Tales From The Teacup
Title: Tales From The Teacup (1/3)
Author: yourebrilliant
Rating: PG for a corpse
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/tiny!John Lestrade
Summary: Lestrade has a new case for Sherlock and his tiny partner
A/N: Yeah...technically this is case!fic, mostly it's crack about Sherlock and tiny!John inspired by sadynax's awesome teacup!John art here
It was some time very early in the morning - clocks, ha! clocks are boring - when Sherlock finished his current experiment, gave a bone-cracking stretch and realised that it had been several hours since John had gone to make the tea. Granted, it wasn't easy for him, after all he had to cart the milk from the mini-fridge to the tea-cups one milk pot at a time, but he was usually much faster than this. Twisting in his seat, Sherlock looked over at the countertop and frowned. Everything was laid out, his cup sat neatly in its saucer, the little milk cartons were lined up next to the cup and John's wheeled step ladder was propped against the teapot, set at the perfect angle for pouring. But there was no sign of John. Suddenly there was a snuffling noise that sounded as if it was coming from inside his tea cup. Springing from the stool he had set up next to the kitchen table, Sherlock crossed the small space in one step and peered down into the cup. And smiled. Curled up inside the cup, fast asleep, was John. In seconds Sherlock had deduced the course of events leading to this situation, but it was not important. Fetching another cup, Sherlock poured the tea and added milk with his customary efficiency, before carrying both teacups back to the table. Taking a drink of tea, Sherlock reached out and gently stroked John's soft hair for a long moment. Then, setting both tea cups out of harm's way, he returned to his experiments, smiling softly to himself.
~*~*~
John awoke to the sound of something buzzing loudly nearby. Flinging his arm out to shut off the alarm, he suddenly found his world tilting on its axis. ‘Sherlock!’ he cried, feeling his bed tip sideways. Before he could hit the ground, Sherlock had reached out to catch him. ‘Sherlock,’ John said wonderingly, as he opened his eyes for the first time since waking, ‘why am I in a teacup?’
‘You fell asleep there,’ Sherlock commented distractedly, scrolling through the text message that had woken John as he spoke.
‘Right, well, that makes total sense,’ John muttered. ‘Fell asleep in a teacup.’
‘You were tired and making tea,’ Sherlock elaborated. ‘Ah ha!’ he cried suddenly. ‘Lestrade has something for us!’
‘New case?’ John asked, managing to wobble upright and clutch the sides of the cup cradled in Sherlock’s careful grasp.
‘Here,’ Sherlock said, setting John next to the phone so he could read Lestrade’s text.
Suspected suicide.
Suspect it’s not.
Savile Row, look for the
crime scene tape. L.
~*~*~
John was already wearing his custom-made miniature rubber gloves - well, it wasn't like the police could afford them - when he and Sherlock swirled up to the crime scene. Swaying in time with Sherlock's stride, John braced himself against the abrupt stop-and-drop manoeuvre Sherlock pulled as soon as they reached the body.
A tall man in his late thirties was lying on his back in the middle of the room wearing an expensive looking suit, with his wrists slit. Reaching down, Sherlock gently lifted John from his coat pocket and placed him on the victim's chest. Padding about the victim's clothes in his custom-made blue coverall, John checked the victim for cause of death. Above him, Sherlock ran careful fingers over the victim, his quick eyes assessing everything to lay bare the victim's secrets.
'Well?' he whispered finally, crouching near John and pretending not to hear Sally Donovan muttering 'Freakier than ever,' under her breath as she passed the open doorway.
'Bruises on the face and neck,' John replied in his careful way. One of Anderson's idiots thumped past them, jostling the body slightly and Sherlock reached out to stop John from falling. John smiled up at him, resting one hand on the fingers Sherlock had curled protectively around him. 'Slit wrists-'
'But?' Sherlock interrupted, eyes gleaming as he waited for John to make the connection. John looked confused, and Sherlock gently set him next to the victim's wrists.
'But...they were cut post-mortem. Not enough blood,' John concluded quickly. 'Set me back on the body?’ he asked. Sherlock set him in the centre of the victim’s chest. John padded lower down, pushing with one foot and then both hands on the victim’s abdomen. ‘Bloating,’ he concluded. ‘Died from internal bleeding and the killer slit the wrists later to make it look like a suicide.’
'Excellent, John!' Sherlock cried. Motive?' he asked abruptly.
John frowned at the victim's carefully arranged hair, fake tan, and expensive gold watch. 'Love?' he suggested. 'Looks like a bit of a player. Fight with a lover went wrong?'
Sherlock shook his head, eyes gleaming. 'Money!' he cried excitedly. 'Right,' he cried, as John abandoned his tiny rubber gloves and protective suit away from the body, 'next clue! We're off to the betting shop!'
'The betting shop?' Lestrade called from the doorway. 'How d'you get that?'
'Look at his nails!' Sherlock called, as he tucked John in his pocket and swept away.
'It's not really his nails, is it?' John commented, clinging to the top of the pocket as Sherlock clattered down the stairs. 'There's a ticket stub in his hand, I saw it when I was looking at his wrists.'
'And Lestrade will see it when he looks at the victim's nails,' Sherlock muttered. John giggled quietly, sitting back as Sherlock turned left and went pelting down Savile Row.
~*~*~
Lying down in Sherlock’s pocket, John enjoyed the feeling of flying as Sherlock’s coat flared out behind him, with John in it. Occasionally, Sherlock would have to turn a corner and John would fly closer to Sherlock or further away depending on which way he was turning. At one point, he felt his world twist and heard the honk of a car horn, and he knew Sherlock had flung himself over the front of a car as he crossed the street. A hand covered the top of the pocket and John reached up to tap a rhythm on the nearest finger, confirming to Sherlock that he was safe and unharmed. After a moment the hand retreated and John felt his precarious protection swing forward and then settle back, and he knew Sherlock had stopped moving.
Staggering to his feet, he saw that they had arrived in front of a betting shop and Sherlock was standing outside, frowning at his phone. ‘Trying to set a record?’ John called, hands cupped either side of his mouth.
‘Testing a hypothesis,’ Sherlock remarked abruptly, dropping his phone into his other coat pocket - he was careful about that - and spinning on one heel. John fell backwards with the force of it, throwing his arms out to brace himself against the fabric.
‘Oi!’ he called. ‘A little warning when you do that!’
Sherlock halted abruptly and looked down into the pocket. ‘Are you unharmed?’ he called, one eyebrow raised.
‘So far,’ John called. One side of Sherlock’s mouth crooked in a half-smile, although his eyes remained unfocused as his mind worked furiously. ‘Care to share?’ John called.
A long-fingered hand slipped inside the coat pocket and John clambered on, clutching Sherlock’s thumb tightly as he was lifted up to Sherlock’s shoulder. Climbing off, John clambered inside Sherlock’s scarf where it curved round his neck, his mouth near Sherlock’s left ear, one hand clutching a soft black curl for balance.
‘The ticket stub in the victim’s hand was for a wager against a football game. The game ended at 3.45,’ retrieving his mobile, Sherlock flashed what looked like a match report at John, before dropping the phone back into his pocket. ‘The victim lost his bet,’ Sherlock commented. ‘His watch was smashed when he fell to the ground, and stopped at 3.48. At a full out run, it still took me five minutes to reach this betting shop from our victim’s flat-’
‘So he couldn’t have been killed in his flat,’ John interrupted. ‘Brilliant!’
Sherlock nodded distractedly. ‘However, he could have been knocked out near the betting shop and taken to the flat when the attacker panicked at having a dead body on his hands.’ John clung tightly to Sherlock’s curls as Sherlock started walking at a deliberately despondent pace towards the victim’s flat. Within a minute’s walk, they encountered a narrow alleyway and Sherlock’s eyes lit up with glee.
Part 2
Author: yourebrilliant
Rating: PG for a corpse
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/tiny!John Lestrade
Summary: Lestrade has a new case for Sherlock and his tiny partner
A/N: Yeah...technically this is case!fic, mostly it's crack about Sherlock and tiny!John inspired by sadynax's awesome teacup!John art here
It was some time very early in the morning - clocks, ha! clocks are boring - when Sherlock finished his current experiment, gave a bone-cracking stretch and realised that it had been several hours since John had gone to make the tea. Granted, it wasn't easy for him, after all he had to cart the milk from the mini-fridge to the tea-cups one milk pot at a time, but he was usually much faster than this. Twisting in his seat, Sherlock looked over at the countertop and frowned. Everything was laid out, his cup sat neatly in its saucer, the little milk cartons were lined up next to the cup and John's wheeled step ladder was propped against the teapot, set at the perfect angle for pouring. But there was no sign of John. Suddenly there was a snuffling noise that sounded as if it was coming from inside his tea cup. Springing from the stool he had set up next to the kitchen table, Sherlock crossed the small space in one step and peered down into the cup. And smiled. Curled up inside the cup, fast asleep, was John. In seconds Sherlock had deduced the course of events leading to this situation, but it was not important. Fetching another cup, Sherlock poured the tea and added milk with his customary efficiency, before carrying both teacups back to the table. Taking a drink of tea, Sherlock reached out and gently stroked John's soft hair for a long moment. Then, setting both tea cups out of harm's way, he returned to his experiments, smiling softly to himself.
~*~*~
John awoke to the sound of something buzzing loudly nearby. Flinging his arm out to shut off the alarm, he suddenly found his world tilting on its axis. ‘Sherlock!’ he cried, feeling his bed tip sideways. Before he could hit the ground, Sherlock had reached out to catch him. ‘Sherlock,’ John said wonderingly, as he opened his eyes for the first time since waking, ‘why am I in a teacup?’
‘You fell asleep there,’ Sherlock commented distractedly, scrolling through the text message that had woken John as he spoke.
‘Right, well, that makes total sense,’ John muttered. ‘Fell asleep in a teacup.’
‘You were tired and making tea,’ Sherlock elaborated. ‘Ah ha!’ he cried suddenly. ‘Lestrade has something for us!’
‘New case?’ John asked, managing to wobble upright and clutch the sides of the cup cradled in Sherlock’s careful grasp.
‘Here,’ Sherlock said, setting John next to the phone so he could read Lestrade’s text.
Suspected suicide.
Suspect it’s not.
Savile Row, look for the
crime scene tape. L.
~*~*~
John was already wearing his custom-made miniature rubber gloves - well, it wasn't like the police could afford them - when he and Sherlock swirled up to the crime scene. Swaying in time with Sherlock's stride, John braced himself against the abrupt stop-and-drop manoeuvre Sherlock pulled as soon as they reached the body.
A tall man in his late thirties was lying on his back in the middle of the room wearing an expensive looking suit, with his wrists slit. Reaching down, Sherlock gently lifted John from his coat pocket and placed him on the victim's chest. Padding about the victim's clothes in his custom-made blue coverall, John checked the victim for cause of death. Above him, Sherlock ran careful fingers over the victim, his quick eyes assessing everything to lay bare the victim's secrets.
'Well?' he whispered finally, crouching near John and pretending not to hear Sally Donovan muttering 'Freakier than ever,' under her breath as she passed the open doorway.
'Bruises on the face and neck,' John replied in his careful way. One of Anderson's idiots thumped past them, jostling the body slightly and Sherlock reached out to stop John from falling. John smiled up at him, resting one hand on the fingers Sherlock had curled protectively around him. 'Slit wrists-'
'But?' Sherlock interrupted, eyes gleaming as he waited for John to make the connection. John looked confused, and Sherlock gently set him next to the victim's wrists.
'But...they were cut post-mortem. Not enough blood,' John concluded quickly. 'Set me back on the body?’ he asked. Sherlock set him in the centre of the victim’s chest. John padded lower down, pushing with one foot and then both hands on the victim’s abdomen. ‘Bloating,’ he concluded. ‘Died from internal bleeding and the killer slit the wrists later to make it look like a suicide.’
'Excellent, John!' Sherlock cried. Motive?' he asked abruptly.
John frowned at the victim's carefully arranged hair, fake tan, and expensive gold watch. 'Love?' he suggested. 'Looks like a bit of a player. Fight with a lover went wrong?'
Sherlock shook his head, eyes gleaming. 'Money!' he cried excitedly. 'Right,' he cried, as John abandoned his tiny rubber gloves and protective suit away from the body, 'next clue! We're off to the betting shop!'
'The betting shop?' Lestrade called from the doorway. 'How d'you get that?'
'Look at his nails!' Sherlock called, as he tucked John in his pocket and swept away.
'It's not really his nails, is it?' John commented, clinging to the top of the pocket as Sherlock clattered down the stairs. 'There's a ticket stub in his hand, I saw it when I was looking at his wrists.'
'And Lestrade will see it when he looks at the victim's nails,' Sherlock muttered. John giggled quietly, sitting back as Sherlock turned left and went pelting down Savile Row.
~*~*~
Lying down in Sherlock’s pocket, John enjoyed the feeling of flying as Sherlock’s coat flared out behind him, with John in it. Occasionally, Sherlock would have to turn a corner and John would fly closer to Sherlock or further away depending on which way he was turning. At one point, he felt his world twist and heard the honk of a car horn, and he knew Sherlock had flung himself over the front of a car as he crossed the street. A hand covered the top of the pocket and John reached up to tap a rhythm on the nearest finger, confirming to Sherlock that he was safe and unharmed. After a moment the hand retreated and John felt his precarious protection swing forward and then settle back, and he knew Sherlock had stopped moving.
Staggering to his feet, he saw that they had arrived in front of a betting shop and Sherlock was standing outside, frowning at his phone. ‘Trying to set a record?’ John called, hands cupped either side of his mouth.
‘Testing a hypothesis,’ Sherlock remarked abruptly, dropping his phone into his other coat pocket - he was careful about that - and spinning on one heel. John fell backwards with the force of it, throwing his arms out to brace himself against the fabric.
‘Oi!’ he called. ‘A little warning when you do that!’
Sherlock halted abruptly and looked down into the pocket. ‘Are you unharmed?’ he called, one eyebrow raised.
‘So far,’ John called. One side of Sherlock’s mouth crooked in a half-smile, although his eyes remained unfocused as his mind worked furiously. ‘Care to share?’ John called.
A long-fingered hand slipped inside the coat pocket and John clambered on, clutching Sherlock’s thumb tightly as he was lifted up to Sherlock’s shoulder. Climbing off, John clambered inside Sherlock’s scarf where it curved round his neck, his mouth near Sherlock’s left ear, one hand clutching a soft black curl for balance.
‘The ticket stub in the victim’s hand was for a wager against a football game. The game ended at 3.45,’ retrieving his mobile, Sherlock flashed what looked like a match report at John, before dropping the phone back into his pocket. ‘The victim lost his bet,’ Sherlock commented. ‘His watch was smashed when he fell to the ground, and stopped at 3.48. At a full out run, it still took me five minutes to reach this betting shop from our victim’s flat-’
‘So he couldn’t have been killed in his flat,’ John interrupted. ‘Brilliant!’
Sherlock nodded distractedly. ‘However, he could have been knocked out near the betting shop and taken to the flat when the attacker panicked at having a dead body on his hands.’ John clung tightly to Sherlock’s curls as Sherlock started walking at a deliberately despondent pace towards the victim’s flat. Within a minute’s walk, they encountered a narrow alleyway and Sherlock’s eyes lit up with glee.
Part 2