from his chest. "Sorry Watson," he apologized. "Force of habit." I glared up in his direction and crossed my arms, still trying to keep my balance as he walked.
He strode out onto the street and hailed a taxi. The cart drove up and he opened the door and hopped in, giving the driver directions to Miss Struthers' residence. My interest piqued by the familiar motion and noise of the bustling streets, I poked my head out of his picket and tried unsuccessfully to look out the window. Soon enough, however, Sherlock pushed me back down with his finger.
"Be careful, Watson," he cautioned me with an amused whisper. "If you don't want to be seen, don't make yourself visible." I grumbled a bit, too quiet for him to hear, and sunk back into the pocket. I would have expected this state to be more exciting.
By the time we left the city and arrived at the edge, the buildings had become more scattered and distant, with the gaps filled by large yards and trees. The pocket had become comfortably warm, and it being a long drive I was on the verge of sleep yet again. Sherlock paid the driver and disembarked, looking at the house in silence. I chanced a peek; the house was rather large, with the appearance of a manor but not all of the size. Still, rather large for a single woman living alone.
I saw Miss Struthers come out and approach us, so I quickly ducked back down. "Mr. Holmes!" she said, her voice sounding relieved. "I'm so glad you could make it. Please, come in." Sherlock followed her into the house; instead of going through the front door we went in the side, and found ourselves in the kitchen.
"This is where I saw him," she said, sounding nervous. If I could chance a guess I would imagine she was ringing her hands. "I've put everything back in order again, but please feel free to look around. The entire house is open to your observation." She paused expectantly, and true to character Sherlock did not waste time in replying.
"Yes, I expect to find something of interest in this room," the detective said. "However, may I ask to be left alone for a while? I think better without distractions." Partially a lie, but I appreciated his thought.
"Of course," Miss Struthers immediately responded. "Please, just let me know if you need anything. I will be in the sitting room." After a few more pleasantries she left, and Sherlock and I were alone once again.
Before I could stand up myself Sherlock reached in and picked me up, my eyes blinking madly in the natural sunlight coming through the kitchen windows. "So, what are we looking for?" I asked, gazing around the quaint kitchen.
"What Mr. Thomas Jameson could not find," Sherlock replied, pacing around the edges of the room like a hound trying to find a scent.
I furrowed my brow in confusion, not following this particular thread of logic. "How do you know he didn't find it?" I asked.
Sherlock smiled and I sighed, readying myself to feel ridiculously stupid once again. "Watson, what is the probability that the thing you want to find is the last place you look?"
"Maybe one in an hundred?" I said, thinking through this and beginning to see what he was getting at.
"Exactly. Jameson left the place a mess, cupboard doors opened, things moved, thrown to the floor; and when Miss Struthers came down he had to flee. Obviously she caught him before he found whatever it was that he was looking for, as he was still tearing things up." That made sense, and I looked at the kitchen with new eyes, wondering what sort of things we might find in the room.
"Let's get started, shall we?" the detective said, and placing me on his shoulder he began opening the cupboard and pantry doors, looking for anything out of place. I held onto his collar as we moved, not seeing anything unusual in any door we opened. But something must have caught Sherlock's eye, as he paused and began removing items from one of the cupboards. "Aha!" he exclaimed, looking at the back of the cavity with delight.
"What is it?" I asked, straining my eyes to see inside the dim space. "It just looks like a cupboard to me."
"I'll show you presently, Watson, but I will need both hands," he said, and lifted his hand to his shoulder. Getting the idea I carefully sat down on his shoulder, clutching a few strands of hair for support. Sherlock reached towards the back of the cabinet, saying, "This particular cupboard ends further forward than the rest. I have a feeling that if we look to the edges…" His fingernails caught at one of the corners and he smiled triumphantly. "…we will find a secret door!" With some exertion he pulled out the back panel, revealing a small safe embedded in the wall behind it. There was a small keyhole at the right side, but other than that there were no openings to speak of.
"We don't have the key," I said in disappointment. "How shall we know what's inside?"
Sherlock chuckled, and replied, "Watson, did you not believe me when I said you would be helpful?" He plucked me off of his shoulder and set me down inside the cupboard. "Your hands are small enough to fit inside the keyhole, it should be an easy matter to unlock the latch." The detective smiled expectantly at me, and it was with wonder that I looked from my newly sized hands to the keyhole.
I sighed, but inwardly I was pleased to be of use. "All right, I suppose I could give it a try," I said. I walked over to the keyhole and peered inside. It was too dark to see much of anything, so I hesitantly reached a hand into the crevice. Feeling around, I found the latch and tried to turn it; this required the strength of both of my hands, but eventually I heard a satisfying 'click' and the hidden door sprung open in front of me.
"Brilliant, Watson!" Sherlock praised me, and reaching around me with a hand pulled open the door. Inside was a small leather-bound notebook, worn around the edges and yellowed with age. Other than that, the space was empty.
Sherlock took out the journal and, with his free hand, picked me up as well. Setting both on the kitchen table, he sat down and looked at the journal with a curious expression. "What do you think it is?" I asked him, running a hand over the rough leather exterior.
My roommate smiled, and replied, "What Thomas Jameson came so far to find."