Of Tea and Acid

...

Several hours since Mycroft had phoned, and Sherlock was still sulking. And the term, as it turned out, was actually very apt. Despite still being in his now oversized clothes that hung loosely from his much smaller body, John had found him pacing - or attempting to - after making tea. At first he'd panicked, not seeing him in the room, until he realised that he'd been looking for Sherlock at the wrong height.

As soon as their eyes met, he was greeted with a miniaturised yet fully functional Sherlock Glare. John sighed and put the tea down on the table.

Sherlock stubbornly kept up with his pacing, pointedly ignoring every little trip, every little snag as he caught himself yet again, or the many times he nearly lost his balance.

John himself tried not to make it obvious he was watching. Lord knew it had to be hard enough on Sherlock's pride already, without him coming to the conclusion that his flatmate suddenly thought he needed to be looked after the way his brother apparently thought he did.

All of a sudden Sherlock froze, looking rather comical as he did so, staring in the direction of the door, and John understood seconds later when he could hear the sound of footsteps. Thankfully, familiar ones, as the minute relief expressed, although apprehension was still there.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to find her two tenants staring at her with strange looks on their faces. Predictably, though, she noticed John first.

"I didn't know Sherlock had a younger brother," she said, confused.

Sherlock cleared his throat loudly and pointedly.

"I don't," he said.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the 'boy' in disbelief, Sherlock defiant and determined not to be thought the less of for his lack of height. In the end, she shook her head as though it was just another of his experiments, like the severed head in the fridge.

"That would explain why that woman who stopped outside gave me this for you, then."

She carried through a large-ish cardboard box, the sight of which John was amused to see caused a faint blush on Sherlock's face. Regardless, he opened it with the air of one already knowing what was going to be inside and half dreading the contents. When the flaps of the box opened up, John was surprised to find that it was only clothes - all neatly folded up, perfectly arrayed and clean as though they'd never been worn, with the exception of a few permanent stains and the tell-tale sign of a sewn-up tear.

A folded letter lay on top of the entire lot, which Sherlock moodily snatched away before either of the others could so much as catch a glimpse of what it said.

Sherlock, you and I both know that you can hardly go out dressed as you are, and that none of the things you have on hand will fit given the current situation. I took the liberty of sending over a box full of your old things, which should fit given the age you seem to have been sent back to.

Do try not to make such a fuss of putting on your clothes as you did the last time I gave you any. It would not do to have you acting your 'age', now would it?

MH.

PS. Mummy isn't pleased.

...

AN: HAD to do that. And the reference to SiB was something that just came to me as I was writing it. Mrs. Hudson puts up with everything. And the last line says it all. XD