This is by far the best dialouge I have ever written. Just wait, you'll see.


The short, frustration-worn face of Detective Inspector Lestrade was nearly as gray and grim as the weather, and he looked irked at the notion of spending anytime at all standing on the doorstop of 221b, much less the minute it took to answer the door.

"Are these yours?" He asked holding up a plastic evidence bag stuffed with a black long-sleeve shirt and a pair of dark blue jeans that John instantly recognized as one of his missing pairs. He also noticed his missing pair of boxers and made a conscious effort to arrest the urge to blush. His collar felt hot.

"Look, I can't be bothered with the comings-and-goings of your own cases," Lestrade said looking over his shoulder at the parked squad car where an impatient Sgt. Donovan was flipping through a case file furiously. "But this is the second time your clothes have been found at the scene of a break in at a lab. Now tell me: what is going on?"

John felt as though his mouth was filled with cotton and he tenderly grasped the package of his clothes, as though they would turn to dust if he gripped too tightly. He was at a total loss for either words or ideas.

Luckily Sherlock was a master at improvisation. He nudged John out of the way and confronted the Detective Inspector with a cheery smile and tone.

"It's simple Detective Inspector," He said much too loudly, flashing his white teeth. "John and I are becoming nudists. Have a nice day." And with that he shut the door curtly.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed in horror, stifling the urge to burst into exasperated laughter.

"What? Now he won't ask questions." Sherlock said with a shrug.

"Or ever talk to us again!" John shouted in a whisper. "What were you thinking?"

"Well I had to say something." Sherlock said urbanely.

John tucked his package beneath his arm and followed his flat mate upstairs, nerves tugging on the edges of a complete meltdown. He breathed deeply through his nose and whistled through his mouth, chanting "Don't Panic" like a Zen meditation.

Sherlock pointed John to his chair and he took it, feeling happy to be within the familiar confines of its leathery folds. Sherlock took his chair, sitting in it cross legged and stroking his fists.

"Last night." Sherlock started abruptly, "You were turned into a toddler sometime between when I left you to keep watch over the hallway and when I returned about twenty minutes later. Moriarty picked you up shortly before I arrived, and I gave chase forcing him to drop a toddler. Not you. Moran, presumably."

John stared at Sherlock, the irony of his dialogue harassing his already-startled mind like a cat hanging over a bird's cage. What were the odds that, just as he had taken Moriarty home upon his transformation, Moriarty had accidentally taken him. Was it more than just coincidence?

"I kept Moran as ballast and offered Moriarty a trade which his gratuitously accepted." Sherlock continued blankly.

"But then what happened to your head?"

"I'm getting there." Sherlock growled rolling his shoulders nervously.

"Moriarty left you downstairs, and before he left with Moran I went to collect you... and Baker Street had a visitor." Sherlock paused.

John found himself at the edge of his seat. Sherlock always delivered a narrative as one might write a police report: blandly and without dramatic embellishments. John was supposed to be the fancy storyteller with his blog, as he had been so often reminded. Sherlock never paused for effect. There must have been another reason.

"The real Dr. Genil visited to state that our services were no longer required."

"He attacked you?" John pressed.

Sherlock traced the ridge of his bruise tentatively. "Yes. With intent to kill. I confronted him with the information I had gathered thus far about his relation to Willa Erdrich, and he confirmed my theories most emphatically."

"What happened then?"

"Nothing."

John stared at Sherlock in muted disbelief. Sherlock sighed and clarified.

"Genil escaped after I was knocked unconscious and Moriarty left the flat with Moran. Later that night I received a text stating that Moran had been re-masculinized and I…fell asleep."

John nodded.

"What happened to the kitchen then?" he asked.

Sherlock grimaced, wincing at the memory, willing himself not to turn around and look.

"I hate children John." He stated with a cold passion. "I hate them."

"Right…" John said, not entirely understanding. Then again, what else was new?

Sherlock sat hunched on his chair, boring into John with his icy eyes. John realized with a cold sting of regret that he was waiting for John's untold half of the story, which he related in short.

"Unbelievable." Sherlock finally mused, hands steepled over his knees.

"That's what I was worried about." John said. "I still have your shredded baby clothes if you need proof?"

Sherlock batted away the suggestion with a sweep of his hand.

"It sounds like a work of fiction." He said into his hands. "Like we're some poor passing for a Jekyll-Hyde potion tale."

"But it's real." John said. "I just keep telling myself that it's real and that keeps me going. Keeps me from feeling…"

"Crazy." Sherlock finished his sentence.

"No," John said "I still feel crazy, but at least I'm not wrong."

Sherlock grinned into his knees. "You're only crazy if you're wrong."