Fanfic: The Credulity of Youth (3/5)

[trillsabells]

Title: The Credulity of Youth
Beta: jupiter_ash 
Rating: PG13
Characters: Sherlock, John, Mycroft, Lestrade
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves the subjects of a dangerous and deadly experiment.
Warnings: Violence, Childish behaviour (More warnings for later parts)

Part 1
Part 2

 

“Lestrade?”

When Lestrade answered his phone later that afternoon he wasn’t entirely surprised to hear a child’s voice on the other end. Ever since that plate of beans on toast he’d become very adept at shutting up that part of his mind that was telling him this was all impossible. Sherlock was impossible, he had told himself, this was just a further development of that.

“That you, Sherlock?”

The response, an ‘I wish’ kind of sigh, was unexpected and Lestrade’s life took another tumble into the bewildering when the child said,

“No. It’s John. There’s been a problem.”

 

~

 

John woke up that morning to Twinkle Twinkle Little Star being played very badly on the violin. He groaned and reached over to look at his watch. Six AM. He’d gotten to bed at three. Mycroft was wrong, his brother had changed. This was practically a lie in by Sherlockian terms.

He crept downstairs, not wanting to disturb the impromptu recital. Sherlock was dressed in the white polo shirt and grey trousers Mrs Hudson had bought for him the day before, and was perched on the sofa playing his violin with a look of deep concentration on his face. There was a chocolate stained cereal bowl by his feet which John took as proof that Sherlock had gotten himself breakfast. John hesitated a moment, trying to remember how much sugar was in Coco Pops and wondering whether it was a good idea to feed them to Sherlock so early in the morning. He brushed the thought away, simply glad that the little boy had showed himself willing to eat something and went to have a shower and a shave.

By the time he was dressed and had fully braced himself for anything his young flatmate might throw at him Sherlock had finished violin practice and was roaming the flat looking for something else to occupy his mind.

John fixed himself a cup of coffee and sat down to watch Sherlock prowl as one would observe an exhibit in a zoo. A particularly unruly exhibit which no one knew what it would do next.

John contemplated for a moment what sort of toys Sherlock would have had as a child. Stuffed animals? Toy soldiers? My Little Autopsy with hours of fun guaranteed and very nearly fake blood?

He did wonder if Sherlock would go straight for his laptop or possibly his mobile. Either would normally be the first port of call for Sherlock as an adult to the extent that if Sherlock’s own weren’t within reach he would break into John’s. John was curious to see whether Sherlock would know what they were, whether they would be part of the memories he’d retained or if the technology would be far more advanced than what he currently remembered. In the end, however, Sherlock ignored them both and went straight for the books in the corner.

The first book plucked off the shelf was one of Sherlock’s own. It was ‘Trick or Treat’, a horror novel that John had always thought was a bit young for Sherlock. John reminded himself that it was now a bit too old for Sherlock, but at least the little boy had managed to pick the one book on the shelf closest to being age appropriate. He was just beginning to feel relieved that Sherlock seemed capable of entertaining himself when with one swift motion Sherlock tossed the book over his shoulder. By the time it landed on the floor with a page creasing thump Sherlock had already taken another book off the shelf. This one was a book about the history of the British Isles. When it also landed on the carpet behind Sherlock it made a snapping noise as if its spine had been broken. By the time the third book, a heavy reference book called ‘Paranoia’, fell John was on his feet.

 “Whoa whoa, what are you doing?”

“Bored,” said Sherlock, throwing another book over his shoulder.

“I can see that, but there’s no need to trash the place.”

Sherlock looked at him as if he was speaking nonsense.

“Don’t you ever tidy up after yourself?”

More confusion. John gave up.

“Look, there must be something we can find that will interest you, without depositing the entire contents of the bookcase on the floor. Now look, here. Read this.”

Sherlock took the book from him and turned it over in his hands as if unfamiliar.

“What is it?”

It was one of John’s medical textbooks. It was thicker than his arm and probably contained things far too adult for a five year old to read or comprehend. Somehow John was certain it would keep Sherlock quieter for longer than if he suggested putting Shaun The Sheep on the telly.

“It’s about body parts,” he said to Sherlock with a triumphant smile.

Sherlock merely looked slightly astonished.

John felt his triumph drain away. “Don’t you like learning about that sort of thing?”

“They don’t teach it at school,” said Sherlock, slowly, apparently considering the concept.

If John had ever thought about it he would have thought that Sherlock was the sort of child who had deduced seven things about the love life of the midwife before she’d even cut his umbilical cord. The idea that at one point Sherlock had been a normal child without his current obsession was a bit of a shock.

He tried to take the book back. “How about we find something else for you-”

Sherlock backed away, hugging the book to his chest. “I want to read it.”

Oh well, thought John, it wasn’t as if he could screw up this child’s life that much. After all he was destined to turn into Sherlock whatever he did. John paused to remind himself that this child wasn’t going to grow up into Sherlock, he was Sherlock. If this didn’t get fixed before Sherlock went through hormones again John had no idea what he was going to do.

“All right then. But if you have any difficulty with any of the longer words you just ask.”

Sherlock nodded eagerly.

“And I’ll tell you what,” said John reaching down for a book tucked away on the bottom shelf. “Once you’ve finished that I’ve got an encyclopaedia here. There’s a fascinating section on the solar system I want you to read. And I want you to give it special attention because I might test you on it later.”

 

~

 

John had hoped the books would keep Sherlock busy all morning so he could get back to the case, but Sherlock had barely turned the first page of the medical tome before he was barraging John with questions.

What does this say? What does that mean? What’s one of those? Is that supposed to look like that? Why did they do that? What’s that for? How do they get it to look like that? What are these? How do they get the pictures? Doesn’t your skin get in the way? How do you say that? Should that be that colour? Do I have one of those? When will it look like that? Is that real? Why’s that? How do they know? What if that doesn’t work? Why can’t they just look? What happens after that? Where’s this? Doesn’t it just fall off? Is that the same as the other thing? Have you ever seen that? Have you ever seen a dead person? What’s that? Why does that happen? When do they know? What happens to the other one? How does that work? Where do you get one of those? How do you do this? Can I have a go? Why not?

John answered as many as he dared but Sherlock, with his boundless curiosity, had a tendency to go straight for the topics and questions John knew the least about. After a few hours John decided to pry the medical textbook out of Sherlock’s hands before the little boy discovered his own science equipment and decided to try out some of the tests he’d been getting so excited about. Plus Sherlock was starting to get agitated that John didn’t actually have to hand the ‘special camera’ that made the pretty pictures of the brain the little boy had gotten so excited about.

In some ways the encyclopaedia was worse because this time John didn’t know even half the answers to Sherlock’s questions. Worse still Sherlock’s curiosity was contagious and John found himself wondering ‘why does a galaxy look like that?’ Before long he had sat down next to Sherlock and they were perusing the book together, cooing over facts about comets, and having in-depth discussions about solar flares.

By the time lunchtime came around John had taken the encyclopaedia completely off Sherlock and the little boy was entertaining himself with coloured pencils instead. Sherlock had to pull John away from the world of Jupiter’s moons with a persistent cry of, “hungry”.

John grilled some cheese on toast while Sherlock showed off his two surprisingly accurate pictures of the brain and the Milky Way. John couldn’t help a swell of pride towards Sherlock as he attached them to the fridge.

Clearly a more active engagement was required for the afternoon, something Sherlock could get on with without having to bother John every minute. In the end the toaster was sacrificed upon the altar of keeping Sherlock quiet and the little boy began taking it to pieces on the kitchen table.

John picked up a handful of the Hinsbury notes and tried to remember what Sherlock had been going on about the night before. He’d been raving about the water. But that had just been water, hadn’t it? Or had Sherlock found something else about it? Had he discovered where it had come from? There had been no water in the warehouse.

John began to wish Sherlock kept notes but of course Sherlock never indulged in accepting the possibility that someone else might have to take on one of his cases.

John remembered that Sherlock had gotten excited about his coat being dry and his shirt being wet. Why would he get so excited about the different drying times of different materials? No wait, this was Sherlock. Sherlock knew everything. If Sherlock saw something significant in the coat being dry but the shirt being wet then it couldn’t have simply been the materials in the clothing. So the shirt must have been somehow wetter than the coat. Hang on, that made no sense. If Sherlock had been drenched in water then his shirt should have been dryer than his coat because the coat would protect it from most of the water. Only if it was sweat- Oh. Oh!

The look of realisation on John’s face must have been apparent because he attracted the notice of Sherlock. If John could have seen his own expression he would have realised how similar it was to Sherlock’s whenever he caught on to something potentially case-solving. Even his hands were slightly lifted in imitation. If John could have seen himself at that moment he would have wondered if what had taken him a great deal of effort to formalise in his mind was how Sherlock thought all the time. But John thought none of these things, he was too busy having a revelation.

“The water comes from within,” he said jumping to his feet.

He was immediately struck by how silly that sounded when said aloud, but he had been so sure.

He caught Sherlock’s eye. The little boy was regarding him with something close to keen interest, as if John was a teacher and Sherlock was his pupil, waiting to be told something of value. Encouraged by the little boy’s attention and lack of confusion at his strange outburst, John continued.

“If the shirt was wetter than the coat then the water must have come from a source closer to the shirt than the coat, so it must have come from the body. What if it’s a reaction to the process? A grown man can’t just turn back into a child, he can’t just shrink, because matter has to go somewhere. It can’t just disappear. The body becomes a new shape and the water is the excess matter.”

If John could have watched himself at that moment he would have wondered whether he was turning into Sherlock. But John didn’t have time to think because at that moment two men broke down the door. 

 

~

 

“What the hell happened here?”

Arriving at Baker Street, Lestrade was greeted by the sight of a broken down door, a smashed up hallway, and a five year old bandaging the arm of a pensioner.

“Mrs Hudson was hurt when the men barged in,” said John tying a knot. “It’s not too bad but I’d appreciate it if one of your men could take her to the hospital. She seems confused and I can’t decide whether it’s a sign of concussion or just a natural reaction to…”

He waved his hand to indicate the whole situation.

Lestrade could understand why the landlady could be having problems with it. Her hallway was littered with the remnants of the vase of flowers, the walls were pockmarked with dents, the wallpaper was covered with scratches and tears, the staircase banister was broken, a dozen police officers were swarming outside and then there was John. John was now about the same age as Sherlock had been, although he was a centimetre or two taller. He was also slightly chubbier, although compared to Sherlock that wasn’t much of an achievement, and his sandy hair had kept its military haircut. As he tended to Mrs Hudson he still had the same brisk movements of an experienced doctor. He was also wearing a pair of red and black Spiderman pyjamas. This didn’t help. 

Lestrade nodded to one of the policewomen to take Mrs Hudson away then followed John up the stairs to 221B. Their flat looked even worse than the hallway. The chairs had been knocked over and the coffee table had been smashed. Two of the windows had been broken and the skull lay on the floor missing several of its teeth. The carpet was littered with broken glass and crockery and torn paper lay everywhere.

“You said two men did this?”

John nodded. “One of them was our red-haired killer from yesterday. I didn’t really get a good look at the other one. Sherlock could probably tell you a dozen things about him-”

“From what you said on the phone even if Sherlock was here he wouldn’t be in a fit state to do his usual analysis.” 

“You’d be surprised. Red head was more of a threat. The other guy seemed more nervous, not really a fighter.” John idly rubbed the back of his neck. “Certainly knew how to handle a syringe though.” 

“He got you with a syringe?”

“Must have done. I saw him with it when he came in. He went for Sherlock while I was going up against red head. I got a few good blows in then went to protect Sherlock. Must have got me in the back of the neck. Next thing I know I’m suddenly wearing a jumper far too big for me and Sherlock is being dragged kicking and screaming out the front door.”

“Did you see what vehicle they used to get away?”

John shook his head. “By the time I got down there they were gone. Sherlock said, back when he was Sherlock, that he thought he might have been used as an experimental subject. They must have taken him to run tests on. They probably would have taken me too but as you can see Sherlock didn’t exactly go down without a fight.”

Lestrade looked around at the room once more, this time with astonishment. “Wait, you’re saying all this was Sherlock?”

“Most of it. Feisty kid, isn’t he?”

“John, if their next target is likely to be you I need to get you away from here and back to Scotland Yard.”

John shook his head. “We need to get Sherlock back. They could be doing anything to him. Is there any way we can trace them?”

“We’re trying to grab the CCTV and we’ll talk to the neighbours. You can review all this back at Scotland Yard.”

John shook his head again. “This has to have something to do with Rejuvatech. I mean come on, a name like that? A chemical that de-ages?”

“The thought had occurred to me.”

“But don’t you see? It’s like the fountain of youth. In bottle form. They could charge a fortune. No wonder they’re willing to steal and kill to get hold of it.”

“Which is exactly why we need to get you back to Scotland Yard-“

“The only problem is the memory thing. Most people would like to be twenty again but not if they’re going to forget everything they’ve known since they were twenty. That must be an unexpected side effect. Actually I’ve been thinking about that and I think it might not all be the drug. It might be the brain’s defence mechanism. Neither Sherlock nor I could actually remember the transformation process. What if it’s so traumatic that the mind simply blanks it out to protect itself? The regression might be something similar. The brain can’t cope with being five years old but having all the memories of thirty plus. So it forgets them. Bit by bit. Goes back to what it knows. Or knew when the person was five.”

“Is that going to happen to you?”

“Probably.”

“Well, before it does, I want to take you back to Scotland Yard-“

“No. I was on to something before. Or rather Sherlock was on to something and I was starting to figure it out.” John started scavenging around the living room, picking up pieces of paper then throwing them over his shoulder. “The Hinsbury notes are around here and I want to look at the blood analysis again. Maybe there’s something there, something that can help us figure this out and maybe find a clue as to where they’ve taken Sherlock.”

“John-“

“And we’ve got to find a cure so that we can reverse this when we find him.”

“John, fine but I’m taking you back to Scotland Yard now.”

“I DON’T WANNA!” John shrieked with a stamp of his foot.

John looked just as amazed at his own outburst as Lestrade felt.

“I’m so sorry,” said John quietly, sinking down onto the floor in shock.

He sat cross-legged on the floor and buried his face in his hands looking for all the world like a naughty schoolboy, albeit one still wearing Spiderman pyjamas.

“John?” Lestrade said tentatively.

“This is what happened to Sherlock,” said John, his voice muffled by his hands. “A slow regression to childhood. Tantrums, sulking, giggling.”

“Beans on toast throwing.”

John didn’t appear to hear. “It’s happening quicker to me. Maybe they hit me with a stronger dose. That makes sense given that we became the same age even though I’m older than Sherlock. Maybe my mind’s just not as strong as his. Oh no, I’m going to be a child again.” He looked up at Lestrade again, his eyes wide with worry. “Whatever happens to me please don’t call my sister Harry. She was insufferable the first time round, I couldn’t cope with her again.”

“I mean it about Scotland Yard.”

“I know you do. And you’re right. Let me just gather up the evidence we’ve got here. And I don’t suppose you could get someone to buy me some shoes that fit? Also some clothes? This is going to be embarrassing enough, I don’t need to go in there in pyjamas.”

 

~

 

They got stuck in traffic on the way back to Scotland Yard; a van had broken down in the middle of a junction. Lestrade regarded John through his rear-view mirror. The child was staring idly out the window as if fascinated by all the goings on outside. The officer Lestrade had sent to buy children’s clothing had clearly thought it would be funny to get John a smaller version of his usual woolly jumper. John was made for that jumper. Lestrade couldn’t figure out whether it made him look more childlike and vulnerable or just like a miniature version of his former self.

Lestrade looked up in time to see a man with red hair smash his windscreen. He threw up his arms to protect his face then flung himself out of the car just as he heard another smash and a yelp from John as the attacker turned on the side window nearest the little boy.

The words how dare he flashed hot and indignant across Lestrade’s mind.

He tackled the red haired man, grabbing at him and swinging a fast punch but with a twist the attacker managed to turn Lestrade’s momentum and slam him up against the car, knocking all the breath from him. Lestrade felt his arm make contact with a shard of glass, cutting through his jacket and going into his flesh but all he felt was concern for his young charge as small hands grabbed at his back, holding desperately tight while their owner was being dragged from his seat. John’s scrambling only served to deepen the piercing of the glass into Lestrade’s arm and it wasn’t long before Lestrade could no longer feel him at his back and he knew the boy’s hands had been forced free.

Lestrade tried to shake himself free from the killer’s grip but was being held in place by a hand on his throat while another hand arched towards his neck holding a syringe. His whole brain became overwhelmed with a repetition of John Watson’s earlier words. Oh no, I’m going to be a child again. His body seemed to revolt against the thought and almost of its own volition his foot lashed out to catch the man in the knee and his uninjured arm arched up to grasp the syringe. With all his strength he forced it back into the attacker’s neck and pushed the plunger.

The red haired man staggered back and Lestrade jumped clear of the car ready for action, ready to get John Watson back and hurt these men for daring to attack an officer of the law. But then what he saw cleared his head of anything but pure unadulterated shock. The killer was melting.

Water poured off the man as he physically shrunk, dropping two feet in height until his jeans bunched up over his shoes and his jacket sleeves covered his hands all while the man stared down at his contracting fingers in terror.

Lestrade was frozen to the spot, unable to move, barely able to think for the horror of the impossibility unfolding in front of him. He couldn’t even react in time when he was jumped from behind by the other attacker and a foul smelling cloth was forced in front of his face. For a moment he thought he heard a high voice shout his name before everything went black.



Part 4