Hello again. My first story was pretty angst ridden and odd, so I thought I would try my hand at something fluffier (although probably just as insane once I'm done with it). I know there are many stories involving a "de-aged" Sherlock or John, but I wanted to try my hand at one because I have taken many courses on childhood psychological and physiological development and think I can bring that prospective to the genre. Also the other story I'm working on is super dark, so I am using this at a lighter palate cleanser in between heaver courses. Please let me know what you think.

It had started as a normal day. Well, as normal as a day ever got for John Watson. He had woken up to the odor of rotten eggs and smoke filled vision only to rush down the stairs and find his best friend, flat mate, and live in git Sherlock Holmes standing over a sauce pan billowing arid clouds of dark smoke. Apparently the consulting detective had discovered a compound which could be used to create a portable smoke screen. The tall man had relayed this information whilst jumping around the flat imploring the good doctor to think about all of the possible uses for such a discovery. John Watson took a deep breath which he immediately regretted, as it led to a smoke and smell fueled coughing fit, and begun to open the windows to air out the living space. Once the air was deemed breathable John began his morning ritual of making tea while listening to his flat mate happily chatter about his new discovery. The dark haired man was in rare form that morning; the doctor had feared Sherlock was about to fall into a black mood, as he had not had a case in a week and his violin concertos had become more melancholy as the days went on. This morning however, he was rather jubilant and Watson could not help smiling at the improvement of his mood.

That was of course until he opened the refrigerator and found it lacking in milk.

"Oh, and we're out of milk." The deep baritone intoned from its perch on the coffee table.

"Sherlock, why would you let me make tea when you knew we were out?" The doctor sighed as he slammed the refrigerator door shut.

"John, I have just made an important scientific discovery, and you're worried about a trivial thing like tea," the detective scoffed.

"It's not trivial when you were woken up at four in the morning by your nutter flatmate!" John marched to the coat rack and grabbing his jacket.

"Where are you going?"

"Make a deduction Sherlock! I'm going to get the bloody milk so I can have my bloody morning tea!"

"In your pajamas?"

John looked down to realize that he was indeed in his sweat pants and an old t-shirt, but he was not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of seeing him slink back to his room to change. "Well it is four in the morning; I don't think I'm going to run into anyone I know at Tescos." With that the doctor slipped on his shoes and slammed the door as he wandered out in the search for lactose.

An hour later John Watson turned back down Baker Street plastic bags in hand. A walk had always been good for his head, and now that the sun was rising he realized that Sherlock had simply been well, Sherlock and that perhaps he had over reacted. Fishing his keys out of his pocket John decided that he would apologize to the crazy brilliant man about his outburst this morning. Approaching the door he suddenly noted that it was slightly ajar. Further inspection showed the frame had been splintered; the door had been kicked in. Plastic bags slipped from his hands allowing their formerly precious contents to be spilled onto the front landing stairs.

Making the effortless slip from doctor to captain John pushed the door fully open and shooed away the wish for his gun. The foyer was dark, the only light streaming through the now open doorway. It fell on a dark lump which lay at the bottom of the stairs in a pool for blackening red. John's felt his stomach drop at he raced forward to the figure. Stooping down he placed two fingers onto its neck. No pulse.

No. Not again.

The world stilled around the two bodies on the hard wood floor; one with dark hair lying in a quickly cooling pool of sticky life blood, and the other blonde and trembling over the first. Tears stung John's eyes as he began to turn the body of the other man. The neck had been broken, most likely from a fall down the stairs, and he had to cradle the head to turn it as the vertebra were no longer fitting together cohesively. Finally the face fell into the rays of light and Doctor Watson let out a gasp.

Not Sherlock.

The body before him was in its mid-forties, its dark face scarred with pocks from a difficult adolescence. No, this was not Sherlock. The doctor's heart swelled with relief as he quickly stood up.

"Sherlock?" John yelled. "Sherlock are you here?"

Silence seemed to stretch out an eternity before a quiet weak voice stumbled down the stairs, "John?"

Jumping over the body John bounded up the stairs, and stopped two steps short of their landing. Leaning against the base of the wall sat Sherlock Holmes in all his dressing gown glory. John was momentarily filled with joy until he truly took in the sight before him. Sherlock's normally pale visage was now practically translucent; sweat drenched his face, causing dark curls to stick to his forehead, but the most troubling sight was the syringe sticking out of his right upper arm.

"Jesus," John breathed as he fell before his flat mate. Reaching into his coat pocket he quickly procured his phone.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock slurred, hazy gray eyes following the doctor's movements.

"I'm getting you an ambulance," John quickly explained beginning to dial 999.

"No," Sherlock moaned, reaching out and placing his hand over the doctor's phone.

"Sherlock this is no time for you to be stubborn, you need to go to the hospit…"

"John, I've been lying here for forty five minutes. It's too late; I don't want to go to the hospital… please."

The tears John had been holding back began to slide down his cheeks. He had witnessed people, many people make this decision on the dessert, and he had given them their wish for comfort as opposed to medical assistance. How could he not do the same for his friend?

"Alright," John squeaked then clearing his throat began again "Alright Sherlock. What do you want then?"

Sherlock sent John a small smile of thanks, "What I want," he explained as he reached up to dislodge the needle from his arm, "is to go back into the flat."

"Alright," John conceded with a nod of his head as he placed his friend's arm around his neck to help him into the open door of the flat. John could tell Sherlock was suffering more than he let on, as the doctor seemed to be shouldering most of the thin man's weight. Still, John was surprised how easily he maneuvered the other man into the flat. Usually when he and Sherlock had done something like this in the past the height difference of the two made it difficult for them to fall into a comfortable rhythm. Now though they fell into a comfortable pace. It seemed they had perfected this strange dance, too bad it would be their last he could not help but think.

John was pulled out of his ominous thoughts by an agonizing scream coming from the man next to him. Sherlock had fallen to his knees and arched his back in obvious pain. John hurriedly dropped to his knees next to the lithe body. They had not made it to the couch like he had hoped, so the floor would have to do.

"Sherlock… shhh Hey I've got you. It's okay." John wrapped his arms around his flat mate and pulled him onto his lap. He could not give a damn if people would talk. Sherlock Holmes was dying and he was not going to let societal norms stop him from comforting his best friend.

"JOHN! IT HURTS JOHN!" the detective screamed gnashing his teeth. John held him tighter rubbing small circles onto his back with one hand, and tucking the curly head of hair under his chin.

Silence fell in 221B as the world's only consulting detective began to still. "Sh-Sherlock?" John breathed, fearing that he was now alone in the flat.

"It's okay," John felt more than heard rumble through his sternum, "I, I think I'm alright for now," he gasped. More silence followed before the rumble came again, "I'm sorry about the milk, John."

"Shut up," John breathed "it's just milk Sherlock you were right. I overreacted"

A deep chuckle followed, "You're just saying that because this happened. I honestly don't know how you've put up with me this long." The detective sighed, "Maybe this is for the best; I didn't know what I'd do when you finally moved out. Now I don't have to worry about it."

"Sherlock you git, I had already forgiven you before I got back to the flat."

"Why?" It seemed even pain could not hide the detective's inquiry driven nature.

"Because I had three years without you, and I was bloody awful at it. You're my best friend Sherlock, I can't imagine my life without you, and now you're leaving me again."

"I am sorry John."

"No, Sherlock its fine. It's all fine." Before he realized what he was doing John had placed his lips on the crown of the consultant's head. His curls were drenched with sweat, but the scent of his expensive shampoo still lingered. The younger man tensed in his lap, and John suddenly noticed what he had done and pulled back. God, did he really need to make Sherlock's lasts moments awkward?

To John's surprise the young man suddenly relaxed, and shockingly wrapped his arms around John's t-shirt clad torso, burrowing his face into the warn fabric.

"I'm… I'm scared John." The admission was muffled by thin cotton, but it brought tears to John's eyes all the same.

"I am too," John confessed tightening his arms around the thin man. Doctor Watson wanted to add more, something to comfort the dying man, but the moment was interrupted by a blood curdling scream. Sherlock's arms tightened around John, pushing the air out of the short man's diaphragm as he buried his head deeper into the ex-soldier's chest. John pulled him still closer to his body, rubbing circles on his back and whispering words the detective would normally scoff at as sentiment, but John desperately hoped brought some comfort. The screams of pain continued until the situation suddenly changed.

The first thing John became aware of was the growing wet spot on his t shirt. Sherlock Holmes was crying the pain must have been immense. Soon though John became aware that Sherlock's arms seemed to be retracting from him even though his hands were still wound in John's shirt, the retraction caused John's shirt to be pulled uncomfortably, but he did not mind, could not with his friend leaving this world. Through both of these experiences John kept his eyes closed, unable to watch his friend's agonizing death. When the doctor's arms seemed to be enveloping a shrinking vessel though, he steeled himself and finally looked down. The screaming had stopped by then, and an eerie silence had fallen over the flat. What he saw shocked him.

Sherlock's navy blue dressing gown seemed to be all that was left of the incredibly intelligent man. The silken garment was splayed about on the blonde's lap, reaching out to the left where his friend's long legs once rested. There was still a weight on John's legs though, and his shirt was still being gripped as though for dear life. Taking a deep breath John pulled back the material to reveal a small tussle of dark brown hair. Flinging the dressing gown farther away uncovered two small arms whose hands had a death grip on the doctor's pajamas, and legs peeking out beneath a ruffled inside out t-shirt. The most extraordinary find was the rise and fall of the small torso; breathing in the syncopated rhythm indicative of sleep.

Is angsty fluff a thing? It has to be, because I think that is what I just wrote. Do you guys want me to keep going with this or should I just keep this idea to myself? Let me know if you feel inclined, and thank you for reading.

-Nikola