Pocketlock RP: Part two

Sherlock did not think he’d be able to sleep much tonight. The pain still throbbed through him, and he knew the aspirin would put up a laughable fight against it. He had a worrying feeling that John would feel the need to play nursemaid for the next few days, and while the man was not quite as bothersome as he’d originally thought, he did not want to be confined too long. He didn’t like the idea of becoming too comfortable with the human. Yes, he was simply curious now, but Sherlock knew that when Humans became too fascinated by his kind, they tended to exert a more proprietorial air. Down that road, men became pets to larger, more powerful men. Be it in a subtle or overt way.

Perhaps he would not move to a new building entirely, but it would certainly be prudent to stay clear of 221B for a while.

However, since he would be stuck here for some time, it couldn’t hurt to talk with John a bit. He was after all a little curious about life from a humans point of view.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

Ah, that would be John’s dinner, no doubt.  

000

John swore under his breath, dropping the things he had gathered on the bed and rushing to the door. He had completely forgotten about dinner. As he passed through the living room he glanced over at Sherlock, who to his relief was still lying prone on the kitchen table. Luckily enough the kitchen was tucked out of eyesight from the door to the flat.

Opening the door as little as he could without seeming rude John paid the man and took his food. Setting the paper bag on the counter by the sink he went to retrieve Sherlock’s supplies. “Back in a mo’,"he promised his new acquaintance, and soon returned with a bundle of items. The pin and handkerchief had been easy enough to acquire, but the best he could do for a room was an old topless shoebox he had found at the top of the bare closet.
“There we are," he announced, setting the lot on the kitchen table. “Sorry if it’s not exactly like you planned, I did the best I could."

000

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. It was a very weak gesture. “It is more than adequate John, thank you.” He said, taking in the sight of the supplies. “You’ll need to cut some holes in the bottom, no larger than a twelfth of an inch each, and find something to weigh the box down so it is not easily lifted from the outside.” he instructed calmly, as if it had not crossed his mind that he was helping the human effectively trap him.    

000

John frowned and look about for something to cut the box with. He was going to have to borrow something from Mrs. Hudson. “Dinner first," he said decisively, and began pulling out the Chinese food he had ordered. “Do you… would you like any?" he asked Sherlock tentatively, unsure quite what the small man ate, or if he was even hungry at all. Surely his body could use some nourishment to speed up the healing process.

Besides, John was starving. The box could wait until after food, especially considering that no rat was going to come around while John was in the middle of the kitchen.

000

Sherlock sighed. He certainly was not hungry, not with the roiling pain and nausea he was experiencing. But the fact was that he had not eaten in almost two days, being quite caught up in a case reported in the newspaper as a string of strange suicides.

Eating would be hard, but he should do it anyway.

“Probably a good idea. I won’t require much.”  


000

John portioned off a bit of food as neatly as he could, leaving out the messy bits likes sauce and placing it on a napkin close to Sherlock. He never handed anything directly to him; it just seemed a bit too awkward, such an invasion of personal space given their size differences. “It would be a good idea if you could manage it," John encouraged, returning to eating his own portion. “So… erm…"The words came out slowly, almost stammered; he wasn’t very good at making conversation, and didn’t get much practice with it. “You live in the building then?" Fair enough question he supposed, though he hoped it wasn’t too invasive. Sherlock seemed very… private.

000

Sherlock once again fought to sit up, his leg screaming in protest. He ignored the pain, trying to focus instead on the food he would have to ingest. He suddenly found he did not like the idea of eating with his hands. Not in front of a human audience. It all seemed so... Mouse like. But, as no other options presented themselves, he simply reached forward and grabbed a stir fried pea.

“So... Erm... You live in the building then?” John asked. Ah, here it came. The verbal game of cat and mouse. Humans always fished for information when they had caught one of his kind. The trick was not to reveal anything that could lead back to your kin. Sherlock had no kin, at least not in this building, but still, if he wanted to keep living here he’d have to lead Watson in a slightly skewed direction.

“I use it often. It’s a place out of the rain where I can mind my interests in peace. Seems I shall have to find a new workroom now.”

000

  Now John felt bad- not only had Sherlock obviously felt the question to be too personal, but now he was forcing this man out of a space he had inhabited for much longer than John. “You don’t have to do that, you know," John carefully responding, unsure of how Sherlock would react. “I mean, you could stay. I won’t bother you, I promise." He meant it, too; he was curious about Sherlock, who wouldn’t be, but the last thing he wanted to do was make anybody uncomfortable. Especially not somebody with a practically unusable leg and a high possibility of dying without it.

000

In a strange sort of way, Sherlock wished he could believe the man. He seemed like an easy enough person to get on with, as far as humans went, and frankly he’d become quite attached to the flat in the time that he had lived there, and would miss the ability to walk it freely. But it was... Unwise. And it frustrated him.

He put his food aside, barely touched. “I think I would like to rest now.” he said, a little coolly.”

000

  It was understandable. Sherlock had been through a lot and obviously used to company. Still, John couldn’t help but feel a bit hurt. “Uh, sure," he said, putting the rest of his food in the refrigerator and hovering nervously. “I’ll, erm, be in the bedroom if you need anything." He turned sharply and left the room, thoughts and odd feelings tangling in his head. It had ended up being a very strange day indeed.

000

Sherlock huffed irritably as the man left without setting up the box. It was obvious he'd disappointed John, possibly even hurting his feelings, but really, was that any call to leave him here without protection? Perhaps some damage control was in order. He was after all dependant on Mister Watson's good graces.

"John!" He shouted, hoping the man could hear him from across the room.  

000

A hopeful little spark kept in johns chest as his name was called, though he would never admit to it. " yeah?" He asked, popping back into the kitchen. Seeing the supplies left on the table he made the connection. “Oh right, the box, sorry!" He hurried over to remedy the issue, feeling awful about forgetting. In his defense, it had been a while since he had been for to care for a patient. But that, John knew, was no excuse.

000

John caught on quickly as to the reason he'd been summoned back to the kitchen. Sherlock watched as the larger man set about fixing up his temporary lodgings.

He didn't really know what to say to the man, or if anything needed saying at all. He had never been good with civil conversation, not among his own kind and never with Humans. How was one supposed to proceed?

"I'm... sorry, for being so curt with you. You are doing me an astonishing service." He trailed off, unused to giving thanks to others.

000

“That’s okay," John replied in a small voice, still focusing his attention on the box. “I’m not doing my job as a doctor very well either, so I guess we’re both a little off." He did appreciate the thanks though, even in the indirect way Sherlock had given them. For a few horrid moments he had thought the small man had hated him, hated him for being in a place he had no right to be. Despite the fact that he had a perfect right to be there and Sherlock seemed a bit reticent, John still felt a bit that way. Being a rather short man, it was not often that John felt big or imposing. He wasn’t sure he liked it all that much, at least not under these strange circumstances.


“Done," the doctor sighed, having arranged the box to Sherlock’s specifications. He turned to the man on the table with a small frown. “Is it alright if I, erm, pick you up?" he asked carefully, flushing a bit at the awkwardness of the situation. “It’s really the only way to move you with the least amount of harm."

000

Sherlock relaxed, insofar as that was possible in his current state. It was apparent he had not alienated John after all. He lay back down, resting his back against the unforgiving wood of the table.

“That won’t be necessary.” He said, closing his eyes and subconsciously steepling his fingers over his chest, the way he always did when he wanted to think without distraction. “Simply upend the box and place it over top of me.”  

000

“Are you sure about this?" John asked, holding the box. Everything had been set up like Sherlock asked, but he still didn’t feel right practically trapping his patient in a cardboard box. John couldn’t help but worry about the small man; he had treated his wound, after all, so in a way Sherlock was his charge now. “Once I go to bed I won’t be able to hear you either- not through the box and the wall. If you have anything else to say, now is the time."

000

Every primitive instinct he had was telling him no, that this was a bad idea and he should be trying to flee, not submitting to this voluntary imprisonment. He ignored them all.

“I’m ready.” He said flatly. “once the box is in place, find something to weight it down. A book, a mug, anything should do. Just so long as it insures the box cannot be lifted from the outside. At least,” he smiled wryly, “Not by anything my size.”

000

"Okay…" John said hesitantly, and placed the box gently over his patient. Looking around he grabbed the only mug he owned, his army one, and set it neatly on top. “I’m, uh, going to bed now," he announced, feeling very strange standing in the middle of his kitchen talking to a cardboard box. Luckily he didn’t seem to have any neighbors at the moment, and Mrs. Hudson lived downstairs.

So there was nobody to call him crazy. Nobody human, at least.
Sherlock grunted a reply, pulling the handkerchief and the pin close. He really was very cold. He heard John step away from the box and enter the bedroom, leaving him alone in the dark with his thoughts.
This had been a most unusually unpredictable day.

000

He thought about John, and he thought about the future, trying to calculate the likelihood of a... Well, call it a partnership,  actually working  between the two of them. John had offered to let him stay in the flat, and with a human around, he would not have to waste so much time pilfering from Mrs. Hudson.
It would leave him more time for his true passion.
Also, he would not have to wait for Mrs. Hudson to leave every day, if he wanted to use the computer. Sherlock had noticed what had looked like a laptop among Mr. Watson's meager belongings. He was sure the man would let him borrow it, if he asked.


Naturally, there were always the usual considerations to take into account. If things did not work out between him and the human, if John grew frustrated or angry with him after the novelty of having a tiny flatmate wore off. He knew he was abrasive at best, abusive at worst.


Of course, John did not seem like the sort to intentionally harm him, but a careless swat or awkward fall could be fatal.
It was amid mixed thoughts like these that the man finally fell into a light sleep. The pain keeping him coasting in and out of consciousness all through the night.  

000

John slipped into the bedroom and shut the door quietly. Sifting through his suitcase he pulled out his nightclothes, ignoring the rest. He lay on the unfamiliar bed with a sigh.

Today had been a very unusual day indeed.

Of all the things to find in a new flat, he had found an impossible man with a seriously injured leg. Oh, and he happened to be less than five inches tall. John wondered idly if he was going crazy, more out of a feeling of obligation than an actual consideration. The events of the day had been all too real to be part of his limited imagination.

He wasn't entirely sure what to think of Sherlock. Most of his attentions had been paid to the wound, not the man himself. Sherlock seemed… distant, and a bit demanding. He was startlingly intelligent. How else could he possibly have known all those things earlier? Still, there was something captivating about the stranger; and not just his size. Something told John that a relationship with the small man would be an interesting one indeed.
It took John a while to fall asleep, what with all the thoughts in his head competing for attention. But when he did, he spent his first night since the accident not haunted by nightmares of the war. Yes, this relationship was going to be interesting indeed.