An Awkward Situation....(a Sherlock story)

The interrupted breakfast...

Sherlock didn't remember much from the night before, he remembered breaking into the facility with someone, drinking something, and then coming home. The rest was a blur. He woke to the sound of arguing, staring at his ceiling. His ceiling. He was home. Obviously.

He scoffed at himself for acting like a-well-child, and groggily pulled himself out of bed. He'd gone throughout his whole life being teased for his height, idiots, all of them. But he never quite understood why until he made his way to the bathroom, realizing he was too short to reach the facet. No wonder John was always so moody.

He stood on his tiptoes, staring at his reflection. He'd hated being a child, children were so much more vulnerable then adults, and he hated being vulnerable. It was true, he was the same person that he'd been the night before, but staring at his roundish face and large eyes, lack of cheekbones, (couldn't help it...(; )he felt a sort of insecurity. As if he was returning to his childhood, to all the teasing idiots and bullies back when he used to care deeply of what people thought. Emotions were so irritating.

After repeatedly attempting to find a way to wash his face-it ended with him making a sort of parkour jump up the toilet and positioning himself on the sink like a spooked house cat-he made his way down the stairs sleepily, growling to himself as the shouts grew louder.

"It's not my fault!"

"Really. Really? Because I seem to remember you screaming, 'lets play thumb wars but with a disembodied hand by breakfast!' now there's a limb in my toast and I'm pretty sure poor Ms. Hudson is traumatized!" Johns voice hollered, his hothead anger shaking the room. Sherlock contained a smile of interest, it was usually him being yelled at by John. It was fun listening.

Sherlock slowly peaked his head down into the kitchen, surprised-and oddly amused- at the sight of John pointing a spatula at a man like a dagger. What was better was that the man was cowering away, like he knew John could probably find a way to murder him with the kitchen utensil.

He could tell right away the man was an idiot, it was true he had a very high IQ and a degree in science, but he was also an alcoholic, and appeared to have recently left his wife. More likely, his wife left him. His calloused fingers on his left hand indicated he played a string instrument, but he obviously was horrible at it considering his long fingernails.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock was suddenly strangled in a hug from a large woman. Well, any person was large considering his size at the moment. It was Ms. Hudson, who was looking a little disorientated, and she lifted him up in the air like a potato sack, whispering in his ear vigorously, "Oh, Sherlock. I can't believe you did this to yourself! And bringing in a stranger? Did you know he and John had to share a bed? I was terrified the whole night that John would murder the poor man because he kept asking me where the knives had gone! Oh, Sherlock, your so tiny! You look like an adorable-"

"Alright!" Sherlock shouted, "You can put me down. I don't like being held."

Ms. Hudson gave a small giggle, setting him down and ruffling his hair. Honestly, did the woman not realize he was an adult?

"You," John waltzed up to him, kneeling down to face him. "how are you feeling?" He asked, concern etching his brows.

Sherlock bit his lip-the way he did when anyone showed concern- and tried his best to make an annoyed nod, "Of course I'm fine, John."

John nodded softly, "Okay..." His face, suddenly turning a horrifying velvet red, lit up with anger, "Alright, shorty, your so called friend Ludovic is absolutely insane!"

Ludovic. John kept shouting, but Sherlock had already shut him out. His memories flooded back into his brain like a flash flood, whipping so hard his head pounded. The cases. The tipper. Ludovic, the scientist who had discovered a dangerous compound, a compound he had drank. The head of the institute, the mysterious leader of it all, who'd reached out to John just the other night warning him. He shut his eyes, recalling the stark white lights blazing above him as the guards had surrounded him the night before. How had he escaped? He'd had to have been dysfunctional after drinking the vile. There was no way Ludovic could've done much, his flabby arms could hardly lift a milk carton.

Obviously they'd had to have been surrounded. He remembered screaming, running, the sound of bullets. Hazy images of Ludovic hollering like a maniac as he pushed through the crowd of guards, dragging Sherlock along with him. So he had fought off the guards. But that was impossible. It was to easy, to predictable, to...obvious.

"And I don't even know how he got on the roof! But-Sherlock, are you even listening to me? Sherlock?" John's voice snapped him back to reality, making him aware that John had apparently been speaking to him and not the wall behind him.

He waved his hand in front of John reassuringly, "Yes, yes, sounds dreadful. Though I suspect the hand would make quite an exotic taste to toast. Are you ready?"

Both John and Ludovic gave him odd expressions, "Sorry?" John muttered, his face wearing an expression that could only be explained as murderous but concerned.

"They're coming. You think they'd just let us go? They're probably circling the flat now." Sherlock muttered, making his way to the window. "By the love of-will someone please get me a stool!" He shouted as he tried-and failed-to look out the window.

John snickered as Ms. Hudson awed, as if she'd never seen anyone short before. John did live in the flat as well.

Ludovic graciously offered a chair, and Sherlock climbed on it quickly, pressing his face against the window before pulling away with a grunt. He was not a child, children pressed their faces against the window. He was a fully grown, mature adult.

"Don't see anyone," Ludovic muttered, scanning the crowd intently. It wasn't much of a crowd, anyway. The streets were full of cabs, but their were only several pedestrians strolling the tranquil morning.

John, who had also moved to examine the window nodded, "Yeah, pretty sure were not being watched."

"Wrong." Sherlock said, tapping his fingers as he examined a group of supposed "tourists", "They'll be coming in any moment now. Try offering them the toast, maybe it'll scare them off."

As John started a sentence that made Ms. Hudson yell, "John!" there was a sudden light tapping at the door downstairs.

"The game is on," Sherlock muttered, jumping from the seat and making his way to the door, only to stop as he realized John was laughing-again.

"Sorry!" John gasped, "I just can't take you seriously with aftershave on your face. You didn't actually try to shave, did you?"

Sherlock looked away, his cheeks flaming, "Shut up."