A Small Problem

Sherlock was lying on the couch with his eyes closed, fingers poised under his chin in his usual prayer-like state. I was trying to fix the television that Sherlock had partially dismantled and attempted to put back together but failed miserably. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat up on the couch, glaring at John with mild annoyance (mild, as it was Sherlock's fault after all that the doctor was now being ridiculously loud). I continued to work slightly quieter after seeing Sherlock's look. That was when we heard knock at the door, at least I heard it, Sherlock didn't seem to acknowledge it. The television on my lap started to make a slight hissing sound. Damn.

"Sherlock?" The door was knocked again.

"Hmm?"

"Could you get that?"

"Let Mrs Hudson--"

"Mrs Hudson is out" I cut off, starting to get annoyed. "Could you get the door?"

Sherlock stood (or rather lay) his ground on the couch, not moving an inch. The door knocked again, louder and more impatient this time. I finally gave up and lifted the now useless piece of plastic and metal off my lap and made my way down the stairs, muttering under my breath how lazy Sherlock could get.

Before I reached the bottom step the door knocked again even louder than before, it sounded that who ever it was was going to break the door down. I opened the door to reveal a tall man, wearing a black suit and dark sunglasses. Before I could do or say anything, the man took out a strange looking syringe and plunged it into my neck, releasing it's contents. I gave out a strangled cry as the man removed the needle and I stumbled back to lean against the wall. The man turned and left and my head began to hurt like hell. It was like the worst migraine I had ever had times 5. It began to become unbareable. I must of screamed out because of it because I saw Sherlock run down the stairs and fall to my side. I just realised that I was now on the floor, my vision becoming blurred and Sherlock's voice sounded distant and incoherent. My eyes became heavy, I fell limp then everything went black.



********************



My head hurts. My body hurts. I tried to open my eyes but closed them again. Apparently, light hurts too. What did that guy do to me? I forced myself to sit up and opened my eyes. I was in my room, but something was different and I couldn't put my finger on it. I looked up to find Sherlock standing in the doorway with a look of worry flooding his features. He walked over and knelt beside my bed.

"How are you feeling?" he said, analysing my face with great detail.

"Better, but my --" I suddenly stopped myself as I heard my own voice. It was slightly higher in pitch which held a sence of innocence. I cleared my throat and tried again. "My head hurts" No, I'm not imagining it, that is my voice, but why?

"Do you remember what happened yesterday?" Sherlock asked.

I just shrugged my shoulders. I made to move out of bed but Sherlock placed a hand on my chest and made me lie back down. Was it me or did his hand seem larger than usual? I winced slightly at the force he unintetionaly used but that was probably from the fall yesterday. Wait, yesterday? I've slept a whole day?

"Sorry, you must be in some pain. You need to sleep and yes, it has been a whole day" he said, sensing my confusion and reading my mind like always.

"Sherlock, what is going on" I said, getting slightly annoyed due to lack of answers. He sighed and moved to the door.

"Come into the living room when you are dressed and I will explain everything" he closed the door as he left and I slid out of my bed and yawned as I made my way to my dresser.

Wait a second. Is this some kind of practical joke? I reached my dresser to find that I was mere inches taller than it. No, I've just hit my head, my vision is impared. I opened one of the drawers and grabbed one of my jumpers and pulled it on. I looked down to find that it was long enough to reach the middle of my thigh and to cover my hands compleatly. This has gone far enough. I was about to open my bedroom door when I found that the door handle was not by my waist like it usually is, but further up, near my chest. I stormed out of my room and down the stairs to the living room where Sherlock was sitting crossed legged on his armchair.

"What the hell is going on?" I half yelled at him.

"You tell me"

"What?"

"You know my methods" I was begining to get angry. My hands were balled into fists hidden under my sleves, but I decided that that wouldn't help me get my answers so I took a deep breath and tried to calm myself down. Sherlock was looking at me intently, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Why is he smiling? This is anything but funny!

"Well, my dresser is taller than me, my clothes are too big for me and my voice is that of a child! Is this some kind of practical joke Sherlock?"

Sherlock stood up and walked over to me until he was standing right infront of me. Then it hit me. I knew Sherlock was tall but not that tall. I had to crane my neck just to look him in the face. If I were to guess, I think I reached just above his waist.  

"Oh my god. I've shrunk!"

"I'm sorry John, but it's a little more complex than that" he said with all seriousness, his smirk long gone. I was about to ask what the hell he was takling about but he had lifted me up and perched me on his hip as he cleared away the pictures and diagrams that had accumulated on the mirror above the fire place.

"Sherlock put me down, this is --" I couldn't believe it. I looked into the mirror to see an extreamly young version of myself staring disbelivingly back at me. The boy in the mirror couldn't be more than 4 foot tall which would make him about 8 years old. Thats where I started to panic. That couldn't be me. It's impossible! I started to tremble slightly and I held tightly onto Sherlock's shirt so I didn't fall. Sherlock in turn held me closer to him trying to comfort me. I just couldn't believe it...

... I am a child!