Sherlock looked around the dark cell he called his home at times. His Creator put him there when he did something wrong or even when he did something right that he should not have done. He was here a lot, actually, chained to the wall with limited access to the rest of the cell, mainly a block of stone for a table and a toilet.
No need to live as a monster does, Freaky, even if you are one.
Those were the words he’d heard the first time he was put down here. He didn’t understand why he was a monster, only that monsters were bad things that lived in shadows. He was one of them, though he didn’t think he was bad. Freaky was what he was called, though a visitor once called him “Sherlock” after he figured out that the man was another doctor. His Creator and the doctor laughed at the name. It was a funny sort of name, after all, so he kept it, if only to himself. He couldn’t speak, anyway, not with the stitches in his lips. His Creator put them in after he had said something very bad to him and never took them out. It hurt for a long time but then the pain went away, the stitches disappearing even though he still couldn’t talk. How odd!
Sherlock saw a tiny thing on the other side of the cell. Another mouse? Maybe he could have another pet! He crawled over toward it as far as his chains allowed, squinting. It wasn’t a mouse. It was larger than a rat, even, but just barely. It was sort of like…a small, small person? Sherlock tilted his head. That didn’t seem right. People were big, not small. At least not as small as this. What was it? He poked it with his finger, and it let out a tiny yelp.
"Why did you do that?! That hurt!"
Sherlock was confused. It talked like people, it looked like a person, so maybe it was one. Just really small. He looked at it with an apologetic expression. He didn’t mean to hurt it.
"…hello? Can you hear me? Am I too small to hear?"
Sherlock shook his head, still curious. He touched his hair more gently with his finger.
"Yes, that’s kind of nice, thank you, but who are you? What are you doing here?"
The little person was still talking to him. No one did that! Sherlock smiled a little, wincing. Even though the stitches disappeared, he could still feel them and it hurt really bad. Sometimes he tasted metal. He pointed to the door, which was out of his reach and locked, and rattled the chains a bit. Then he pointed at himself, miming a talking gesture and then stopped, pointing to his mouth.
"So…you’re stuck down here and you can’t talk. Interesting."
Sherlock nodded. This man must really like him if he’s still talking to him! He sat back on his heels and thought before picking him up in his hands. The little man was less than pleased.
"No, don’t-I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to be doing that! Put me down!"
Sherlock sidled over to his table, setting him down and looking him in the eyes.
"Oh. Better eye contact, okay. Well…uh…my name’s John."
Sherlock drew letters in the grime that was on the wall. His Creator taught him his name, though he learned his other name on his own from the letters that were on the books His Creator read.
Sherlock nodded happily, holding out his index finger. His Creator taught him how to shake hands, but the little man’s, John’s, hands were far too small. John took the tip of Sherlock’s finger in his hand, shaking it.
"Nice to meet you, though I’ll call you Sherlock. You’re not a freak."
Sherlock shrugged. It’s what he’d been called, he wasn’t worried by it.
"Well…I didn’t mean to come here, so I really should find my way home-"
Sherlock suddenly tensed, shaking his head vigorously, his mop of dirty, curly hair swishing about and covering his eyes. He put out his finger again, he didn’t want John to leave! He was nice and he talked to him.
"No, I really have to, sorry, but my wife is waiting-"
Sherlock tried not to cry, even though he could feel the tears trying to leave his eyes. His Creator admonished him after he had cried once.
Crying is an ugly thing and when you’re already hideous, it doesn’t do you any favors.
He wrote one more word in the grime with a shaking hand.
Another word written, almost illegible in both spelling and handwriting. John gasped at it and Sherlock could feel the tears on his face, making him more ugly with each one. He could practically hear His Creator laughing in the distance.
"…alone…you poor thing."
John was small, so he couldn’t hug him like big people did, but Sherlock sniffed and John grabbed a lock of his hair, hugging it. It couldn’t have been nice hugging his hair, Sherlock knew it hadn’t been washed in a long time, but John didn’t seem to care.
"I want to hug you so you you won’t feel alone anymore. I will have to leave, but I will come back, Sherlock. Every day.”
Sherlock nodded and John wiped one of the tears away with his arm, pressing his teeny tiny lips to his own. He’d heard this was called a “kiss.” Then he was gone in the blink of an eye.
Sherlock exhaled through his nose and curled into himself, waiting.
Every day, John came back. Sherlock was excited for each time he came, and they played games and talked. Once, he’d accidentally poked John in the face and made him cry, but Sherlock petted his hair and made sure he was okay. At night, when his eyes started to become heavy, John would kiss his cheek and lay in his hand as Sherlock lay on the floor, going to sleep, and he was gone by morning. He couldn’t be happier.
He wasn’t alone.
Jim looked in on his creation, smirking. Freaky was acting weirder than usual. Almost happy, if a monster could be capable of feeling such a thing. He was talking with his hands like a common ape and drew little pictures in the dirt on the floor and walls. Maybe he did have some intelligence to him, after all.
The only thing that convinced him otherwise was that there was no one else in the room.
Freaky was alone and he would be always.