Tales From The Teacup (2/3)
Title: Tales From The Teacup (2/3)
Author: yourebrilliant
Rating: PG for references to murder
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
Part 1
Darting down the alleyway, Sherlock made sure to skirt around the edge of the disturbed dirt. Peering at the scene before them, Sherlock swept his coat back and crouched down, his brow furrowed as his mind raced. Using his curls for purchase, John climbed up the side of Sherlock’s head until he sat astride the top, two long curls held like reins as he peered over Sherlock’s forehead. Silently Sherlock gestured at the area around them, making connections within the confines of his own mind. Curious, John peered closer trying to emulate him. Undoubtedly he was missing twelve different things that were, even now, speaking to Sherlock of the killer’s name and address, but he did manage to notice the small pile of shattered glass, near Sherlock’s crouch, that likely was the remains of the victim’s watch face. Suddenly, Sherlock lunged forwards, and John had to cling to the curls in his hands to stop himself from tumbling from his precarious perch. When he recovered, Sherlock had his phone out and was snapping a picture of the earth near the shattered glass.
‘Got something?’ John asked, leaning forward. Sherlock tipped his head back, as if he could see John if he leant back far enough. Putting him out of his misery, John abseiled down the side of Sherlock’s head and padded to the far end of his shoulder, where Sherlock could turn his head to keep John in sight.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock allowed, when he could see John again. ‘Distinctive footprint in the earth here, near where the victim must have fallen-’
‘Because of the watch glass?’ John interrupted, pointing to the small pile of glass.
‘Well done, John!’ Sherlock cried, his face lighting up briefly. John tried not to blush at the rare praise, and gestured for Sherlock to continue. ‘Ah, yes, footprint,’ he held up the phone so John could see the picture Sherlock had snapped of a petite footprint with a distinctive L etched in the sole, ‘matches a print on the suit jacket of the victim.’ Here, he scrolled back a couple of shots to show a corner of the victim’s expensive suit jacket - down near the abdomen John guessed - where a similar dusty footprint was clearly visible, including the distinctive L. ‘Definitely a man’s footprint, but unusually petite, size four probably, which means bespoke shoes.’ Sitting down on Sherlock’s shoulder, John had a clear view as Sherlock opened an internet window and began a search for bespoke shoe makers in the area. He quickly discovered a shop nearby; Lodger. ‘Ah ha! Bespoke shoe shop with an L!’
Sherlock lurched to his feet, and for one terrifying second, John was freefalling, sliding down the front of Sherlock’s smooth overcoat with nothing to hold onto, until suddenly, he was cupped in the palm of a warm long-fingered hand. ‘Sherlock!’ John cried, fear making him sharp. ‘Bloody hell!’ Sherlock said nothing, but his grasp was gentle when he set John back in his pocket, and he stroked John’s hair in tacit apology. John huffed a little, but reached up to stroke the finger in return. Then, scrambling to his feet, he peered over the top of Sherlock’s pocket. Sherlock was adjusting his scarf, preparing to leave when something caught John’s eye. ‘Wait!’ he cried, and Sherlock halted abruptly, almost bending himself in two to look at John with raised eyebrow. ‘Over there,’ John said, stifling giggles at the sight of Sherlock’s mad hair hanging down from his upside down head. ‘Is that blood?’ He caught sight of a gleam of interest in Sherlock’s pale green eyes, before Sherlock straightened abruptly and strode around the edge of the alleyway to the area John had indicated. Crouching over the spot of rusty-brown, Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass and peered closer.
‘Indeed it is, John,’ he murmured approvingly.
‘But, the victim wasn’t bleeding,’ John said. ‘Well,’ he amended, under Sherlock’s scathing glance, ‘not here.’
‘No, no,’ Sherlock said grinning predatorily, ‘I suspect we will find that this blood belongs to our assailant. But how…ah!’ he cried suddenly. John started at the sudden sound and had to clutch at the top of the pocket to retain his balance. ‘The ring!’ Whipping out his phone, he furiously began to type a text message.
DON’T CLEAN RING!
SH
‘What about the ring?’ John asked. Sherlock frowned at him for a second.
‘There was blood on the ring. Looked like it came from the slit wrists, but actually,’ he contorted his right hand, twisting the wrist at an unnatural angle as he spoke, ‘it was sitting outside of the blood pool, so how did it get blood on it? Because the victim managed to punch his attacker and the ring broke the skin!’
‘Fantastic,’ John whispered.
‘Obvious,’ Sherlock muttered distractedly, retrieving a vial from somewhere in his jacket and using the edge to carefully scoop up the blood. He had capped the vial and was slipping it back in his pocket when his phone buzzed again.
Where are you?
Get back here!
‘Aren’t you going to answer?’ John asked, as Sherlock dropped the phone back into his pocket.
‘No,’ Sherlock replied shortly. Standing again, he made his way to the edge of the alleyway and flagged down a cab. As Sherlock flung himself into the back seat, John crouched low in Sherlock’s pocket to avoid being seen.
~*~*~
‘Tea?’ John called, as they entered the flat. Sherlock nodded distractedly, setting John on the countertop in the kitchen before slinging his coat and scarf on the hook beside the door. As Sherlock paced frantically in the tiny amount of spare carpet, John puttered about the counter, carrying milk pots from the countertop fridge and hoisting a pyramid teabag into the one-cup teapot. When the pot had had its brewing time, he climbed up the wheeled staircase locked in place next to the handle and carefully levered up the teapot so that tea poured out of the spout into the tea cup below. When he determined that the tea cup was appropriately full, he carefully pulled back on the handle, setting the teapot back on its trivet. Climbing down again, he unlocked his staircase and pushed it over to stand next to Sherlock’s full teacup. Locking it in place, he made his way over to the pile of ripped kitchen towel squares and retrieved one and his tiny mug. Scaling the wheeled stairs again, he dipped his mug in Sherlock’s tea cup, wiping off the excess and carefully carrying the mug back down the steps. When he was done, he whistled sharply and Sherlock came into the kitchen to retrieve him and the teacup.
Without speaking, Sherlock set John on the mantelpiece next to a miniature arm chair from a doll’s house, and resumed his pacing, absent-mindedly sipping from his teacup at the same time. ‘Ring was real but the watch was fake, ring was real but the watch was fake,’ he muttered between sips, ‘why? Expensive suit, fake watch, bespoke shoe-oh! Oh!’ Abandoning his tea on the nearest surface, Sherlock grabbed his coat, scooped John from his armchair - ‘Watch my tea!’ - and set him in his coat pocket as he ran out of the flat and clattered down the stairs.
Peering over the top of the pocket, John could see Sherlock frantically scribbling something on a scrap of paper. As they burst out of the front door, Sherlock folded a fifty pound note around the paper and thrust it in his other pocket.
‘Where are we going?’ John called.
‘Dinner,’ Sherlock responded shortly.
Before John could ask further questions, a scruffy young-woman with about twenty dreadlocks, thrust a cup in front of Sherlock and asked ‘Any spare change?’
Sherlock smirked knowingly. ‘I might have,’ he murmured, dropping the fifty into the young woman’s empty coffee cup.
‘Nice one,’ she murmured, smiling at him.
Sherlock nodded abruptly and flagged down a cab.
Part 3
Author: yourebrilliant
Rating: PG for references to murder
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
Part 1
Darting down the alleyway, Sherlock made sure to skirt around the edge of the disturbed dirt. Peering at the scene before them, Sherlock swept his coat back and crouched down, his brow furrowed as his mind raced. Using his curls for purchase, John climbed up the side of Sherlock’s head until he sat astride the top, two long curls held like reins as he peered over Sherlock’s forehead. Silently Sherlock gestured at the area around them, making connections within the confines of his own mind. Curious, John peered closer trying to emulate him. Undoubtedly he was missing twelve different things that were, even now, speaking to Sherlock of the killer’s name and address, but he did manage to notice the small pile of shattered glass, near Sherlock’s crouch, that likely was the remains of the victim’s watch face. Suddenly, Sherlock lunged forwards, and John had to cling to the curls in his hands to stop himself from tumbling from his precarious perch. When he recovered, Sherlock had his phone out and was snapping a picture of the earth near the shattered glass.
‘Got something?’ John asked, leaning forward. Sherlock tipped his head back, as if he could see John if he leant back far enough. Putting him out of his misery, John abseiled down the side of Sherlock’s head and padded to the far end of his shoulder, where Sherlock could turn his head to keep John in sight.
‘Mm,’ Sherlock allowed, when he could see John again. ‘Distinctive footprint in the earth here, near where the victim must have fallen-’
‘Because of the watch glass?’ John interrupted, pointing to the small pile of glass.
‘Well done, John!’ Sherlock cried, his face lighting up briefly. John tried not to blush at the rare praise, and gestured for Sherlock to continue. ‘Ah, yes, footprint,’ he held up the phone so John could see the picture Sherlock had snapped of a petite footprint with a distinctive L etched in the sole, ‘matches a print on the suit jacket of the victim.’ Here, he scrolled back a couple of shots to show a corner of the victim’s expensive suit jacket - down near the abdomen John guessed - where a similar dusty footprint was clearly visible, including the distinctive L. ‘Definitely a man’s footprint, but unusually petite, size four probably, which means bespoke shoes.’ Sitting down on Sherlock’s shoulder, John had a clear view as Sherlock opened an internet window and began a search for bespoke shoe makers in the area. He quickly discovered a shop nearby; Lodger. ‘Ah ha! Bespoke shoe shop with an L!’
Sherlock lurched to his feet, and for one terrifying second, John was freefalling, sliding down the front of Sherlock’s smooth overcoat with nothing to hold onto, until suddenly, he was cupped in the palm of a warm long-fingered hand. ‘Sherlock!’ John cried, fear making him sharp. ‘Bloody hell!’ Sherlock said nothing, but his grasp was gentle when he set John back in his pocket, and he stroked John’s hair in tacit apology. John huffed a little, but reached up to stroke the finger in return. Then, scrambling to his feet, he peered over the top of Sherlock’s pocket. Sherlock was adjusting his scarf, preparing to leave when something caught John’s eye. ‘Wait!’ he cried, and Sherlock halted abruptly, almost bending himself in two to look at John with raised eyebrow. ‘Over there,’ John said, stifling giggles at the sight of Sherlock’s mad hair hanging down from his upside down head. ‘Is that blood?’ He caught sight of a gleam of interest in Sherlock’s pale green eyes, before Sherlock straightened abruptly and strode around the edge of the alleyway to the area John had indicated. Crouching over the spot of rusty-brown, Sherlock whipped out his magnifying glass and peered closer.
‘Indeed it is, John,’ he murmured approvingly.
‘But, the victim wasn’t bleeding,’ John said. ‘Well,’ he amended, under Sherlock’s scathing glance, ‘not here.’
‘No, no,’ Sherlock said grinning predatorily, ‘I suspect we will find that this blood belongs to our assailant. But how…ah!’ he cried suddenly. John started at the sudden sound and had to clutch at the top of the pocket to retain his balance. ‘The ring!’ Whipping out his phone, he furiously began to type a text message.
DON’T CLEAN RING!
SH
‘What about the ring?’ John asked. Sherlock frowned at him for a second.
‘There was blood on the ring. Looked like it came from the slit wrists, but actually,’ he contorted his right hand, twisting the wrist at an unnatural angle as he spoke, ‘it was sitting outside of the blood pool, so how did it get blood on it? Because the victim managed to punch his attacker and the ring broke the skin!’
‘Fantastic,’ John whispered.
‘Obvious,’ Sherlock muttered distractedly, retrieving a vial from somewhere in his jacket and using the edge to carefully scoop up the blood. He had capped the vial and was slipping it back in his pocket when his phone buzzed again.
Where are you?
Get back here!
‘Aren’t you going to answer?’ John asked, as Sherlock dropped the phone back into his pocket.
‘No,’ Sherlock replied shortly. Standing again, he made his way to the edge of the alleyway and flagged down a cab. As Sherlock flung himself into the back seat, John crouched low in Sherlock’s pocket to avoid being seen.
~*~*~
‘Tea?’ John called, as they entered the flat. Sherlock nodded distractedly, setting John on the countertop in the kitchen before slinging his coat and scarf on the hook beside the door. As Sherlock paced frantically in the tiny amount of spare carpet, John puttered about the counter, carrying milk pots from the countertop fridge and hoisting a pyramid teabag into the one-cup teapot. When the pot had had its brewing time, he climbed up the wheeled staircase locked in place next to the handle and carefully levered up the teapot so that tea poured out of the spout into the tea cup below. When he determined that the tea cup was appropriately full, he carefully pulled back on the handle, setting the teapot back on its trivet. Climbing down again, he unlocked his staircase and pushed it over to stand next to Sherlock’s full teacup. Locking it in place, he made his way over to the pile of ripped kitchen towel squares and retrieved one and his tiny mug. Scaling the wheeled stairs again, he dipped his mug in Sherlock’s tea cup, wiping off the excess and carefully carrying the mug back down the steps. When he was done, he whistled sharply and Sherlock came into the kitchen to retrieve him and the teacup.
Without speaking, Sherlock set John on the mantelpiece next to a miniature arm chair from a doll’s house, and resumed his pacing, absent-mindedly sipping from his teacup at the same time. ‘Ring was real but the watch was fake, ring was real but the watch was fake,’ he muttered between sips, ‘why? Expensive suit, fake watch, bespoke shoe-oh! Oh!’ Abandoning his tea on the nearest surface, Sherlock grabbed his coat, scooped John from his armchair - ‘Watch my tea!’ - and set him in his coat pocket as he ran out of the flat and clattered down the stairs.
Peering over the top of the pocket, John could see Sherlock frantically scribbling something on a scrap of paper. As they burst out of the front door, Sherlock folded a fifty pound note around the paper and thrust it in his other pocket.
‘Where are we going?’ John called.
‘Dinner,’ Sherlock responded shortly.
Before John could ask further questions, a scruffy young-woman with about twenty dreadlocks, thrust a cup in front of Sherlock and asked ‘Any spare change?’
Sherlock smirked knowingly. ‘I might have,’ he murmured, dropping the fifty into the young woman’s empty coffee cup.
‘Nice one,’ she murmured, smiling at him.
Sherlock nodded abruptly and flagged down a cab.
Part 3