If it wasn’t for the dire circumstances they were in, Dean’s face would have been painted with fascination at the chance to work with the tools Sherlock used on his cases. As it was, he set to his task with no wasted energy, carefully mopping up every drop of blood that speckled Sam’s knife. The murky gleam of red was soon replaced by the more familiar shine.
Dean’s small size made it simple to get the blood right on the tip of the paper. It was like working with oversized construction paper, and since the blade was made for Dean’s size, he didn’t have a problem.
A small mimic of Sherlock, Dean sat back on his heels, holding up the folded paper circle for Sherlock to take, its white surface marred by the ring of drying blood.
Timeline: After moving into 221B Baker Street and before the first story
Sam ran along the tabletop, his pulse thudding in his ears as he went.
Another day, another supply run.
Of course, this time was a little different. With Dean’s odd ability, they’d been able to track down some pencil lead for Sam to use to write with, always a hard-to-find commodity even here, in a flat with belongings strewn haphazardly about and a vast treasure trove of supplies for people Sam and Dean’s size.
It was a bit of a risk, with the humans still in the building, but Sam didn’t want to risk the snapped lead vanishing when one of them cleaned up. He’d been able to find enough scraps of paper to form a haphazard journal, but needed something to write with. His old bit of lead was nearly ground to dust.
Two shards of the tip of a pencil were nestled in his leather satchel, bouncing against his side as he ran. Sam made it to the edge of the table, peering down at the floor to see where Dean was, waiting for him to get down. They couldn’t afford them both out in such an exposed place, so Dean, the weaker climber, stayed on the ground.
Instead of using his hook and thread to climb with, Sam took advantage of the chair that was leaning against the edge of the table. A black jacket was draped overtop the chair, and offered Sam more than enough handholds to get himself to the floor. He cautiously began to pick his way down the fabric, occasionally glancing at his surroundings.
Just then, the stairs between the flat and the one upstairs creaked as John descended from his room, tugging on a jumper as he went. He needed to go to the bank, run to town for a few things, and was considering a stop at the pub later that night for a well-needed drink.
And with Sherlock shut in the bathroom preoccupied with his bioluminescent bacteria cultures, without a case on, John had a rare opportunity to slip away.
John was straightening his short, sandy hair, mussed by his jumper, as he entered the main area of the flat.
Sam stiffened, and Dean didn’t need his signal to know it was time to dive for cover. The older Winchester vanished behind one of the sturdy table legs as the floor shook under his boots, unable to do anything to help Sam out without taking an even greater risk of John spotting them.
With his knack tingling a sharp warning, Sam looked up at the table. It was too far up for him to risk climbing back up and searching for a hiding spot. The floor was too far down to reach in time if John decided to come into the kitchen.
Which left him one option.
Sam let go of the fabric he was clinging too, plummeting straight down into the dark folds of the pocket which yawned open beneath his feet.
John paused at the door when he noticed his coat wasn’t on its usual hook. It wasn’t on his claimed armchair in the living room either, and that’s when he remembered he’d left it in the kitchen. With a sigh, he rounded the corner and approached the table, never spotting the small shadow that ducked behind a table leg, only leaning out slightly to keep an eye on him.
He bent to retrieve his gloves from the pocket first, without even the slightest suspicion that there was someone inside, dodging fingers longer than he was tall.
Which, from the second John’s hand entered the pocket, Sam was.
His first warning was the cold shock that ran down his back from his knack. Sam’s eyes widened in the darkness as he saw a shadow fall over the light that leaked in from the kitchen. Hide. He had to hide better.
In the pocket with him was two black gloves, providing the cushioning for his landing. Without them in the way, Sam would have tumbled all the way to the bottom of the pocket. With John so close, that’s what Sam needed. More distance.
Squirming around the gloves, Sam put them between him and the opening of the pocket. Long fingers reached in, groping around for the gloves that were stuffed inside for safekeeping. Sam spotted them, and his breathing sped up.
Hands!
Memories of his first week cursed came flooding back, and his desperation to escape John’s grasp only grew. Sam twisted around, kicking the gloves further up in the pocket interior while he slid all the way to the bottom. His first experience with hands like that, his shoulder was dislocated. The last thing he wanted to do was relive that, and it was all made worse by the knowledge that John was a doctor, more than qualified to dissect either brother if he got them into his hands. All the experiments around the flat always drove that truth home to them when they were out.
Finding the gloves right away, John’s fingers dove straight down to achieve a secure grip on them. A knuckle brushed against Sam’s jacket, the contact going unnoticed by the human as something else caught his eye.
“Dammit, Sherlock…” muttered the doctor, straightening and placing the gloves on the table.
“I said, keep your cultures off my things!” John strode toward Sherlock’s work table, delicately plucking petri dishes from his laptop, which his flatmate had a habit of commandeering. With a huff, John tucked the computer under his arm and rushed it upstairs to scrub it and lock it in his bedroom before he found anything sprouting on his keyboard.
Sam couldn’t believe his eyes. He remained flattened at the bottom of the pocket, listening to the distant footsteps as they thudded up the stairs of the flat, waiting to be sure that John was actually leaving, even after touching Sam’s jacket, the closest he’d come to a human in years. He’d thought it was all over right then, the hand would shift position, making him tumble into the human’s grasp and sealed into a fist by fingers stronger than his entire body.
Instead, John had pulled away and stalked across the flat yelling at Sherlock, and Sam was wasting his opportunity to escape thinking about it.
Quickly pulling himself to his feet, Sam scaled out of the pocket in record time. Dean was down by the table leg, staying close to cover in case the human came back. He didn’t have Sam’s uncanny knack of knowing when someone was about to come into the room and spot them, leaving him more vulnerable than Sam.
Not that it was doing Sam any good today.
Sam used the thick threads of the jacket to climb down, dropping the last few inches. His arms continued trembling from the close call, shaken. Dean’s arm was on his back to keep him steady the moment he got down, but seconds later they were running across the floor.
It was time to get out of sight for the rest of the day. Their luck had been pushed the the limit enough that week.
Don’t let anyone ever own you, came in Dean’s voice. Sam might not be able to keep himself from being taken away, but he could fight back with everything he had.
“I should have known,” Sam said, his voice dripping with venom. “You think you’re better than me because you’re taller.” He struggled to draw in a breath. Something in him refused to quit, no matter how foolish it was to backtalk a human. The memory of cages was trying to wash rational thought away, and if that happened Sam would be curled into a ball, no more useful than a mouse pup. Just like the last time he was trapped, by Sherlock.
But this time there was no John to let him out. No Dean to help him fight back. Just Sam, more alone than he’d been in years.
Sam’s head was on a swivel as he stepped towards the keys, taking it all in. He’d seen laptops operated before, but this was his first chance to see it all from up close. The screen loomed overhead, a search engine ready and waiting for him as he committed it all to memory. The powerful whirr of the hard drive came from underneath his boots, and Sam could swear his feet felt warmer than the rest of him.
Dropping his satchel down at the edge of the keyboard, Sam pulled out a blank sheet of paper and his pencil tip, just in case he needed to remember anything. He stuffed them both in his jacket pocket, pacing over to the trackpad. He knelt down, swiping his entire hand over the flat surface and was pleasantly surprised to see the mouse react to his touch the same way as it did for John or Sherlock’s fingers. It took him more work, but a few swipes moved the cursor over the entire screen, Sam slowly getting used to using it.
He clicked the search bar, then paused, realizing he had no idea what to search for first.
The circumstances in Hounds of Baskerville were a little different than in BC. When Sherlock has his big freak-out, he’s been drugged and is much more high-strung than he normally would be. Though, that’s not to say that he handles that topic perfectly.
Sherlock’s entire reality is built on science and logic, what he can see and feel and prove. He’d refuse to believe in the supernatural unless it was right in front of him. He can’t exactly deny the existence of the bitty bros, but he will struggle with the idea of witches and a curse. We’ll just have to wait and see if he runs into ghosts and vampires to gauge his reaction.
“Do you have any idea where you’re going?” Sherlock griped as Dean directed him across the street. Knowing every road and back-alley in London was only so much help when Sherlock was being led by a tiny man on his shoulder who hadn’t set foot outside in over a decade.
Dean rolled his eyes. “No,” he said pointedly. “The only times I’ve been outside in London, I’ve either been on your shoulder or in a cage.”
Dean was silent for a long moment. He very rarely tried to actively use the ability. Mostly it just happened. They needed food, and he would suddenly just know where to go. Questioning it when their lives depended on the ability seemed like looking a gift horse in the mouth.
As he focused, the prickles on the back of his neck began to grow more prominent. His surroundings dropped away.
It was like he was standing next to Sam once more, trying to hurriedly clear his mind and listen to Sam’s constant litany of ‘advice’ for how to do it.
With focus came clarity, and Dean found himself pointing before he realized his hand was moving.
Psychic freak, slipped into his mind and he angrily crushed the thought as he told Sherlock, “That way.”
She would dote on her miniature tenants to the max. Leaving out smaller treats for bitty hands, biscuits and sweets. John might have to get her to tone it down, but she definitely won’t hold back when the holidays roll around. She’s such a sweetheart, the bros certainly wouldn’t go hungry or needy with her around.
And she certainly wouldn’t hesitate to scold Sherlock if she finds out he’s been rude.
“Oh, well that clears everything up,” Dean said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. Out of all the times he’d seen Sherlock pull that one on John, he’d somehow never expected to have it turned around on him.
After being plucked out of the cupboard without warning and then told he was going to be training, also without warning or any way to prepare, this was shaping up to be quite a day already.
“You’ll have to refresh my memory,” Dean said, his gruff little voice as firm as ever and speaking with a level of authority that his size contrasted with. “Seems I have a difficult time recalling conversations I was absent for.”
Sam leaned over the bottlecap again to avoid looking at Sherlock, unable to completely hide that the detective continued to unnerve him compared to John. He tilted his cup so the drop of dark coffee splashed into the milky brown color. Dean made a face at him as he pulled over the cube of sugar, contemplating just how much to add to the bitter liquid.
“Now you’re just ruining it,” Dean complained as Sam tipped the entire cube into the cap.
Brothers Apart 