A Pocket Full of Sherlock
It had started out as simple curiosity.
Being small came with its advantages, Sherlock had realised from a young age, but more often than not, he found himself staring the disadvantages in the face and ranting off to the rat's skull in his shoebox-sized home how very unfair it all was.
The humans - he didn't deign to call them by the name the rest of his race had given them; they had a scientific name, and he would use it - had it lucky. They had long legs, and long arms, and they could reach things. Simply stepping outside one's house was not an issue, and they did it every day. And, more to the point, far more humans ended up dead each year than borrowers. If nothing else, there were far, far more humans, tightly packed into (for them, anyway) smaller spaces, which would inevitably cause that sort of thing.
The thing was, when he'd been younger, the idea of borrowing had - almost - been enough. He would one day decide, however, that danger in and of itself was no fun at all, and in fact it was quite boring. He needed something to put his mind to work as well as his body, not only his mind the way that Mycroft had gone. His brother, he had long since decided, was an absolute bore when it came to anything interesting or useful.
He had moved out at eighteen. It had been spring, and one of the owners of the human house his family had chosen to make their home had decided to take a trip into London, creating the perfect opportunity for an enterprising young borrower.
It hadn't taken long to find the underground network, but he had quickly decided that he much preferred being topside to the subterranean lifestyle these tunnel-dwellers had chosen. But some asking around and getting to know the locals meant that he hadn't been homeless long.
Baker Street was a good place to be, and 221 gave him three options for a new home of his own. He had quickly ruled out the first, as there was already an occupant, and the basement was too much of a risk - if there was an infestation, that would be the first and worst affected area of the house. So, in the end, he took 221b, and customised for himself a neat little place above the fireplace and behind the wall.
For the longest time, it suited him quite nicely. He slowly built up a collection of odds and ends from the flat and from the surrounding houses; things that wouldn't be noticed, because humans never really noticed anything unless it was pointed out to them in words so simple even the youngest borrower couldn't misunderstand. For food, he raided the cupboards of the woman who acted as landlady.
It was, of course, the last point that had him nearly getting caught several times a week. The first time, he had nearly given himself a heart attack - he could have been seen - but then, he realised that she hadn't paid him any mind.
Drugs - soothers, she called them. If he only went down when she was on her medications, then he could get away with almost anything. It didn't even matter if he was seen, he learned to realise, since she put him down to her imagination, and the missing bits and pieces from her cupboards to her poor memory.
Then came the day that everything changed.
It had started with the sound of the front door closing. Ordinarily this wouldn't have bothered him, except that this time there was a second set of footsteps, and they were coming up the stairs. They were coming up to 221b, to his flat, his part of the house.
"I mean, it's not much, but it'll do, right?"
"What? Er, yeah. It's amazing. I still can't believe you're doing this for me, really, I-"
"Oh, think nothing of it. Now, let me go down and make you a nice cup of tea while you settle yourself in, you hear me?"
As soon as Mrs. Hudson had gone, Sherlock risked a look.
The man she had invited in was hardly tall by human standards, with blond hair cut in a way that suggested military, and put together with his stance did more than suggest. He glanced around the room, taking everything in, leaning somewhat to one side onto the stick - which by the wear of it was not for decoration. Yet he seemed to be forgetting about it, standing to attention in the middle of the room.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. The man might be interesting to watch, but he was invading his space, his home. And if Sherlock decided that he wasn't welcome, then the man would find himself either intensely inconvenienced, or gone.
...In the end, neither of those things happened. The man was incredibly quiet, mostly keeping to himself. He did, however, have a couple of flaws in Sherlock's eyes - one was that he rarely went out, and the other that he was rather more observant than most of the humans he'd come into contact with so far. At least, so far as the fridge and the cupboards went.
This had led to things becoming rather awkward, but Sherlock had been able to deduce a certain few other things about the man in the meantime; that he was an army doctor, that he had gone to St. Bart's, that he had a drunken sister - he'd originally assumed brother when he'd noticed the phone lying face-down on the table and read the name 'Harry' engraved on the back, but had been proved wrong after being forced to listen to a terse phone call. He also knew - both due to the phone and the phone call - that Harry had been married, but now was not.
His undoing, as it turned out, had been the assumption that he'd be able to hitch a ride with his new flatmate to St. Bart's. He'd always wanted to see the old hospital, having only heard of it before now.
He had managed to - somehow - stay undetected and under the radar right up until the lab. John had gone in, put his coat down, and forgotten it.
Some few minutes later, he came back to retrieve it.
Just as Sherlock, in all his innate wisdom, had clambered up to one of the shelves which, ironically, was just at the right height to be eye level for one Dr. John Watson.
AN: I… might continue this? I don't know. Maybe.