Title Drop

...

Sherlock had frozen the moment he had realised that John's eyes were on him, paralysed by a thrill which wasn't entirely terror, but had too much fear to be pure excitement. John, he realised as his much smaller heart began to calm down, had not moved either.

He could, perhaps, work this to his advantage.

And then suddenly John's eyes were darting about all over the place - over at the door, the ventilation, the lab equipment... It was at the last one that Sherlock decided that enough was enough and spoke out, probably breaking the entire Borrower rulebook in the process, but hey, rules were made to be broken.

"If you so much as think about dropping a beaker on top of me like I'm some common bug, think again. So much as for one secondthink about it, and so help me I'll make sure you won't sleep properly again."

Oh, now John really was staring at him. Although at least it wasn't the kind of look that promised a squishing.

That wouldn't have been interesting at all, if for no other reason than that he'd need to start looking for another home.

Except that now the much larger human was moving forwards and coming closer. Wary, Sherlock took a step back before he even realised what he was doing, and then when he did stopped short and crossed his arms.

"No, no. But, seriously, you're real? I'm not just seeing things?"

Incredulous, but listening. Maybe...

"I'm not something you need to tell your therapist about, if that's what you were thinking."

Oh, that took him aback. Sherlock bit back a smirk.

"Wait, what? How-?"

"Should be obvious, don't you think?"

"What? No! No, it isn't! And- what are you, anyway?"

"Not a 'what', a 'who'. I'm physically exactly the same as you lot are - just smaller. And you're supposed to be a doctor..."

"I- yeah..." Oh, the slow look of realisation. "Sorry. Uh."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Oh, great. I think I broke him.

"Okay. So. You're..."

At that precise moment, Sherlock felt a prickling at the back of his neck - something he'd felt and ignored shortly before John had appeared in favour of the lab equipment.

He was about to be seen. For the second time in one day. Either he was the unluckiest Borrower in their history for a very long while, or-

"John, put me in your pocket."

"...What?"

"I said, put me in your pocket. I shouldn't have to repeat myself."

"That's what I thought you said. But-"

In a few seconds, your friend Mike Stamford is going to come in here and he's going to see me unless you do something, and that thing happens to be putting me in there. Got that? It's not that difficult, surely!"

John brought a hand up to his face, mumbled something to the effect of 'I'm going crazy, I know I am', and obediently picked Sherlock up carefully, thumb and forefinger on either side of his chest - a precarious position that Sherlock hoped never to have to be in again - before moving him rapidly through the air and dropping him, just as the door opened again, into his pocket.

"Back here again, are you?"

"What? Oh! Oh, yeah. Sorry, forgot my jacket. I'll be right out."

The door closed again, but Sherlock's sight and hearing were still muffled by the expanse of pocket he was in. Instead of panicking, he made himself comfortable, leaning back against one of the crease lines so as to make as little of an impression on passers-by as possible, too.

"I don't even know your name!"

Sherlock laughed at the hissed objection as they headed off toward the door - and the outside world. Obviously he'd been outside before. But simply never as openly as this, and never with the human involved aware of things.

"Sherlock!" He called up the moment they were outside and with enough open space that there wasn't any fear of being found out. Also, a faint voice could be mistaken for someone on their phone, or a shout from afar. "Sherlock Holmes!"

"Great. Oh, just great. And now- what? You want me to take you home and give you food and stuff? I- Wait, wait. What're you laughing at? I can tell you're laughing in there..."

"You don't need to do any of that."

"Oh, I don't, do I? And why might that be?"

"Because I'm already living in the flat. Have been before you arrived, that's for sure."

For a moment, John stopped walking, having made a strange noise that Sherlock couldn't completely make out, yet still found gratifyingly amusing.

"You- what-?"

"Keep walking," Sherlock hissed up. "You're attracting attention."

John started up again, although it was rather stilted, and he was obviously distracted as they made their way back to Baker Street. Distracted enough that he didn't notice Sherlock poking his head out the top of John's pocket from time to time to simply marvel at the wonders of the human world- the cars, the buildings, the machines! It was all by far out of the league of anything that he'd ever seen Borrower-made, and he was sure was never going to be able to be perfectly reproduced that much smaller. His coat, if nothing else, was notable for, while being warm in the winter, also being a slight bit too thick and too big for his size, even taking into consideration that he was tall for his species.

Clothes were generally either made from scraps found left lying around, or borrowed from the doll cases and boxes of those girls who'd long since stopped wanting to play with such things, at the time when things got lost so easily, and who knew if something never found its way back in? The coat had been a rare find, and the warmth had been something he'd always be grateful for in winter.

And now, as John's putting the key in the lock and stepping inside, he's left wondering if he did the right thing.

He should have run, should have left everything behind. But he hadn't. Why hadn't he?

He shrugged to himself mentally as John carried on up the stairs and took his jacket off with Sherlock still in it, protesting at the injustice of being smothered by a great deal of heavy fabric as John apologised now that he realised what he'd done wrong. He must have forgotten - something Sherlock would have to cure him of.

...

AN: ...Guess what, guys. I CONTINUED IT.