Fanfic: The Credulity of Youth (1/5)
Oct. 30th, 2010 11:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
trillsabellsHave been working on this monster for about two months now and it's finally ready to go up.
Title: The Credulity of Youth
Beta:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jupiter_ash
Rating: PG13 (for violence)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves the subjects of a dangerous and deadly experiment. Kid!fic
Mycroft blinked. It was the only trace of emotion he allowed to cross his face and even this one was taken most unwillingly.
“Doctor Watson,” he said slowly, fixing the man in question with a penetrating stare, “let me assure you that the boundaries of my credulity are exceptional. There are things in this world that would shock you to your very core to which I would not bat an eyelid. I say this only so you might truly understand the significance when I say: this is surprising.”
“You’re telling me,” John replied with a resigned grimace.
Mycroft looked down at the small child clinging to the bottom edge of John’s jumper, peeping out from behind him with a wide eyed expression of wariness mixed with curiosity. It was a unique expression that he had not seen for well over twenty-five years and not one he had ever expected to see again, especially on the face of his little brother, his surprisingly now much littler brother. Mycroft redirected his attention back to John who was looking helpless.
“I think you’d better explain what happened.”
~
“Come on, John!”
It was the early hours of the morning and they were chasing two men through an old warehouse. Three days before, the men had brutally murdered Dr Aaron Hinsbury in his lab. There had been blood everywhere. An old acquaintance of Sherlock’s had asked them to get involved after certain experimental substances had been discovered missing, presumed stolen by the murderers. Sherlock, as usual, had found a dozen clues and swiftly outstripped the police in their enquiries. So now John was chasing after Sherlock who was chasing after two murderers with no police backup, no plan other than ‘Get them!’, and no clue where they were going. It was insane. It was dangerous. It was exhilarating.
John hesitated at a crossroads between a set of towering crates. He could hear footsteps pounding away into the distance but with the echo of the large building he couldn’t tell which direction they were heading in, or even whose footsteps they were. He held his gun aloft, covering all directions, waiting for his flatmate to call him again.
He walked carefully forward, straining his hearing for anything that would alert him to Sherlock’s location. He heard the slight scrape of somebody sliding against the wood of the crate he’d just passed and the lightest of footfalls was warning enough. He ducked as the figure that had been lurking in the shadows of a gap between the crates leapt out at him. He rolled, opened fire and the man’s arm exploded and the attacker fell to the floor crying out in agony.
“John?”
Sherlock appeared from around a crate.
“Got one,” John said.
“There’s another one over there,” said Sherlock, pointing towards the other side of the warehouse. “You go get him too while I ask this one a few questions.”
He didn’t ask if Sherlock would be alright without him, nor did he baulk at the idea of going off alone. He simply obeyed the order and headed off further into the warehouse. He could hear the faint murmur of Sherlock’s interrogative voice in the background.
He searched the warehouse in the most comprehensive fashion he could but knew that in a building this size there was always going to be a good chance that the other killer would be able to slip past him.
He heard the sirens shortly before he reached the other side of the warehouse. Lestrade and his team were just coming in.
“What did I tell you two about going off on your own-“
John cut across him. “Did you see anyone coming out? Red hair, blue jeans, black jacket?”
“No.”
“Sherlock!”
He turned and raced back to where he had left his flatmate, heart thumping in his ears. He was almost there when he heard a strange splashing noise but pushed it out of his mind when he reached the place he had last seen Sherlock.
The man John had shot was still lying where he’d left him. Except now he was surrounded by a pool of blood too large to be from the arm injury but just about right when you took into consideration his raggedly severed throat.
John hadn’t noticed that Lestrade had followed him until he heard the Detective Inspector swear behind him. He knew Lestrade would have questions, would disapprove of the situation John and Sherlock had gotten themselves in, but John had something far more important demanding his attention and making his heart race even faster in sheer panic.
“Sherlock!”
His heart seemed to stop altogether when he heard a reply but he frowned when he realised it was far too high pitched to be Sherlock.
“Was that a child?” Lestrade asked, echoing John’s thoughts exactly.
The Inspector looked at John curiously but he was clueless as to how a child could have got in the warehouse since they’d arrived. Besides he didn’t care right now. He let Lestrade and his officers fan out to search for the child while he set out to find Sherlock.
He shouted out Sherlock’s name again as he searched among the line of crates but all he heard were more shouts from the lost child. Every time he heard that voice instead of Sherlock’s he grew more and more frustrated, angry at Sherlock for not answering his own damn name and making him more and more worried by the minute.
Finally his calls received the answer of,
“Doctor Watson, over here.”
He felt a sudden chill at Donovan’s voice, head suddenly full of images of Sherlock lying in a pool of blood like the attacker, too weak to shout himself. Or worse…
He ran, pushing past police officers that got in the way and swinging round crates until he finally skidded to a halt at the head of the line of crates where Donovan was.
Sherlock wasn’t there.
He scanned every inch of ground searching for his flatmate, even looking pointlessly upwards towards the heights of the stacks of crates as if the body of the great detective would be found hanging there, but there was nothing. There was just Donovan mutely standing next to a small child.
Panic turned to anger as he prepared himself to berate Donovan for interrupting his search when Sherlock could be injured or dying but then the child raised its head.
John froze as the child looked up at him with large piercing blue eyes and an irritated expression that John would recognise anywhere. His eyes widened in shock as an impossible thought started to cross his mind.
The little boy was sporting a mass of dark curls, was absolutely sopping wet and was surrounded by clothes that were far too big for him. As John took it in he realised that the scarf hanging limply around the boy’s throat looked extremely familiar, and that the large coat the little boy was practically buried under was definitely Sherlock’s. John stared, unable to throw off the utterly ludicrous idea that was unwillingly building in his mind and instead forced himself to speak it.
“Sherlock…?”
“Yes,” said the little boy as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and not the most ridiculous.
“H- uh- what?”
“This is highly inconvenient,” Sherlock said.
Despite everything John couldn’t help thinking, as Lestrade found them, that Sherlock was a much more impressive pouter as a child.
~
By the time they were back at Scotland Yard, John’s initial shock was beginning to lift giving way to amusement. There was something about the way Sherlock was sat on Lestrade’s desk idly kicking his dangling legs. It was… well quite frankly it was adorable.
Sherlock had diagnosed himself to be five years old but John reckoned he was a little under that. He was still thin, although now he was pre-pubescent the word ‘gangly’ could be used. His hair seemed to be the same length even though his head was smaller so it was constantly getting in his large eyes. He was a little short for his age, that was taking his age to be five. He was extremely short for his actual age. John was not about to suggest that the oddest thing about this whole situation was suddenly towering over his flatmate.
Despite the confusion of Lestrade’s officers Sherlock had immediately set about trying to find out how this had happened. He didn’t remember anything apart from being attacked and then looking down to realise he was wet and had suddenly acquired the body of a five year old, moments before Donovan found him. He’d ordered samples taken from everything in the area and his own clothes to be put into evidence bags. He demanded a whole host of tests on himself including examining blood, DNA and skin. Lestrade had had to repeat all the orders because Sherlock had come off less unquestionably commanding and more like a child throwing a temper tantrum.
Even if Sherlock’s clothes weren’t being analysed for evidence they hardly fit him anymore so someone had found him a spare set of clothes in his new size. The T-shirt had a blue dinosaur on it. Sherlock was not happy about this. John resisted the idea to offer to take him shopping because the thought of a young Sherlock in a miniature brightly coloured version of his normal scarf and coat was too much for him to handle at that moment.
Donovan had definitely not helped matters by mumbling to John as she went past that the freak was actually quite cute as a kid.
“I still don’t understand how this is physically possible,” Lestrade said. “A person can’t just… turn back into a five year old.”
“Clearly, since I am sat in front of you, it is possible,” said Sherlock. “‘How’ is just one of the questions to be considering. ‘Why’ is another. Why didn’t he just kill me? It makes no sense. If he wanted to find some way to incapacitate me this would be as good a way as any, but he showed himself perfectly willing to kill his partner, so why not just kill me? Unless this isn’t what was meant to happen.”
“Maybe you weren’t supposed to stop de-aging at five,” John suggested. The talk of killing brought back memories of his fear at the warehouse and reminded him of the seriousness of the situation. “Maybe he gave you something. Something that was supposed to wipe you out of existence altogether but it was interrupted and stopped when you reached five years old.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why not simply cut my throat? No, either he deliberately meant to turn me into a five year old or it wasn’t anything to do with him. Maybe it was something else in the warehouse.”
“That liquid you were covered in?”
“Could be, I need a sample to test. We need to go to the lab.”
Lestrade looked between them in disbelief. “I can’t believe you two are just carrying on as if everything is normal.”
“The best way to get everything back to normal is to solve this case,” Sherlock said. “I may have the body of a five year old but I’m still me.”
“Sherlock-“
“Don’t you have a murderer to catch? He might be able to answer a few questions on how and why this occurred.” Sherlock jumped off the desk. “I need samples of everything. John, we need to go to Bart’s, you’ll have to pay for the taxi. I don’t think cabbies will take money off a five year old.”
“I don’t think Bart’s are going to let a five year old in to play in their labs,” said John. “Unless you want to explain to everyone who you are and let everyone know about your… current affliction.”
“It doesn’t matter what everyone thinks of me, as long as I get the work done. Besides I have been reliably informed that as a kid I am ‘cute’.” Sherlock’s special smug look was made to be put on a five year old’s face. John wondered if Sherlock had been practicing it since he was five the first time round.
“Fine, let’s inform the whole world that Sherlock Holmes is now a child again. Why don’t we just announce it from the rooftops? I’m sure there’s no way certain figures in the criminal classes you’ve managed to piss off in the last year would find out. After all, why would they possibly be interested in the fact that all they have to do to get hold of you now is pick you up?”
Child or not John could see that Sherlock was about to argue, so he walked straight over and lifted him off the ground. He was amazingly light. Sherlock didn’t struggle but instead glowered at him from beneath his dark hair. John couldn’t help being vaguely impressed by the overall effect. If there were prizes in looking sulky Sherlock would have won a gold star commendation.
“Fine,” Sherlock said with a slight huff as he was put down again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his eyes. “I’ll use my own equipment back at Baker Street.”
~
Mycroft had to bite his bottom lip to stop from smiling.
“You picked him up?”
It was the first sound he’d made since the John had begun his report – and Mycroft couldn’t help but think of it as a report. As soon as the ex-soldier had started his story he had stood slightly more to attention, his arms slapped to his sides and his face carefully blank. It was only when he occasionally looked down at Sherlock that the façade cracked. His body would sag slightly in worry and his face would crumple with obvious affection. These respites were few and far between though, and as soon as he had Mycroft back in his eye line the military precision would return in an instant.
“Only way to show him,” John said briskly with no trace of embarrassment.
“I believe my congratulations are in order, Doctor Watson. I still have a scar from the last time I tried that.”
Mycroft deliberately didn’t wince at the memory. Nor did he shift his stance and draw attention to… the location.
“He was still himself at that point.”
“At that point?”
There was a tug on John’s sleeve. They both automatically looked down at Sherlock.
“I don’t like him,” the little boy said darkly. “Make him go away.”
“He’s here to help, Sherlock,” John said kindly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. Mycroft looked back at John.
“Seems like himself to me.”
“A lot of things have changed in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Very well. So then you came back here?”
John nodded smartly. “To baby-sit the world’s smartest five year old.”
~
“There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
John winced as Sherlock banged both his hands down on the table in frustration, rattling his tea. It was the tea he had taken one sip of earlier and protested that it tasted odd. John had pointed out that that was because he was tasting it through less developed taste buds and had offered squash instead. Sherlock had glared at him.
“The water,” said Sherlock. “It’s just… water. Pure water. There’s nothing there to give us a clue.”
John flicked over a page in his notebook where he had been trying to make his own sense out of things. “There was no water in the warehouse-”
“Exactly! So this must be significant but it isn’t. Why isn’t it? Is that significant? I can’t think!”
John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had been pouring over the samples of the warehouse, his clothing, even his own sweat for the last four hours. More samples of these as well as his blood and even his DNA were being analysed by the forensics lab but Sherlock had insisted on doing his own tests. He had also insisted on getting out all his own equipment even though most had been tucked away on shelves now far too high for him to reach. John had offered to get things down for him but instead had been made to watch while his flatmate dragged a chair across the kitchen floor and stood on it to reach the higher items. The look of victory on Sherlock’s face once he had gotten everything down had been wonderful. Then when he had stalked into the living room, snatched up the union jack pillow and then, with no sense of embarrassment, placed it on the kitchen chair so he could sit on it to reach the table, John had seriously considered hiding in his room in an attempt to compose himself.
“Maybe you should eat something,” he said.
“I never eat during a case, you know that,” said Sherlock.
“You haven’t eaten for three days, you’ve been through an amazing amount of trauma today and… well… you’re not as old as you used to be. You’re a growing kid.”
Sherlock looked up to glare at him.
“Or at least you’re in a growing kid’s body. You need to eat.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John cut across. “Studies show that children concentrate better at school when they’ve had something healthy to eat at breakfast. Just give your body what it wants and maybe it’ll let you concentrate for a while.”
“I have full control over my body.”
“It’s not your body anymore, Sherlock. Your body was… taller.”
Sherlock regarded John for a while with a look of examination far beyond his years. His years at the moment that was.
“Very well, what do you suggest? Coco Pops?”
John went to the door and tugged it open “Mrs Hudson!”
Sherlock appeared at the other door looking surprised and confused. “John? You said not to tell anybody.”
“And you said you didn’t mind if anyone knew.”
“I’d rather-“
Their landlady appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said John indicating the little boy. “This is Sherlock.”
Mrs Hudson came slowly up the stairs giving Sherlock a puzzled look. “Sherlock?”
“Yes. He looks remarkably like his uncle, doesn’t he? Appropriate seeing as he was named after him.”
“Oh, I see. Oh yes, you look just like him, dear.”
“The thing is Sherlock, uncle Sherlock that is, has rather left me in the lurch looking after this little kid. I promised him I wouldn’t leave him alone and we’re rather low on supplies. I don’t suppose you could go out and do a shop for us, could you?”
“Well-“
“It is rather an emergency.”
“Alright. Just this once, mind, I’m your landlady not your housekeeper.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson. He likes Coco Pops apparently. And I don’t suppose you could get him some more clothes, could you? His are… in the wash and he’ll at least need some pyjamas.”
“Not your housekeeper.”
“I really appreciate this, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure Sherlock will make it up to you.”
John shot Sherlock a triumphant look and went back into the flat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Hudson bend down to Sherlock’s level.
“Well, how old are you then?”
Sherlock appeared to opt for the route of least resistance. “Five.”
“I’ll see what I can find for you, love.” She ruffled Sherlock’s hair and went back downstairs.
Sherlock brushed it down irritably and called down the stairs, “I don’t like dinosaurs.”
John smirked slightly to himself as Sherlock stalked back inside and snatched up his phone from the table. Sherlock dialled a number and held it to his ear, looking more put out at every ring.
“Lestrade, it’s me. Sherlock.” He huffed. “Have you got the bloodwork yet? I know about the water I’m asking about the bloodwork. Well hurry up.”
He hung up and looked over at John who tried to look serious but was finding it hard to constrain the slight smirk spreading over his lips.
“You’re finding this funny.”
“I’m not you know. I’m just as worried as you are that you could be stuck like this forever. But…”
“But?”
He shrugged “It could be worse.”
“How could it?”
“You could be stuck in the body of an old man, rather than a young kid. At least as a kid you could have some fun.”
“If I were an old man then I’d be able to buy cigarettes.”
Now he was serious. “You are not polluting your young body with drugs, Sherlock.”
“Why not? At least they might take the edge off it. Oh forget it, I need to keep thinking. I’m not getting anywhere with how, let’s think about why. Where’s the file for the Hinsbury case?”
~
When Lestrade dropped in later that afternoon John was so relieved to see him he nearly pushed the detective inspector up the stairs. Sherlock’s investigations had rather stagnated so as far as John was concerned, any further developments on the case were welcome. Anything to stop Sherlock from climbing out the window to go find more clues.
“How is he?” Lestrade asked.
“He hasn’t got any younger,” John said. “And I got him to eat something. He’s upstairs watching TV.”
“No, no, no!” the screams of a little boy met them as they entered the flat. “That’s an overly simplistic description of the motivations behind the English Reformation. How are children supposed to learn from this program?”
“What’s he watching?” Lestrade asked.
“Horrible Histories,” John said wearily.
The instant he spoke the television was switched off and Sherlock appeared at his side.
“Lestrade. You have news.”
“We’ve got preliminary results back on your blood tests.” John was impressed at how businesslike Lestrade managed to be. He was clearly working very hard to forget he was talking to a five year old. “There’s definitely some kind of foreign chemical in your system but the lab have been unable to identify it. I brought you the analysis.”
Sherlock snatched it out of Lestrade’s hands. The phrase ‘like a child grabbing at sweeties’ drifted across John’s mind. Sherlock immediately started dashing about the flat picking up the papers from Hinsbury’s lab from wherever they had landed after he’d flung them about an hour before. Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably in the doorway as Sherlock began poring over the notes with an intensity John was sure the police officer had never seen in a child before.
“Ha!” Sherlock’s outburst made both of them jump. “There it is. The makeup of the chemical is similar to the experimental products of Dr Hinsbury. He discusses it in his notes here. Purely theoretically of course but what if he got further, what if he managed to produce something of interest to the criminal fraternity and that’s what was stolen and that’s why he was killed. But why use it on me? Why not? After all they would be wanting to test it on someone and I was getting too close, I almost had them. Use it on me and it takes care of two problems at once. They find out how it works and I can’t follow them. Well they’re wrong there. Lestrade, do you have any leads on the suspect?”
“The dead man had links to a company called Rejuvatech. We’re investigating there-”
“Well come on then, let’s go.”
John opened his mouth to protest.
“Sherlock, no!”
He looked over at Lestrade in shock that the other man had beaten him to it.
“It’s too dangerous.” Lestrade continued
“Too dangerous?” Sherlock was looking at Lestrade as if completely unfamiliar with the concept.
“You could get hurt, Sherlock. I’m sorry but I can’t let you. You have to stay here, where you’re safe.”
“When have I ever let risk get in the way of the work?”
“You never do but this time you’re not you.”
“I am still me.”
“No, you’re not, Sherlock. I’m putting my foot down.”
John watched the inspector in astonishment and wondered how much experience he had with children to have a scalding voice down pat.
Sherlock blinked at Lestrade. “Fine,” he said eventually, the young voice sounding strange oozing with so much sarcasm. “I’ll just go back to watching telly shall I?” He marched back to the high-backed chair facing the television and threw himself into it so he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. “Let’s see if there’s anything on CBeebies.”
The television was switched back on. John briefly considered asking Lestrade to teach him how to do that as it was so effective. Now if only he could get it work when Sherlock was an adult...
Lestrade turned to John. “I need you to stay here and look after him. If these killers really are using him-”
He was interrupted in dramatic fashion as a plate of beans on toast thwacked into the side of his head. John stared in shock as the bread slipped down the side of Lestrade’s face and the beans stained his shirt. From the high-backed chair came an unmistakably childish giggle.
He was glad he hadn’t asked for the lessons now.
They both turned to look at Sherlock. He was crouched on the high-backed chair so only the top of his face was visible. There was no missing the sparkle of mirth in his bright blue eyes.
Lestrade grunted and stalked out, shutting the door a little too hard. Sherlock raised his head so John could see his wide grin.
“You were right,” he said, “This could be fun.”
John groaned, regretting ever saying those words. This did not bode well.
Part 2
Title: The Credulity of Youth
Beta:
jupiter_ash Rating: PG13 (for violence)
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves the subjects of a dangerous and deadly experiment. Kid!fic
The Credulity of Youth
Mycroft blinked. It was the only trace of emotion he allowed to cross his face and even this one was taken most unwillingly.
“Doctor Watson,” he said slowly, fixing the man in question with a penetrating stare, “let me assure you that the boundaries of my credulity are exceptional. There are things in this world that would shock you to your very core to which I would not bat an eyelid. I say this only so you might truly understand the significance when I say: this is surprising.”
“You’re telling me,” John replied with a resigned grimace.
Mycroft looked down at the small child clinging to the bottom edge of John’s jumper, peeping out from behind him with a wide eyed expression of wariness mixed with curiosity. It was a unique expression that he had not seen for well over twenty-five years and not one he had ever expected to see again, especially on the face of his little brother, his surprisingly now much littler brother. Mycroft redirected his attention back to John who was looking helpless.
“I think you’d better explain what happened.”
~
“Come on, John!”
It was the early hours of the morning and they were chasing two men through an old warehouse. Three days before, the men had brutally murdered Dr Aaron Hinsbury in his lab. There had been blood everywhere. An old acquaintance of Sherlock’s had asked them to get involved after certain experimental substances had been discovered missing, presumed stolen by the murderers. Sherlock, as usual, had found a dozen clues and swiftly outstripped the police in their enquiries. So now John was chasing after Sherlock who was chasing after two murderers with no police backup, no plan other than ‘Get them!’, and no clue where they were going. It was insane. It was dangerous. It was exhilarating.
John hesitated at a crossroads between a set of towering crates. He could hear footsteps pounding away into the distance but with the echo of the large building he couldn’t tell which direction they were heading in, or even whose footsteps they were. He held his gun aloft, covering all directions, waiting for his flatmate to call him again.
He walked carefully forward, straining his hearing for anything that would alert him to Sherlock’s location. He heard the slight scrape of somebody sliding against the wood of the crate he’d just passed and the lightest of footfalls was warning enough. He ducked as the figure that had been lurking in the shadows of a gap between the crates leapt out at him. He rolled, opened fire and the man’s arm exploded and the attacker fell to the floor crying out in agony.
“John?”
Sherlock appeared from around a crate.
“Got one,” John said.
“There’s another one over there,” said Sherlock, pointing towards the other side of the warehouse. “You go get him too while I ask this one a few questions.”
He didn’t ask if Sherlock would be alright without him, nor did he baulk at the idea of going off alone. He simply obeyed the order and headed off further into the warehouse. He could hear the faint murmur of Sherlock’s interrogative voice in the background.
He searched the warehouse in the most comprehensive fashion he could but knew that in a building this size there was always going to be a good chance that the other killer would be able to slip past him.
He heard the sirens shortly before he reached the other side of the warehouse. Lestrade and his team were just coming in.
“What did I tell you two about going off on your own-“
John cut across him. “Did you see anyone coming out? Red hair, blue jeans, black jacket?”
“No.”
“Sherlock!”
He turned and raced back to where he had left his flatmate, heart thumping in his ears. He was almost there when he heard a strange splashing noise but pushed it out of his mind when he reached the place he had last seen Sherlock.
The man John had shot was still lying where he’d left him. Except now he was surrounded by a pool of blood too large to be from the arm injury but just about right when you took into consideration his raggedly severed throat.
John hadn’t noticed that Lestrade had followed him until he heard the Detective Inspector swear behind him. He knew Lestrade would have questions, would disapprove of the situation John and Sherlock had gotten themselves in, but John had something far more important demanding his attention and making his heart race even faster in sheer panic.
“Sherlock!”
His heart seemed to stop altogether when he heard a reply but he frowned when he realised it was far too high pitched to be Sherlock.
“Was that a child?” Lestrade asked, echoing John’s thoughts exactly.
The Inspector looked at John curiously but he was clueless as to how a child could have got in the warehouse since they’d arrived. Besides he didn’t care right now. He let Lestrade and his officers fan out to search for the child while he set out to find Sherlock.
He shouted out Sherlock’s name again as he searched among the line of crates but all he heard were more shouts from the lost child. Every time he heard that voice instead of Sherlock’s he grew more and more frustrated, angry at Sherlock for not answering his own damn name and making him more and more worried by the minute.
Finally his calls received the answer of,
“Doctor Watson, over here.”
He felt a sudden chill at Donovan’s voice, head suddenly full of images of Sherlock lying in a pool of blood like the attacker, too weak to shout himself. Or worse…
He ran, pushing past police officers that got in the way and swinging round crates until he finally skidded to a halt at the head of the line of crates where Donovan was.
Sherlock wasn’t there.
He scanned every inch of ground searching for his flatmate, even looking pointlessly upwards towards the heights of the stacks of crates as if the body of the great detective would be found hanging there, but there was nothing. There was just Donovan mutely standing next to a small child.
Panic turned to anger as he prepared himself to berate Donovan for interrupting his search when Sherlock could be injured or dying but then the child raised its head.
John froze as the child looked up at him with large piercing blue eyes and an irritated expression that John would recognise anywhere. His eyes widened in shock as an impossible thought started to cross his mind.
The little boy was sporting a mass of dark curls, was absolutely sopping wet and was surrounded by clothes that were far too big for him. As John took it in he realised that the scarf hanging limply around the boy’s throat looked extremely familiar, and that the large coat the little boy was practically buried under was definitely Sherlock’s. John stared, unable to throw off the utterly ludicrous idea that was unwillingly building in his mind and instead forced himself to speak it.
“Sherlock…?”
“Yes,” said the little boy as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and not the most ridiculous.
“H- uh- what?”
“This is highly inconvenient,” Sherlock said.
Despite everything John couldn’t help thinking, as Lestrade found them, that Sherlock was a much more impressive pouter as a child.
~
By the time they were back at Scotland Yard, John’s initial shock was beginning to lift giving way to amusement. There was something about the way Sherlock was sat on Lestrade’s desk idly kicking his dangling legs. It was… well quite frankly it was adorable.
Sherlock had diagnosed himself to be five years old but John reckoned he was a little under that. He was still thin, although now he was pre-pubescent the word ‘gangly’ could be used. His hair seemed to be the same length even though his head was smaller so it was constantly getting in his large eyes. He was a little short for his age, that was taking his age to be five. He was extremely short for his actual age. John was not about to suggest that the oddest thing about this whole situation was suddenly towering over his flatmate.
Despite the confusion of Lestrade’s officers Sherlock had immediately set about trying to find out how this had happened. He didn’t remember anything apart from being attacked and then looking down to realise he was wet and had suddenly acquired the body of a five year old, moments before Donovan found him. He’d ordered samples taken from everything in the area and his own clothes to be put into evidence bags. He demanded a whole host of tests on himself including examining blood, DNA and skin. Lestrade had had to repeat all the orders because Sherlock had come off less unquestionably commanding and more like a child throwing a temper tantrum.
Even if Sherlock’s clothes weren’t being analysed for evidence they hardly fit him anymore so someone had found him a spare set of clothes in his new size. The T-shirt had a blue dinosaur on it. Sherlock was not happy about this. John resisted the idea to offer to take him shopping because the thought of a young Sherlock in a miniature brightly coloured version of his normal scarf and coat was too much for him to handle at that moment.
Donovan had definitely not helped matters by mumbling to John as she went past that the freak was actually quite cute as a kid.
“I still don’t understand how this is physically possible,” Lestrade said. “A person can’t just… turn back into a five year old.”
“Clearly, since I am sat in front of you, it is possible,” said Sherlock. “‘How’ is just one of the questions to be considering. ‘Why’ is another. Why didn’t he just kill me? It makes no sense. If he wanted to find some way to incapacitate me this would be as good a way as any, but he showed himself perfectly willing to kill his partner, so why not just kill me? Unless this isn’t what was meant to happen.”
“Maybe you weren’t supposed to stop de-aging at five,” John suggested. The talk of killing brought back memories of his fear at the warehouse and reminded him of the seriousness of the situation. “Maybe he gave you something. Something that was supposed to wipe you out of existence altogether but it was interrupted and stopped when you reached five years old.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. Why not simply cut my throat? No, either he deliberately meant to turn me into a five year old or it wasn’t anything to do with him. Maybe it was something else in the warehouse.”
“That liquid you were covered in?”
“Could be, I need a sample to test. We need to go to the lab.”
Lestrade looked between them in disbelief. “I can’t believe you two are just carrying on as if everything is normal.”
“The best way to get everything back to normal is to solve this case,” Sherlock said. “I may have the body of a five year old but I’m still me.”
“Sherlock-“
“Don’t you have a murderer to catch? He might be able to answer a few questions on how and why this occurred.” Sherlock jumped off the desk. “I need samples of everything. John, we need to go to Bart’s, you’ll have to pay for the taxi. I don’t think cabbies will take money off a five year old.”
“I don’t think Bart’s are going to let a five year old in to play in their labs,” said John. “Unless you want to explain to everyone who you are and let everyone know about your… current affliction.”
“It doesn’t matter what everyone thinks of me, as long as I get the work done. Besides I have been reliably informed that as a kid I am ‘cute’.” Sherlock’s special smug look was made to be put on a five year old’s face. John wondered if Sherlock had been practicing it since he was five the first time round.
“Fine, let’s inform the whole world that Sherlock Holmes is now a child again. Why don’t we just announce it from the rooftops? I’m sure there’s no way certain figures in the criminal classes you’ve managed to piss off in the last year would find out. After all, why would they possibly be interested in the fact that all they have to do to get hold of you now is pick you up?”
Child or not John could see that Sherlock was about to argue, so he walked straight over and lifted him off the ground. He was amazingly light. Sherlock didn’t struggle but instead glowered at him from beneath his dark hair. John couldn’t help being vaguely impressed by the overall effect. If there were prizes in looking sulky Sherlock would have won a gold star commendation.
“Fine,” Sherlock said with a slight huff as he was put down again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and rolled his eyes. “I’ll use my own equipment back at Baker Street.”
~
Mycroft had to bite his bottom lip to stop from smiling.
“You picked him up?”
It was the first sound he’d made since the John had begun his report – and Mycroft couldn’t help but think of it as a report. As soon as the ex-soldier had started his story he had stood slightly more to attention, his arms slapped to his sides and his face carefully blank. It was only when he occasionally looked down at Sherlock that the façade cracked. His body would sag slightly in worry and his face would crumple with obvious affection. These respites were few and far between though, and as soon as he had Mycroft back in his eye line the military precision would return in an instant.
“Only way to show him,” John said briskly with no trace of embarrassment.
“I believe my congratulations are in order, Doctor Watson. I still have a scar from the last time I tried that.”
Mycroft deliberately didn’t wince at the memory. Nor did he shift his stance and draw attention to… the location.
“He was still himself at that point.”
“At that point?”
There was a tug on John’s sleeve. They both automatically looked down at Sherlock.
“I don’t like him,” the little boy said darkly. “Make him go away.”
“He’s here to help, Sherlock,” John said kindly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. Mycroft looked back at John.
“Seems like himself to me.”
“A lot of things have changed in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Very well. So then you came back here?”
John nodded smartly. “To baby-sit the world’s smartest five year old.”
~
“There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
John winced as Sherlock banged both his hands down on the table in frustration, rattling his tea. It was the tea he had taken one sip of earlier and protested that it tasted odd. John had pointed out that that was because he was tasting it through less developed taste buds and had offered squash instead. Sherlock had glared at him.
“The water,” said Sherlock. “It’s just… water. Pure water. There’s nothing there to give us a clue.”
John flicked over a page in his notebook where he had been trying to make his own sense out of things. “There was no water in the warehouse-”
“Exactly! So this must be significant but it isn’t. Why isn’t it? Is that significant? I can’t think!”
John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had been pouring over the samples of the warehouse, his clothing, even his own sweat for the last four hours. More samples of these as well as his blood and even his DNA were being analysed by the forensics lab but Sherlock had insisted on doing his own tests. He had also insisted on getting out all his own equipment even though most had been tucked away on shelves now far too high for him to reach. John had offered to get things down for him but instead had been made to watch while his flatmate dragged a chair across the kitchen floor and stood on it to reach the higher items. The look of victory on Sherlock’s face once he had gotten everything down had been wonderful. Then when he had stalked into the living room, snatched up the union jack pillow and then, with no sense of embarrassment, placed it on the kitchen chair so he could sit on it to reach the table, John had seriously considered hiding in his room in an attempt to compose himself.
“Maybe you should eat something,” he said.
“I never eat during a case, you know that,” said Sherlock.
“You haven’t eaten for three days, you’ve been through an amazing amount of trauma today and… well… you’re not as old as you used to be. You’re a growing kid.”
Sherlock looked up to glare at him.
“Or at least you’re in a growing kid’s body. You need to eat.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. John cut across. “Studies show that children concentrate better at school when they’ve had something healthy to eat at breakfast. Just give your body what it wants and maybe it’ll let you concentrate for a while.”
“I have full control over my body.”
“It’s not your body anymore, Sherlock. Your body was… taller.”
Sherlock regarded John for a while with a look of examination far beyond his years. His years at the moment that was.
“Very well, what do you suggest? Coco Pops?”
John went to the door and tugged it open “Mrs Hudson!”
Sherlock appeared at the other door looking surprised and confused. “John? You said not to tell anybody.”
“And you said you didn’t mind if anyone knew.”
“I’d rather-“
Their landlady appeared at the foot of the stairs.
“Ah, Mrs Hudson,” said John indicating the little boy. “This is Sherlock.”
Mrs Hudson came slowly up the stairs giving Sherlock a puzzled look. “Sherlock?”
“Yes. He looks remarkably like his uncle, doesn’t he? Appropriate seeing as he was named after him.”
“Oh, I see. Oh yes, you look just like him, dear.”
“The thing is Sherlock, uncle Sherlock that is, has rather left me in the lurch looking after this little kid. I promised him I wouldn’t leave him alone and we’re rather low on supplies. I don’t suppose you could go out and do a shop for us, could you?”
“Well-“
“It is rather an emergency.”
“Alright. Just this once, mind, I’m your landlady not your housekeeper.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs Hudson. He likes Coco Pops apparently. And I don’t suppose you could get him some more clothes, could you? His are… in the wash and he’ll at least need some pyjamas.”
“Not your housekeeper.”
“I really appreciate this, Mrs Hudson. I’m sure Sherlock will make it up to you.”
John shot Sherlock a triumphant look and went back into the flat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mrs Hudson bend down to Sherlock’s level.
“Well, how old are you then?”
Sherlock appeared to opt for the route of least resistance. “Five.”
“I’ll see what I can find for you, love.” She ruffled Sherlock’s hair and went back downstairs.
Sherlock brushed it down irritably and called down the stairs, “I don’t like dinosaurs.”
John smirked slightly to himself as Sherlock stalked back inside and snatched up his phone from the table. Sherlock dialled a number and held it to his ear, looking more put out at every ring.
“Lestrade, it’s me. Sherlock.” He huffed. “Have you got the bloodwork yet? I know about the water I’m asking about the bloodwork. Well hurry up.”
He hung up and looked over at John who tried to look serious but was finding it hard to constrain the slight smirk spreading over his lips.
“You’re finding this funny.”
“I’m not you know. I’m just as worried as you are that you could be stuck like this forever. But…”
“But?”
He shrugged “It could be worse.”
“How could it?”
“You could be stuck in the body of an old man, rather than a young kid. At least as a kid you could have some fun.”
“If I were an old man then I’d be able to buy cigarettes.”
Now he was serious. “You are not polluting your young body with drugs, Sherlock.”
“Why not? At least they might take the edge off it. Oh forget it, I need to keep thinking. I’m not getting anywhere with how, let’s think about why. Where’s the file for the Hinsbury case?”
~
When Lestrade dropped in later that afternoon John was so relieved to see him he nearly pushed the detective inspector up the stairs. Sherlock’s investigations had rather stagnated so as far as John was concerned, any further developments on the case were welcome. Anything to stop Sherlock from climbing out the window to go find more clues.
“How is he?” Lestrade asked.
“He hasn’t got any younger,” John said. “And I got him to eat something. He’s upstairs watching TV.”
“No, no, no!” the screams of a little boy met them as they entered the flat. “That’s an overly simplistic description of the motivations behind the English Reformation. How are children supposed to learn from this program?”
“What’s he watching?” Lestrade asked.
“Horrible Histories,” John said wearily.
The instant he spoke the television was switched off and Sherlock appeared at his side.
“Lestrade. You have news.”
“We’ve got preliminary results back on your blood tests.” John was impressed at how businesslike Lestrade managed to be. He was clearly working very hard to forget he was talking to a five year old. “There’s definitely some kind of foreign chemical in your system but the lab have been unable to identify it. I brought you the analysis.”
Sherlock snatched it out of Lestrade’s hands. The phrase ‘like a child grabbing at sweeties’ drifted across John’s mind. Sherlock immediately started dashing about the flat picking up the papers from Hinsbury’s lab from wherever they had landed after he’d flung them about an hour before. Lestrade shuffled uncomfortably in the doorway as Sherlock began poring over the notes with an intensity John was sure the police officer had never seen in a child before.
“Ha!” Sherlock’s outburst made both of them jump. “There it is. The makeup of the chemical is similar to the experimental products of Dr Hinsbury. He discusses it in his notes here. Purely theoretically of course but what if he got further, what if he managed to produce something of interest to the criminal fraternity and that’s what was stolen and that’s why he was killed. But why use it on me? Why not? After all they would be wanting to test it on someone and I was getting too close, I almost had them. Use it on me and it takes care of two problems at once. They find out how it works and I can’t follow them. Well they’re wrong there. Lestrade, do you have any leads on the suspect?”
“The dead man had links to a company called Rejuvatech. We’re investigating there-”
“Well come on then, let’s go.”
John opened his mouth to protest.
“Sherlock, no!”
He looked over at Lestrade in shock that the other man had beaten him to it.
“It’s too dangerous.” Lestrade continued
“Too dangerous?” Sherlock was looking at Lestrade as if completely unfamiliar with the concept.
“You could get hurt, Sherlock. I’m sorry but I can’t let you. You have to stay here, where you’re safe.”
“When have I ever let risk get in the way of the work?”
“You never do but this time you’re not you.”
“I am still me.”
“No, you’re not, Sherlock. I’m putting my foot down.”
John watched the inspector in astonishment and wondered how much experience he had with children to have a scalding voice down pat.
Sherlock blinked at Lestrade. “Fine,” he said eventually, the young voice sounding strange oozing with so much sarcasm. “I’ll just go back to watching telly shall I?” He marched back to the high-backed chair facing the television and threw himself into it so he couldn’t be seen from the doorway. “Let’s see if there’s anything on CBeebies.”
The television was switched back on. John briefly considered asking Lestrade to teach him how to do that as it was so effective. Now if only he could get it work when Sherlock was an adult...
Lestrade turned to John. “I need you to stay here and look after him. If these killers really are using him-”
He was interrupted in dramatic fashion as a plate of beans on toast thwacked into the side of his head. John stared in shock as the bread slipped down the side of Lestrade’s face and the beans stained his shirt. From the high-backed chair came an unmistakably childish giggle.
He was glad he hadn’t asked for the lessons now.
They both turned to look at Sherlock. He was crouched on the high-backed chair so only the top of his face was visible. There was no missing the sparkle of mirth in his bright blue eyes.
Lestrade grunted and stalked out, shutting the door a little too hard. Sherlock raised his head so John could see his wide grin.
“You were right,” he said, “This could be fun.”
John groaned, regretting ever saying those words. This did not bode well.
Part 2
