221b Baker Street was a nice place. Though, John didn't see much of it, being toted around in a dark (and not terribly clean) pocket. He didn't even know that that's where they were. Sherlock hadn't really told him anything. Not about where he was taking him or what his plans were once they got there. This worried John, but not as much as he would have thought. Mostly he felt exhilarated. He had been living a life of solitude and boredom for so long now, he had forgotten what it was like to take a risk. To actually have an adventure. He had forgotten how much he missed it.
Sherlock jogged up the front steps and opened the door. Once inside, he was greeted by Mrs. Hudson, the landlady.
"Oh! Sherlock, won't you be a dear and-"
"Can't," he cut her off briskly (and rather rudely in John's opinion), "Got a case to work."
And with that he took off up the stairs to the flat. He quickly unlocked the door and slipped inside. Now in the safety of his own living space, Sherlock could relax. He hung up his scarf and then carefully pulled off his coat. As he did so, in the back of his mind, there was a little nagging doubt, though perhaps it was more like a fear. Just a small but painful thought that maybe there was nothing there. That he would look, and the pocket would be empty.
As Sherlock moved up the stairs, John felt like he was going to be rattled into pieces. It was quite the rough ride. He heard keys jangle and then a door open. It was getting very stuffy in the confines of the pocket. John wondered briefly if Sherlock had forgotten him as he felt him begin to take his coat off with John still inside it. But suddenly enormous fingers were bearing down on him. His instincts kicked in and he tried to avoid them, but there was no room. They gently lifted him out of his dank prison and deposited him on a hard surface. The speed at which this happened left John feeling dizzy and a little woozy. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the sudden light. When he recovered he found himself standing on a table in the middle of some flat.
"Where are we?" He croaked. Sherlock was busying himself with something or other and didn't seem to hear him. So, he cleared his throat and tried again, "Where are we?"
Sherlock answered without looking up from whatever he was doing, "Baker Street. 221b. This is where I live. And you-"
He disappeared into another room, leaving his sentence unfinished. John shrugged, not sure what to make of his strange behavior. Taking another look around the place, he noticed just how messy it was. There seemed to be unusual items scattered everywhere, and what appeared to unfinished experiments lying around. He smiled as memories from twenty years ago came to mind. The Holmes boy always had many strange experiments cluttering up his room. He had been an unusually smart kid.
John's daydreaming was suddenly interrupted by Sherlock's return. He came in carrying something. Setting it on the table in front of John, he finished his sentence.
"-are my new flatmate."
John stared, slack-jawed from surprise. On the table before him, was a dollhouse.
Well, technically it was a dollhouse, but it didn't look anything like your average pink and frilly little girl's play thing. It looked like an apartment building to John, one a bit rough around the edges. The attention to detail was amazing.
"Why don't you take a look?" Sherlock smiled, obviously amused at John's reaction.
John didn't reply. He did, however, approach the structure. As he drew closer, a strange feeling crept over him. Pausing, John hesitated at the door.
"I don't understand." He stated frankly.
Sherlock shrugged, "I thought you might be more comfortable staying in a place that was more your... Size."
"No, I meant, what is this? Why do you have it?"
"Ah..." Sherlock seemed hesitant to explain, "do you mind if I work while I talk? It helps me focus." He gestured to pile of scientific equipment on the counter. John wondered what he could possibly want with all that but he nodded anyway. Sherlock immediately turned around and dove into the mess, pulling out the things he needed before beginning.
"After you left, I became a bit obsessed. I decided I wanted to build miniature houses. So I did. It was a sort of emotion release I suppose. My parents were confused, I never told them the reason for my sudden passion, but they supported me. I grew quite good at it after a few years. But after a while, I got over it. I built things on and off in my spare time as a teenager, but mostly I had better things to do. When I moved here, though," he turned from his work just long enough to sweep his arm back, indicating the area they were in. "I decided to pick it up again and made that. It's an exact replica of this building."
John gazed up at the structure again with renewed amazement.
"You should take a look inside. I'm going to be a while here." Sherlock was closely examining a slide on a microscope and seemed to be fully absorbed in his work.
Taking a deep breath, John decided that it wouldn't hurt to at least go inside. He pushed the door open only to be confronted by a flight of stairs. The ones he had felt Sherlock go up on his way here. That was a weird thought. John hurried up them, opening the next door quickly. What he saw inside blew him away. Everything was exactly like it was on the outside, only much much smaller and not nearly as messy. There was the kitchen with the table Sherlock had set him on. The counter where the Bean was working at that very moment. In the sitting room, there was a fireplace, a couch, and a couple of chairs. John hadn't gotten a very clear view of the rest of the larger flat, but he was sure now of what it looked like. There was another door that John assumed went into a bedroom, but he let that be for the moment.
It was just so strange, seeing all these things that should be massive to him so small. Ever since he could remember, John had been constantly reminded of how insignificant he was by the things around him. Even when he was home or with other borrowers, they never had anything like this. It was a borrowing rule never to take items that belonged to a dollhouse. Now John was beginning to see that there was more than one reason for this.
A piercing grey eye suddenly appeared in the window, snapping him out of his thoughts. It was Sherlock. John walked over to the glass and looked out. The Bean was bouncing on his heels in excitement and motioning for John to open the window. So he did and leaned out, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.
"I've just made a discovery, John. I have to leave now, but I shouldn't be gone long. I'll leave this phone on the table. Can you use a smartphone?"
"Yeah, actually, I can."
"Brilliant. Wait, how do you know- never mind, tell me later. I have to leave. My number's in the phone if anything happens." Sherlock was about to take off then but John stopped him.
"Wait! Why can't I just come with you?" Though he didn't want to admit it, John did not like the idea of spending too much time alone here.
"You're a valuable witness to a crime, John. I can't risk anything happening to you." Sherlock said this as he shrugged his coat on. A few more seconds and he would be out the door.
"It's not like I can testify! Have you forgotten that I am only three inches tall and part of a secret race that nobody should know about?" John protested.
"No, John. Believe me I have not forgotten anything. But you're staying here. I'll be back before you know it." And with that he was gone.
John let out a frustrated sigh and slumped into an armchair. It seemed all there was to do now was wait.