#tiny sherlock

John clucked his tongue as he reached absently for the chips left over from his takeaway lunch. Cheap and convenient, just something to fill him up. He could think about how to narrow his search as he chewed and cleaned the grease from his fingers on a nearby paper napkin.

Once his fingers were clean, he added the word ‘folklore’ to the end of his previous search. He gave it a second thought before inserting ‘English’ in front of it.

This brought up expected results as well. Pixies, fairies, gnomes, leprechauns… It all seemed a little too fantastical based on John's (admittedly limited) experiences. The tiny man didn't have wings, didn't seem able to fly or in possession of magic powers. The closest things John witnessed were those bursts of speed while he was trying to get away. Surely if he had more tricks up his sleeve than that, John would have seen them.

One term among them stood out as something he couldn't immediately associate with some fairy tale or cartoon. ‘Brownie’. John's brow furrowed, interest piqued as he clicked on the first link featuring the unfamiliar creature. 

Brownies certainly seemed a more low-key sort compared to fairies and whatnot. Little people living in walls, trying not to be seen and quietly carrying out small household tasks in exchange for food. John thought back to the scones Mrs. Hudson had left out…

One point against brownies as an option was that every depiction and description of them was significantly more impish or animalistic than what John saw. Seemed very much like any human he might see around, just one who happened to be inches high.

Then again, as John read on, brownies were not to be trifled with, if the folklore was to be believed. Though they mostly operated in the shadows, they were known to be mischievous as well. Playing tricks on people when they least expected it, and if they got pissed off, they became more hostile and took on the form of ‘boggarts’. 

He had to blink away the memory of trapping the guy under a mug. Suddenly he was really hoping that he wasn't on the right track.

John sat back in his chair to try and reset his thoughts to come up with something else he could try. He gave a sigh, once again going for a few chips when something gave him pause. A small yet sudden shift in his peripheral vision.

Glancing over, John was surprised to find the tiny man on the far edge of the kitchen table. He stood there as straight and tall as he could make himself, arms crossed and eyes sharply fixed on John.

John in turn froze; this had happened a good handful of times now, but he'd never appeared this close.

An even bigger shock was that the man began marching toward John. All he could do was stare as his eyebrows jumped up, clueless about what brought this on. Did something change to make him behave this way?

The determined march slowed as the little man came within inches of John's hand, still stuck outstretched and hovering near the chips. He broke eye contact with the human to glare at the hand, just about twice as large as he was tall, and then cut those sharp blue eyes right back to John.

John broke out of his trance to awkwardly move his hand back, feeling like he was intruding all of a sudden. Unsure of what else to do with it, he let it come to rest near his keyboard.

He could swear he saw those tiny eyes narrow as the man all but stomped forward to close the distance with the chips and snatch a small one up. When all John did was blink dumbfoundedly, he huffed and turned on his heel to go back the way he came.

From that spot right next to the chips, the screen of John's laptop was in full view of the man as he turned. He spared it a glance and scoffed.

“Dull…” John thought he heard the man mutter.

Before John could even think about how to take that, let alone respond to it, the tiny figure turned into an impossibly fast blur and vanished over the edge of the table.

John sat there for a long time, mouth agape as his chips went stone cold beside him. When it all caught up to him, he glanced at his idle computer and closed it.

“He-hey! Wait!” John cried. Sherlock flinched as the human’s voice bombarded the silence of the room and rumbled through Sherlock’s very being. Then the table beneath his running feet began to shake, and Sherlock threw a glance over his shoulder to find John coming closer, his free hand raised placatingly.

All Sherlock saw was hands. Dangerous appendages built for grabbing, lifting, crushing– the most unpredictable part of the human body. Sherlock was decidedly against having anything to do with them and, in his panic, did the only thing he could think to do.

He concentrated, and everything around him fell slightly out of focus. All noises were muffled far into the background, and when he looked back at John, he was moving so slowly that he might as well be still.

Sherlock let out a relieved breath, but kept going, knowing this wouldn’t last long.

Ever since Sherlock was a teenager, he’d noticed a tingle on the back of his neck in certain situations. Dangerous ones, in which it was likely that he’d end up in some kind of trouble. And he found that when he concentrated on it, everything and everyone around him slowed down significantly. 

For just a moment, Sherlock was faster than the entire world.

The catch was, if Sherlock kept this up for too long, he would tire. Growing up training himself to control this ability, he often worked himself into pounding headaches and intense nose-bleeds. He counted it worth it now that years later, he was able to slow time around him on command.

As swiftly as he could, Sherlock snagged the thread on the edge of the table and slid all the way down to the floor. He retrieved his hook and gathered the line before ducking behind the leg of a chair and returning himself to the natural flow of time. Here he could catch his breath and recover his energy.

High above, John sucked in a gasp. Sherlock side-eyed the man’s feet as they shuffled indecisively. Then they and the cane circled around the table in their stilted pace until they carried John to the space between the table and the counter, and Sherlock cursed under his breath. John had cut off his quickest exit. Sherlock couldn’t risk passing so close to the human. He needed a new route.

Sherlock’s eyes darted to a hole in the wall across the room, adjacent to a loosened outlet under a smaller table. 

Just as the human bent to peer under the table to see where Sherlock had gone, the borrower slowed him down again and dashed to the far leg of the table on the diagonal from his previous hiding spot. There he took refuge again, taking a breather from using his ability. Not only were these sprints wearing him out, but it had been ages since he’d used his knack this much. The all-too-familiar fatigue of overuse was creeping up on him.

John Watson had no such impediment. A glance back revealed the doctor straightening in surprise, rising out of Sherlock’s line of sight. This time, John’s approach around the table was much more swift, and Sherlock had no choice but to make a run for the exit without the aid of his ability.

A shadow fell over Sherlock, and he had just enough time to see the mug before it dropped on top of him and trapped him in darkness.

Even with his limp, John was much faster than Sherlock could hope to be on his own.

~~~

John sat frozen on the floor, in utter shock.

The last thing he’d expected when he came home to grab a quick lunch was a miniature man standing on a plate of scones. He could hardly believe his eyes, especially when the little being fell out of focus and became a speedy blur zooming over the edge of the table.

A shot of adrenaline coursed through John, driving him forward to find where the creature had gone. He had no ill will toward whatever it was, but he was too curious to let it get away.

This is what drove him to trap the little guy, but now that he was there, staring at his mug, he had no clue what to do.

It took him a second to realize he was being shouted at.

John could hear light taps against the porcelain of the mug in between muffled outbursts. He leaned in to listen.

“I’m talking to you!” the tiniest baritone echoed slightly in the small space. “I know you’re out there, I demand to be released!”

John stiffened, finally starting to think about all this from the smaller man’s perspective. Chased and trapped by a person several times larger than himself, with no means of escape even with that hat trick of his. To this little fellow, John was hardly more than a giant in his way.

John had always been average height, oftentimes shorter than others. Never once had he ever felt so ridiculously large, frightening, dangerous.

He was already feeling guilty for what he’d done, reaching toward the mug to free the tiny man when his voice rang out again, freezing up John’s hand.

“Answer me, damn you!” Another dull tap against the side of the mug, possibly a kick. John opened his mouth to say something as per the man’s request, but nothing came.

The quietest sigh strained the edges of John’s hearing, and the tiny man sounded a little more dejected when he spoke up again.

“Or at the very least, you could hurry up and get the dissection over with. I’d say the suspense is killing me, but that would be redundant, now wouldn’t–!”

Sherlock’s remark was cut short as John lifted the mug away without warning. He winced in the sudden light and, thanks to the way he’d been leaning on the wall of the mug, tumbled onto his back. When he looked up at John’s hovering face, he found it ashen and full of shock.

“You think I…” John blinked rapidly at the tiny man on his back on the floor, lifting one arm to shield his eyes and feebly defend himself against John. “I...I’d never...” His insistent protest trailed off as the thought of dissecting a living person, no matter how small, turned his stomach. It was a disturbing notion, downright cruel, and John felt terrible for giving this stranger the impression that he’d do such a thing.

He must’ve looked like a monster, crouched on the floor over the smaller man like a predator cornering its prey.

John shook his head numbly, grabbing his discarded cane for support as he pushed himself to his feet. While he still hated towering over Sherlock, he couldn’t keep the man where he clearly didn’t want to be.

“I’m sorry,” John breathed, putting the mug down on the table. He took the long way around to the door out of the kitchen and left without looking back.

~~~

Sherlock remained on the floor for another minute or two after John left. Scrambling to his feet, he stared at the door and waited for the human to come back and catch him again.

But he didn’t.

With a huff, Sherlock combed his fingers through his mess of curls and straightened his clothes importantly as he made his way to the nearby hole in the wall. The sooner he was out of sight in his hidden home, the sooner he could think long and hard about what had just happened.

He ended up settling for the next best thing. After a few weeks of absconding with food and supplies from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock considered himself fully moved into 221B. It was empty, but someone would rent it out eventually, and then he could live off them.

Sure enough, John Watson moved in, and he was at least a little more interesting than the landlady. 

Sherlock had a hobby in childhood that became an instinct as an adult. Extraordinarily observant, he could pick apart even the most minute of details in a person-- their clothing, their posture, even their accessories-- and from them glean an understanding about their life. This was all the easier when observing human beings, whose relatively massive statures rendered all those details plain as day to Sherlock.

While peeking in on his first conversation with her, Sherlock observed that the man was ex-military, wounded abroad if his limp and tan were any indication. Just returned from either Afghanistan or Iraq (confirmed later to be the former) and clearly hadn’t found a job yet. There was no way he could afford rent in Central London on Army pension alone, so it stood to reason that he must be getting help. Perhaps a loan, or a bit of aid from a family member. Taking a wild guess on a hunch after a closer look at the human’s mobile phone, Sherlock thought John’s brother might have lent him a little. Judging by the other things Sherlock deduced about the brother’s failed marriage and drinking habit, it wasn’t the easiest thing for John to reach out to him.

John took the flat– Sherlock’s flat– right away, and the smaller man kept a watchful eye on the new human. It took John a while to find a steady job, solidifying a schedule for Sherlock to take advantage of. He fell into his own habits, patterns of going through his flatmate’s things to learn more about him. It didn’t take him more than a week to learn about John’s career as a doctor, his shoulder wound that got him discharged, and the psychosomatic limp and tremor that came out of that.

This was a man lost in his own world, his own thoughts and nightmares, especially in the comfort of his own home. A perfect human for someone trying to avoid detection.

Or so Sherlock thought.

A few months after the doctor moved in, Sherlock was raiding the cupboards for enough to last him the week. John had long since gone to work, so the flat was quiet and peaceful.

Sherlock took full advantage of Dr. Watson’s recent grocery run, snitching a little from each freshly opened box and package. It was almost boring, how easy pickings were that day. He decided to climb down to the counter, make the rounds of the kitchen before heading back to his hidden home.

No sooner had he emerged from the cupboard sliding smoothly down his hook and line, than the smell hit him. Dark curls whipped around as Sherlock followed the scent to the table in the middle of the room where a plate of homemade scones sat. Sherlock’s stomach clenched with longing; it was around lunchtime and, while the bits of cracker and cereal and dried fruit in his bag made for a successful haul, it had been ages since he’d had the chance at a proper scone.

He longed for the days when he could hold one in hand and carry it along his merry way as he ate.

As it was, no one was home and the plate was hardly touched. Sherlock reasoned that it’d be a shame to let them go to waste, landing efficiently on the counter and giving his line a pointed flick to disengage the paper clip he’d twisted into a hook. The second he caught it, he was on the move to dig it into the edge of the counter. From there, it was a short jog along the floor, a sharp toss of his hook, and a quick shimmy up the dark thread.

The smell was even stronger on the table surface. Sherlock usually exhibited a lot of self control when it came to what he ate, whether it be out of necessity due to a shortage of pickings or a voluntary fast to aid his brainwork. But for some reason, this scone was different. Maybe it was the sheer nostalgia of the treat or the rare opportunity for something fresh, but there was absolutely no hesitation in his step as he made a beeline for the plate. 

He had to give Mrs. Hudson credit: her scones were heavenly. The pastry crumbled easily enough and melted in his mouth, interspersed with the sweetness of the fruit that had been baked into the dough. For once, his ever-running mind stood still for a moment, drawing him back to childhood.

Shoving his older brother aside to snag two handfuls of scones before school in the morning.

Opening his eyes to regard the crumbs in his hands, Sherlock forced himself to push those memories away. That family was lost to him forever, and he would never get that life back.

~~~

John made a point of sleeping in on his days off. He was decidedly not a morning person, barely functional before he got some caffeine in his system.

Even after he’d had his tea and made his breakfast, he didn’t notice the tiny figure standing on the top shelf in the kitchen.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the doctor as he milled about the kitchen below, heavily relying on his cane. He stood at the very edge of the highest point in the room, stiff as a board with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. If John had thought to look up, there’d be no missing Sherlock. But he didn’t, and Sherlock was left watching John move to distract himself from how exposed he was up there.

Specifically, he watched how John behaved with his cane. He seemed to need it when he walked, leaning it against his hip when he needed his hands free while standing. Once John got into what he was doing, however, he seemed to forget about it, standing almost freely. Sherlock absently recalled a moment during the chase earlier in the week. 

John hurrying around the table to catch up to Sherlock almost completely without the aid of his cane. The implement clattering to the floor as he crouched over Sherlock.

Sherlock had already discovered that John's limp was psychosomatic, no surprise there. What piqued his interest this time was the fact that it was no mindless menial task that caused John to forget about it that time. It was a chase. 

Interesting.

After that observation, it became clear that John wasn’t going to notice him. Sherlock’s plan to test how John would react to seeing the smaller man a second time would clearly have to be postponed. Sherlock turned to leave with a huff, storming off to wait a few hours to try again.

Back in the kitchen, John’s ears perked up. Such small sounds as the frustrated breath caught John’s attention more easily after his encounter the other day. For a second, John thought it was the same person he’d found, but he seriously doubted it. He hardly expected the man to stick around after John chased him and trapped him. That was the entire reason why whenever something caught John’s attention, and quite a few things did recently, he never responded. Never looked, never spoke, never investigated.

For all he knew, he was simply hearing things.

~~~

John noticed Sherlock later on that night. He was shuffling around the main room in search of the television remote, and his gaze happened to sweep around the room once he found it.

Then he saw the tiny shape standing on the edge of an empty bookshelf, as tall as a man under four inches in height could manage to make himself.

John froze, and was surprised to find the man standing his ground. He expected that if he ever laid eyes on the little fellow again, it would be short-lived. Surely he’d run away the second John saw him.

Yet there he was, in what appeared to be a long wool coat, arms crossed and staring intently back at John.

At first, John hadn’t a clue what to do. He had no idea why Sherlock was still around after the other day, and couldn’t imagine why he was there watching him.

John decided to carry on with his planned evening of vegging in front of the telly. If the little fellow wasn’t going to do anything, then it must be best if John didn’t make an advance. He wasn’t trying to chase him off, after all.

Sherlock’s brow furrowed as he stared down at the doctor, who collected a laptop and settled himself comfortably in an armchair. After the prolonged, unmistakable eye contact with the human, Sherlock had been prepared for nearly any reaction.

Of course it was entirely possible the human would do nothing, but many Sherlock’s size would consider it less than likely.

With the human’s eyes off him, Sherlock’s shoulders slumped of their own accord. He knew better than to let his guard down just yet, however. Just because Dr. Watson was showing restraint now didn’t mean he would keep it up. A curious human might lose patience if the temptation remained.

So Sherlock pointedly made himself comfortable, pushing back his coat with his usual dramatic flair as he sat down at the edge of the shelf. The movement was caught in the corner of John’s eye, causing the man to glance up and lift his brow in surprise and confusion. Sherlock scowled right back, and John’s gaze slid away. He simply opened his laptop and opened up his browser.

It was almost a battle of wits at this point, in Sherlock’s mind. Some silent back-and-forth between the two men to see which gave in first.

For about an hour this continued, John occasionally glancing up to see if Sherlock was still there, and Sherlock doing his best to stay on task and not get sucked into whatever was on the TV. John didn’t seem overly invested, perhaps using the telly as white noise as he attempted to do something on his computer. ‘Attempted’ being the operative word, as he seemed to have a blank page pulled up to apparently stare at in quiet contemplation. 

Sherlock quickly grew bored of watching John not type, and couldn’t help getting twitchy when the idiots on screen came to all the wrong conclusions.

“No, no, NO!” Sherlock found himself shouting in frustration. “Look at the--!”

He stopped short and tensed up all over again, gaze falling on John who was properly staring this time. Sherlock shuffled to his feet, prepared to make a run for it in case he’d finally piqued John’s interest in earnest. 

When John still remained seated, Sherlock decided he might have taken this too far for the moment. He clenched his jaw, gave his coat a brushdown with a bit of unnecessary flair, and turned on his heel to vanish toward the back of the shelf. Not running away, but definitely walking off.