Hello! Dear Readers we are back... I am afraid this chapter is rather short, and this is the actual chapter three. So forgive my previous mistakes (I don't want to edit it because is so complicated.) Hope you enjoy all the same!
This is unbeta-ed, so any translation mistakes belong to me. Please point them out so I can improve. (: -Ria
Warning: Language isn't exactly the polite way I would like it to be.
Chapter 3 If Anyone Says About Not Wanting Me Back In Normal Size Again I Would Use His Pocket As My Lavatory
A/N: This chapter is for the translator Maria, who is my motivation.
Translator's Note: I am Maria, and dear fellow readers I acted on your behalf and bullied this chapter out of Chris...
"Sherlock." Mycroft ignored the clear sign of disgust on his brother's face and pushed opened the door. Strolling in, he stood casually by the door, supported on his black umbrella.
"Once and once again I hear that poor umbrella grumbling about your weight." Sherlock looked sideways.
"Umbrellas don't talk. And you're well aware of that."
"Umbrellas can talk when their mission is to mock you." Sherlock curled up in his bed like a child, "I want to sleep."
"Sleep is the single most detested activity in your world." Mycroft shrugged, pulling out the shirt under John (leaving John flying and crushing to the trousers beneath) and threw it to Sherlock.
"Sleep can be liked when it's an element in the battle against you." Sherlock pulled the duvet up to cover his face.
"Murder. Rather nauseating way. Brains residue on the scene."
John saw a tiny movement in Sherlock's back.
"Murders and brains are stuffs of your liking, Sherlock." Mycroft continued after a glance at the time, "The man is currently lying on the paved ground of an alley. Lestrade informed that the body will be collected by Anderson in ten minutes."
John saw more movement in Sherlock's back.
"Lestrade is asking for your favour. He's too busy, and I know you want to go." Mycroft pulled out the trousers under John (this time leaving him falling down on the pillow underneath with a plump before he could react) and threw it to Sherlock.
"John. Let's go. Have a look at the spilt brains before the idiot Anderson turns up. Mycroft- I take this offer for the brains, not you." Sherlocked dived off his bed, plucking up John (who's not even straightened up from his last fall yet and looked extremely dishevelled), snatching the shirt and trousers with the other hand, and walked right past Mycroft out of the room.
The chirping of birds in winter, the chilly yet firm stone walls of London alleys, warm aroma of bread from bakeries at the street corners, flimsy fog moisting his hair, the safety he felt travelling on Sherlock's shoulders...
John thought everything would be alright.
-At least that was the case before the cadaver was in sight.
-To give the body a proper inspection, Sherlock dumped John on the nearby ground as he crouched down to see the scattered brains.
When John recovered from the dizziness of zero-gravity, he turned around and then, only about a feet before him, was a immense cracked head. And then he realised - all he could see now was the exposed and spilt brains.
-F***, I should've known he wouldn't even remember me when he sees the brains!
TBC.
Sorry this is so short... Do you guys still want to read this story? Please R & R! Thank you!