Sherlock: The Habits Of Cats
Title: The Habits Of Cats
Wordcount: 396
Rating: G
Paring: Sherlock/John mention of Mycroft
Notes: I'd been meaning to write Sherlock as Cait Sidhe for a while now and I finally got the excuse! I may consider writing more in this verse at some point, simply because well, I'm a sucker for cat!Sherlock.
Summary: Sherlock can't even fathom claiming to be human.
He never claimed to be human.
Granted, he never claimed not to be human either and Sherlock is well aware that humans assume that, if it walks and talks like them, then it's one of them.
But still, he never claimed to be human and that's the point.
Mycroft did, he put on a human glamour and played their games. He pretended to be one of them, even though he so obviously wasn't. They were never as small, never as simple as muns.
And yes, sometimes he was bitter at his brother for doing it, for pretending, for lying so blatantly. It made him, frustrated because how could he pretend? How could he just go along with things and act like one of them when they were so much more?
Mycroft would simply smile and move, scratching his brother behind the ear and Sherlock would grumble and swat at him and the fight wouldn't be over but he would be momentarily placated until his brother annoyed him again.
Sherlock didn't bother pretending. He didn't hide his intellect, he didn't hide behind glamor. His features were strange, his skin pale, the only thing he does is blunt the tips of his ears, make them curve instead. He still purrs when content, he still hisses when he's especially angry or annoyed or, on the rare occasion it happens, scared.
He was almost certain John knew, he had to. he wasn't entirely stupid and Sherlock left clues everywhere, his manners, his actions. Still, he was never certain, never positive. It didn't concern him exactly but he found himself, every now and then, wondering if he knew and, if he didn't, wanting to tell him, to be honest with him.
It's the closest thing to love that Sherlock experienced, honestly. Total honesty, not just the obvious facts that he states to the world.
And then one day, John comes home and Sherlock is more than testy. He's angry at the world for it's stupidity, angry for it not being interesting, angry at everything and more than ready to start shooting holes in the wall again, only John had taken to hiding his gun in better locations than previously.
John moves, his hand moving to scratch behind Sherlock's ears and the back of his neck.
Sherlock starts to unwind, his muscles going slack as his body relaxes.
He knew John wasn't completely stupid.
Wordcount: 396
Rating: G
Paring: Sherlock/John mention of Mycroft
Notes: I'd been meaning to write Sherlock as Cait Sidhe for a while now and I finally got the excuse! I may consider writing more in this verse at some point, simply because well, I'm a sucker for cat!Sherlock.
Summary: Sherlock can't even fathom claiming to be human.
He never claimed to be human.
Granted, he never claimed not to be human either and Sherlock is well aware that humans assume that, if it walks and talks like them, then it's one of them.
But still, he never claimed to be human and that's the point.
Mycroft did, he put on a human glamour and played their games. He pretended to be one of them, even though he so obviously wasn't. They were never as small, never as simple as muns.
And yes, sometimes he was bitter at his brother for doing it, for pretending, for lying so blatantly. It made him, frustrated because how could he pretend? How could he just go along with things and act like one of them when they were so much more?
Mycroft would simply smile and move, scratching his brother behind the ear and Sherlock would grumble and swat at him and the fight wouldn't be over but he would be momentarily placated until his brother annoyed him again.
Sherlock didn't bother pretending. He didn't hide his intellect, he didn't hide behind glamor. His features were strange, his skin pale, the only thing he does is blunt the tips of his ears, make them curve instead. He still purrs when content, he still hisses when he's especially angry or annoyed or, on the rare occasion it happens, scared.
He was almost certain John knew, he had to. he wasn't entirely stupid and Sherlock left clues everywhere, his manners, his actions. Still, he was never certain, never positive. It didn't concern him exactly but he found himself, every now and then, wondering if he knew and, if he didn't, wanting to tell him, to be honest with him.
It's the closest thing to love that Sherlock experienced, honestly. Total honesty, not just the obvious facts that he states to the world.
And then one day, John comes home and Sherlock is more than testy. He's angry at the world for it's stupidity, angry for it not being interesting, angry at everything and more than ready to start shooting holes in the wall again, only John had taken to hiding his gun in better locations than previously.
John moves, his hand moving to scratch behind Sherlock's ears and the back of his neck.
Sherlock starts to unwind, his muscles going slack as his body relaxes.
He knew John wasn't completely stupid.