John gave a light groan, feeling a kink in his neck coming on as he lifted his head a bit to blink the blurriness from his eyes and focus on the figures standing by the books.
“Hey,” he whispered as he rubbed at his eyes. He glanced at his watch, then offered a tired but warm smile. “Bit early to be up. Everything okay?”
He kept his tone light and conversational, not wanting either of them to feel put on the spot. John wasn’t interrogating them, just checking up in case they needed something.
Saving people, solving crimes The flatmate business
Over a decade ago, a serious of unfortunate events led to the Winchesters, at only a few inches in height, being forcibly relocated to London. Now, they’ve adjusted to their size and found a new home to live in that just happens to be the same residence of a certain detective and his blogger…
After coming to terms with the existence of witches and magic, and fuming over the attack on John, Sherlock would research his brains out trying to find a way to fix his flatmate.
In the meantime, their relationship would remain the same. Sherlock would see no reason to treat John any differently just because he changed sizes, though his protective side will certainly show. John will be safe, and the most he’ll have to worry about is how portable he is now. Sherlock can and would easily pluck up his tiny doctor and carry him along wherever he’s going. Poor John might have to fight for a bit of independence, but that’s about it.
And John will definitely find some creative way to defend himself, just in case he and Sherlock are separated.
Whether he was cursed as a child or born smol,
John would make the best of the hand he’s dealt. His size wouldn’t stop him
from learning how to help others his size, becoming as close to a doctor as he
can manage to be without training, and generally being a little badass. And he certainly wouldn’t take kindly to any giants who mess with those he loves.
Maybe I’m biased because of The Hobbit,
but I imagine borrower John wielding a sharpened half-scissor broken off of a
swiss army knife x3
Timeline: Before the first story, after the brothers move into 221B Baker Street
It was just another supply run.
There was no reason for either brother to think this morning would be any different from any other.
It was becoming their regular routine; wake up early, grab some food from the cabinets, keep an eye on Sherlock and John while they were up and about. Midafternoon to evening was a good time to catch some sleep with the humans at their most active, and during the night the brothers would pick through the main room of the flat, reading up on the materials Sherlock scattered about his latest cases and grabbing extra supplies for the supply room they were building across the fireplace from their home.
It had only been a week since officially moving in, but so far the schedule was holding out. There were a few hiccups along the way while learning and they had to have chosen the most erratic humans around, but the brothers remained hidden against all odds.
“Anythin?’ “ Dean hissed at Sam as he hesitantly pushed at the entrance into the cupboard.
Sam paused, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the strange knack he had. Without that ability, moving into this particular flat would be ill-advised. Between the two of them and their unusual abilities, it became worth the risk.
“Nothing,” Sam confirmed, and Dean climbed into the cupboard to begin their raid.
Throughout the last week, Dean had begun the lengthy process of creating entrances where they were most needed. It was a skill he’d picked up like a natural, mechanically inclined the way he was. Mapping out the walls was accomplished the first few days, and Sam had created an intricate diagram using some scrap paper and the broken tip of a pencil Dean had tracked down for them to use. On that diagram he had marked off the most desired entrances into the main area where the humans lived, and was slowly checking them off as they were completed.
The entrance into the cupboards for food being one of the most important ones to make.
Now, they could slip right in under the humans’ noses and get what they needed to survive. It wasn’t much compared to what someone normal sized might eat, but they’d learned harsh lessons early in life that they weren’t seen as people. No handouts would ever come their way.
Sam brightened up at the sight of a new box of cereal, the top already opened. “It’s fresh!” he chirped brightly, letting his hand fall to his hook in preparation.
Dean nodded. “I’ll keep watch,” he said, stationing himself between the teabags and the cereal so he could see the front of the cabinet in case it was opened.
Sam tossed his hook into the air. His aim was not as good as his older brother’s, but the three prongs made it easier to get a catch, and the sturdy weight of the hook wasn’t a deterrent with his natural strength. It caught on a flap, and Sam tugged it questioningly. With it holding fast, he started to climb up the side of the box with his boots braced against the side and his grip tight on the black thread, the weight of the cereal inside preventing it from tipping over on him.
Reaching the top quickly, Sam balanced uncertainly on the uneven ground. It took some doing, but he was able to work one hand under the top flap and tug it open, revealing the food inside. With his satchel empty, there was plenty of room to stash the food, and no way for John or Sherlock to know some was missing unless they weighed the cereal by gram as they ate.
The humans in the flat were odd, but not quite that odd.
Sam balanced with one boot on either side of the box and started to scoop up the cereal one piece at a time, filling them into his bag as he went, his position precarious.
John was especially groggy as he entered the kitchen. Not only had the night out with his friend Mike Stamford gone on for longer than he’d meant it to, but the storm that followed made John’s old bullet wound act up, disrupting his sleep for the rest of the night.
The doctor rubbed absently at his left shoulder, the gloomy morning still giving him an ache there. Ordinarily he’d get something for breakfast started before getting his tea, but ever since he’d moved in with Sherlock Holmes not so long ago, John found his schedule being arbitrarily changed– mostly his sleep schedule; John was certain he still hadn’t recovered from that late night filing through a pair of dead men’s books– and his habits shifting. Right now, he was in dire need of caffeine.
There was water left in the kettle, so all he had to do was plug it in and push down the little switch to get the heat started. Rubbing his eyes in attempt to get rid of that heavy feeling in his lids, John fumbled at the cupboard door and groped blindly for a teabag.
The footsteps weren’t unexpected, but what was unexpected was the lack of reaction in Sam’s knack. Light washed over the tiny pair as the wide door swung open.
Both brothers’ froze.
Unbelievably, considering how Sam was perched on top of the cereal box, one boot braced on either side, and how Dean was frozen right out in the open, John Watson didn’t notice them.
The oblivious human wasn’t even looking in their direction as his hand stretched out, blindly groping past the box Sam was stuck on.
Dean snapped out of his shock, stumbling away from the grasping fingers that were longer than he was tall. As he backed away, his hand fell on another of the boxes shoved in there by Sherlock.
Teabags.
Saying a prayer under his breath, Dean grabbed a teabag from the box and shoved it in the direction of John’s huge hand. All he could do was hope that if John got what he was looking for, the human doctor wouldn’t glance into the cupboard and spot Sam, who had no fast way down from the box unless he fell inside with the cereal.
John’s fingers latched onto the thin material of the teabag, curling into a loose fist around it as the hand retreated. With a half-yawn, half-groan, John let the cupboard door fall closed and dropped heavily into a chair while he waited for the kettle to boil.
As the door slammed shut, Sam sucked in a breath. John hadn’t noticed. Sam was right there, perched on a box of cereal, and he hadn’t seen a thing.
How?
While the sounds of John peacefully preparing his cup of tea filtered into the cupboard, Dean tilted his head back and waved for Sam’s attention. Catching Dean’s meaning, Sam inched his way backwards until he reached where his hook was lodged, and scaled down the box.
Time to get out of the cupboard before their luck ran short.
Dean couldn’t stop himself from snorting at how obtuse the client was on the phone, likewise assured that he couldn’t be heard from his spot in the corner of the room. “She might flee from that attitude,” Dean muttered under his breath, rolling his own eyes in a tiny mimic of Sherlock’s, though he remained riveted on the details of the case.
“You know, they warned us about moving into this flat, but we thought they were exaggerating about Sherlock.” Sam laughed. “There was so much space in the walls, and plenty of room to work with, we figured we’d make it work. And helping with his cases is fun. We get to help people, one way or the other, just like Dad.”
“Oh God,” John chortled, letting his hand drop. He could only imagine what kinds of things– factual and rumor alike– that could be spread about the smaller community. The fact that there was a smaller community that knew about them, or Sherlock at the very least, was equally thrilling and weird to think about.
Sherlock was absolutely fuming at this development, now fully assured that this was a personal jab at him. He spent nearly the entire day going back and forth between ranting and raving about it and silently stewing.
“What have I ever done to them?! ” he exploded that evening after nearly two hours of silence. He was curled into an angry ball in his armchair.
John shot him a look, tilting down his laptop screen. "It may have something to do with you trapping them in jars, Sherlock.”
Sherlock moved Dean further away and dropped him into the prepared jar, releasing his grip as low as the glass would allow.
That done, he carefully placed the miniscule blade onto his freed palm. It was so small he had to squint to see any kind of detail in it, until he remembered the pocket magnifier he always kept on his person. He fished the little instrument out of his pocket and used his teeth to slide it open. The newly-uncovered lens offered a much better, if slightly distorted view of the much tinier weapon.
“Excellent workmanship,” he murmured, taking note of how impossibly fine it was. Sherlock was making an honest effort to not underestimate these miniature men, but a silver knife of that caliber seemed well outside the resources of someone shorter than a finger.
Setting the magnifier aside, Sherlock let the knife slide from his palm to the counter, a good deal away from the edge where it could get accidentally brushed away.
Brothers Apart 