#borrower!john

All in all, his life at 221b Bakerstreet had been a good one. At least, by most people’s definition of good. 

Mrs Hudson was one of those humans that made borrowing easy. She often had fresh baked goods out on the counter (under the minimal guard of a lightweight plastic dome), and if he was ever unlucky enough to be glimpsed, the woman would usually mutter something about herbal soothers.  In short, it was the perfect place for him to recover, and his sister had rather militantly insisted that he move in.

The problem was, he was not used to living in houses. He’d had a rather independent existence outdoors, and reviled in the danger his way of life often involved. But when he’d been attacked by a rat, barely making it out of the fight alive, his only surviving family had put her foot down. And so here he was, stagnating in a quiet London flat, where every need and comfort was just a short walk away.

It was… Unbearable.

  000

  After a long time of negotiation and doing Mrs. Hudson a favour, Sherlock eventually got the flat upstairs for half price. Which was brilliant. Now he didn't even need a flatmate, which was what he was worried about. He set to unpacking immediately, taking his box of science equipment into the kitchen and pulling out his supplies. He went to store a few chemicals in the cupboards and frowned at what looked like a hole. He shrugged, if it was a small creature, it would get into his chemicals and die, he figured. Not one to waste time packing, Sherlock headed back into the living room.

  000

  John usually only made use of the upstairs flat as a shortcut to Mrs. Hudson's pantry, walking across the large empty floor instead of trekking all the way around inside the safety of the walls. But then, there wasn't anything particularly dangerous about an empty human flat.  John was therefore rather surprised to find the cupboard he usually used to gain access to 221B's upstairs apartment... full. 

He blinked. There were what smelled like strong chemicals, and what looked like strange glass jars and containers.  Well, this was... huh.

He walked softly to the front and edged the door open. The entire flat was full! Clutter and books and new furniture were everywhere! "Wha- how... How did I sleep through all this?!" He wondered quietly to himself.

  000

  Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room at his mismatched furniture and stacks and stacks of books. "This is tolerable." He said to himself, nodding in the direction of the skull, "Just have to organize my books now.." He looked at all of them, frowning as he began to go through them and set them on the bookshelf. He noticed more holes in the walls and parts in the floorboards, figuring that it was a contributing reason to why the flat was so cheap.

  000

  John jumped back from the door, startled by the baritone voice. He tripped over his own feet in his haste, and backed into a jar of something clear and probably toxic. It rocked back and forth loudly. John grabbed hold of it, wrapping his arms around and just barely managing to settle the thing before it toppled over. His heart was pounding.  Alright, enough of this. Looked like he was taking the long way round to Mrs. Hudson's...

  000

  Sherlock swore that he heard something, he frowned and headed to the source of the noise, he opened the cabinet. "Odd.." His eyes narrowed at the disturbed jar of liquid, but no source for said disturbing. "What.." He looked at the hole, almost as if he saw something moving. "I just need to sleep." He huffed to himself, shutting the cabinet door again and retreating to his books.

  000

  It took a while, but John finally managed to get his pulse back under control. He'd managed to scramble back into the hole before the new human opened the cupboard, but it had been a very close thing. 

"Bloody humans." He gasped to himself, getting painfully to his feet. But there was a sort of comfort in knowing that the enormous beings seemed to have a mental filter which stopped them from seeing what they deemed impossible. As long as John didn't mess up again and end up in plain sight, or something equally disastrous, he should be fine.

  000

  Sherlock made a mental note to set down some fly paper in front of the holes to capture whatever was threatening to disturb his experiments. He finished with his bookcase and sat down on the sofa, looking at his new flat. He'd have to inform Lestrade of his new address, but the weight of exhaustion was slowing down his mind. Having not yet set up his bedroom, Sherlock laid along the length of the couch and closed his eyes.

  000

  It was nearly three hours later when John found himself returning from his bi-nightly pillaging of the landlady's pantry. Well, Pillaging was a rather strong word. In fact, he was loaded down with scraps and crumbs the woman had left on the counter while she ate her dinner in the next room. They would end up in the trash sooner or later, but they made a nice take away for someone of John's size. Some (relatively) fresh tomato and assorted garden greens weighed his pack heavily, along with a few chunks of Mrs. Hudson's home baked bread, and a small jug of water. In fact, the actual borrowing hadn't taken long at all, but John was a little reluctant to return to his flat, knowing he now lived in much closer proximity to a human then he ever had before.  Still, return he did. He was passing by the hole on the mantle when he finally stopped. He looked at the opening a little nervously.  Well, the human seemed pretty quiet. He'd probably followed through on his plan to get some sleep. Surely a small peek into the newly occupied flat couldn't hurt. After all, he'd need to learn something about this man if he was going to be living with him.  Gingerly, John crouched down and crawled out of the hole.

  000

  Sherlock laid fitfully on the sofa, it wasn't the most comfortable place in the world, but he couldn't be bothered to get up and fit his bed with sheets. Of course, he didn't really need sheets. This mental battle raged on in his mind until Sherlock gave up and pushed up from the couch, running a hand through his hair. The fact that there was something living in the walls also attributed to him not being able to rest completely. His mind was whirring much too fast to get any rest. Sherlock stood up and stretched, scanning his flat again, striding over to the skull. "You'd tell me if you saw anything?" He asked his skull, of course, not expecting an answer. Sherlock's eyes trailed upwards, eyes widening completely when they met the eyes of a very, very tiny man.

  000

  John had been a little startled when he'd emerged from the mantle entrance to stand eye to eye socket with what looked very much like a human skull.  It was... It was fake, right? It had to be fake. Humans didn't just display the skulls of other humans on their mantle, right? He crept a little closer, rubbing his palm against it gently.  Oh, no it was real bone. He snatched his hand back. Who on earth had moved into 221b? Some sort of psychopath? Just then, he heard the unmistakable sound of a human form rising from the sofa somewhere in the dark of the living area.

John panicked and dodged into the only cover he could think of, slightly horrified to find himself squatting inside the very skull he'd been scrutinizing. "Er, sorry mate." he whispered, a little drunk on adrenalin. He felt the shadow fall over him like a blanket. "You'd tell me if you saw anything?" John nearly choked, believing for one terrible moment that the human had been talking to him. He peeked out of the skulls eye socket, unfortunately making shocked eye contact with the tall human just seconds before realizing that of /course/ the man hadn't been talking to him.  "Oh bollocks!" he hissed.

  000

  Sherlock's mind reeled at the small man actually talking. He scrambled forward, tossing the skull aside (thankfully landing in the chair) and blocking the hole on the mantel so the small man couldn't escape. Panicking, Sherlock looking around for anything to trap the small person in, eventually settling a cup that held pencils on top of him. Sherlock stepped back, his head pounding with new information, trying to process what he had just seen. "I've finally gone mental." Sherlock reasoned, beginning to pace, "As soon as I lift the cup, no one will be there." Sherlock nodded, although he retrieved his largest empty beaker just in case. He lifted the cup and immediately knocked the small man into the large beaker, "I'm not insane." He breathed, "You're actually a small man." Sherlock gaped.

  000

  John was no stranger to being prey to larger animals. In fact, he'd managed quite well, knowing several tricks for outwitting the various cats, foxes and rats that stalked the area near his old home. But what was one supposed to do when trapped under the paw of a predator at least as intelligent as you are?  John landed heavily on his side, crying out both in surprise and pain as his bad shoulder made contact with the hard glass. He slipped and slid as the larger man raised the beaker to eye level, scrutinizing his tiny captive.  "I'm not insane." The man breathed, the glass vibrating minutely from the deep baritone of his voice. "You really are a small man."

To be completely honest, John did not know how to proceed from here. He'd had relatively little to do with humans, but even he knew the first rule of borrowing. Never be seen.  Well it was far too late to do anything about that. Was he supposed to talk to the human? Keep quiet? He figured that keeping quiet until spoken to was probably a good enough strategy for now. Not that he could have managed much conversation at the moment. Instead, he tried to gauge the expression on the face before him. It was nearly impossible, due to distortion caused by the curved glass, but he got the distinct feeling of being on the wrong end of a microscope. He swallowed thickly.

  000

  The expression that John failed to see was wonderment. Sherlock stared and stared at the blond man in the beaker, not knowing what else to do. He wished to get a closer look, but that probably wouldn't be a good idea, given that the small man looked about ready to have a heart attack, "I won't hurt you." Sherlock assured, "I'm just.." he couldn't form a proper sentence, the words kept getting mixed up in his mind and he didn't know what to say next. Thousands of questions were running through his head at the same time and he couldn't pick which one to ask first. Sherlock took a deep breath, walking carefully to the kitchen and setting the beaker down on the table with equal care. He sat down at one of the chairs and stared at the beaker for a long amount of time before speaking, "I'm Sherlock." He introduced, "Do you have a name? Can you speak? Do you speak English?" Sherlock had only meant to ask one question, but the others just sort of... slipped out.

  000

  Johns stomach lurched when the human turned, carrying him across the flat, nothing but a clear floor between him and a fall of several feet. The man had assured him that he was in no immediate danger, and though John desperately wanted to believe that was true, it did very little to lessen the terror wracking his body.  The human finally set the glass container down on the kitchen table and sat across from him. John had to keep reminding himself to breath as he and the giant shared a very long, very uncomfortable staring match. Finally the man spoke.  "I'm Sherlock." A name, okay, so he had a name now. John supposed that was good to know. The next few sentences came out in a rush.  "Do you have a name? Can you speak? Do you speak English?"  John broke eye contact. It would make things easier, now he was expected to reply.  "I uh... Y-yes... On all counts." He managed lamely.

  000

  Sherlock practically bounced in his seat at the reply, "You're astounding, oh this is amazing. Brilliant! Scientific discovery of the century." He spoke mostly to himself before returning his attention to the beaker, "I was rather hoping you'd give me your name." He said, peering over the edge. Sherlock wanted a better look at the man, but he was afraid that he would run away, which was very likely. He had so many questions to ask the blond, it would surely satisfy his curiosity for a week. Maybe even more.

  000

  Oh no. Scientific discovery. That was a bad phrase for any borrower to hear from any human. A sudden onslaught of images crossed Johns mind. Images involving cages, experiments, dissection and more. He got to his feet, backing away on instinct as the man, Sherlock, leaned over his glass prison, towering over the smaller man. His back hit the opposite wall of glass, making him feel exactly his size.  "I, I suppose t-that depends. If I tell you my name, how much time does that buy me before I can expect to be dissected?" It had been a legitimate question, but came out as a sort of hysterical, near attempt at humor.

  000

  "Dissected? I wouldn't dissect you don't be ridiculous." Sherlock huffed, resting his head on his hands, "That would completely ruin everything. Besides, you're human, I think. So that would be equivalent to murder. Which I try to actively prevent so it would be redundant." He paused, "When I said scientific discovery, I meant personally. I'm not one to boast, at least, not in the science field." He rolled his eyes, "Scientists are so dull." Sherlock watched the blond for another moment, "So, name? Also, are there more of you? Are you human? Have you always been this small?"

  000

  John almost melted with relief when Sherlock had admitted that killing John would be murder, and furthermore, that murder was not among his hobbies. He'd of course heard tell that most Borrowers who had been seen had been treated as if they were animals, vermin or even toys. Perhaps... Perhaps he really would make it out of this meeting alive.  He thought about the questions Sherlock had asked, and decided that most of them could probably be answered truthfully.  "Well uh, John. John Watson. I don't think I'm human. I mean, yes I was born this way, and as far as I know we generally think of ourselves as separate species. As for there being more of us... Not many. Oh and no one else living in this building."

  000

  Sherlock hummed, pulling a notebook out of one of the boxes and beginning to write all this information down, he wrote quickly, John's name at the top. "Can I measure you?" Sherlock asked, "Of course, that means I have to take you out of the container, but I'm sure you don't really enjoy it. All I ask is that you don't run away, it would be a shame for me to have to catch you again. You are on a table, the fall would be quite long." He spoke rapidly, as he always did when he was excited. "I've promised not to hurt you, all I ask is your cooperation."

  000

  The relief that had worked its way into Johns system quickly drained away. No, he did not like the glass prison, but it did mean that there was a barrier between him and Sherlock, which was a great confidence builder, despite the man’s repeated assurances of safety. Still, what other options did he realistically have? In all honesty, it was Sherlock who was in charge. John swallowed again, his voice cracking tellingly when he answered.  "Alright, I, I guess that would be fine. Though I could just tell you I'm four and a half inches tall..."

  000

  Sherlock nodded, "Even so, I'd like to record for myself." He said, putting his hand in the beaker, and grabbing John gently. He held the smaller man in his hands, saving the memory in his mind. It was odd, holding another person like they were a small animal. John was extremely warm, Sherlock noted, before he placed him gently on the table. Sherlock waited for a moment in case John tried to run, but was happy when he didn't, "Good." He nodded, digging through another box before pulling out a ruler and urging John to stand in front of it. Recording the height (Four and one quarter, to be exact, although he didn't tell John). Sherlock tapped his pencil on the desk, "Would you... lay on the paper so I could trace you?" he asked, slightly tentatively.

  000

  "W-what?" John couldn't stop the startled question from escaping. What did he need to trace him for?!  But he quickly shook his head, remembering that his best chances at being allowed to leave (or escape) in one peace depended on not annoying his captor.  "Right right," he muttered, and lay down on the paper, arms slightly away from his body. He didn't look at Sherlock as he did this. He couldn't. He simply turned his head to the side, pretending to take a vivid interest in the grain of the table.

  000

  Sherlock huffed, using the eraser end of the pencil to lift John's arms a bit higher and spread his legs. "You're still afraid." Sherlock said to John, rather than asked, "I understand the hesitation but, I promised I wouldn't hurt you." Sherlock frowned, "I do not back out on promises, have no fear, John." He said, his voice calmer than he used with witnesses to murder. He began tracing at John's waist, moving slowly and deliberately around his arms and head. Sherlock was very careful around John's neck and other arm, watching his movements intently as the pencil went around and up John's legs and back to where he started.

  000

  "Well... That's easy for you to say." John laughed nervously. "From what I've heard, most meetings between humans and b... well, us, don't turn out so well. Plus, I used to live out doors, and everything out there saw me as an easy lunch. S' a bit hard to turn off that fight or flight instinct, y'know?"  It was weird, how talking made him feel better. He still hadn't moved his head to look Sherlock in the eye. Not until the pencil stopped anyway. Then he looked back, as if asking for permission to get up.

  000

   Sherlock nodded, fixing a few of the lines, "I don't know personally, but I'm sure that it must have been extremely difficult." Sherlock paused, "Are you hungry or thirsty? I am unsure of what is in the fridge but I can ask Mrs. Hudson for a sandwich or something." Sherlock frowned, making a mental note to go shopping or something. "You eat a human diet, yes?" He asked, "Well, actually, your lifestyle depends on humans, doesn't it?"

  000