Fiction: Johnny Cat. Chapter 7: Home At Last
Title: Johnny Cat, Chapter 7: Home at Last
Rating: PG
Characters: John, Sherlock
Warnings: Snuggling with dubious consent.
Word Count: This chapter: about 4,400. Complete Story: just over 24,000.
Summary: Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of two friendships.
Beta: ShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.
Johnny Cat
Chapter 7: Home at Last
The cab ride back from Heathrow felt like the longest John had ever taken in his life. He was tired and dehydrated after what had turned out to be long and grueling plane ride, and the usually comforting sway of the taxi as it wove in and out of the late night traffic only served to make him queasy. But when it finally pulled up in front of number 221 and John saw the lit window of his flat, he was instantly cheered. Sherlock was home and now John was too: soon all would be right with the world. Tipping the cabby generously with the last of his pocket money, John stepped up onto the familiar stoop and turned the key to enter the warm embrace of home.
Upon entering the flat, however, John quickly saw that all was not as he'd expected. Sherlock, who had never before failed to greet him after a prolonged absence, was nowhere to be seen. John considered that maybe he should be happy about this, as Sherlock's usual greeting was to pointedly ignore John as he continued on with whatever destructive, anti-social activity he'd chosen, usually one involving shooting or smashing or burning or dissecting. But then John also remembered the one time he had returned to find Sherlock doing nothing at all, just lying on the couch sulking, petulantly, like an overgrown toddler. To his shame, John realized he wouldn't mind finding Sherlock in such a state because it would prove that Sherlock had missed him.
Venturing into the living room, John became increasingly uneasy. Something was amiss, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Finally it dawned on him that the room was suspiciously bare, containing about half the usual clutter. Odd too was that the remaining assortment of Sherlock's possessions (mainly books, unopened mail, and various "objets bizarres") was neatly stacked in piles rather than strewn about in the usual haphazard manner. Most disconcerting of all, however, was that the flat smelled wrong. Gone was the regular mélange of odors, the all-pervasive dust and damp punctuated by stronger smells of acrid chemicals and, on occasion, wood smoke. In its place John detected only the lemony/floral scent of a high-end cleaning product. John's first thought was that Sherlock had been performing an experiment involving some such solution. But upon taking a closer look at the furniture, the carpet, and the mantle, John found, to his complete amazement, that the flat had been recently and thoroughly cleaned.
So, there was no sign of Sherlock, and the flat was both tidy and hygienic. John felt his heart rate rise and his stomach clench as his mind struggled to make sense of these facts. This level of cleanliness at Baker Street was unprecedented and could only mean trouble of the highest order. Perhaps Sherlock had been reckless and one of his experiments had produced an explosion so massive it had damaged half of his possessions and soiled the rest so badly it had left him with no choice but to clean. Or maybe the explosion had been Sherlock himself, so crazy with loneliness and boredom after being left on his own for almost four full days that he'd snapped and wrecked the place. Whatever the case, something of enormous power had left its mark, and Sherlock had taken great pains to hide it. "Well," thought John, "at least Sherlock's not badly injured, because if he were, he could have never managed to do all this."
After a minute of wild and fruitless speculation, Soldier John took charge and ordered him to pull it together. The only way to get answers about Sherlock's wellbeing was to ask Sherlock himself. Scanning the room, John spotted an abandoned book on the couch and a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table (made by Mrs. Hudson, perhaps) suggesting that his flatmate couldn't be far. John started to breathe easier. The book and the cuppa meant Sherlock had been relaxing, not stomping about in a temper or, worse, curled up somewhere in the dark caught in the grip of a black mood. But then where was Sherlock now? He must have heard John come in. After the stress of his trip and the curious state of the flat, John really needed some reassurance that everything at Baker Street, especially Sherlock, was alright. Shrugging the exhaustion from his shoulders, John dropped his bags and called out, loudly, to announce his return.
As it turned out, Sherlock had been close by all along. For out from the kitchen he strode, a six-foot high energetic bustle of blue bathrobe, his eyes shining, a warm smile spread across his full and imperious mouth. Oddly he was carrying a pair of salad tongs.
"Ah, John, you look like you could do with something to eat. I've fixed a late supper. Go wash up while I pour the drinks."
John kept Sherlock waiting, staring for what seemed a very long while before he was able to finally issue a tentative sounding "OK". With a satisfied smirk, Sherlock turned on his heels and disappeared back into the kitchen, happily humming and clicking out a staccato rhythm with the tongs as he went.
In a daze John walked to the bathroom where he proceeded to splash handful after handful of cold water on his face in the hope that the shock would lift the fog of confusion and everything in his home would again make sense. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Yes, John was immensely relieved that Sherlock was OK, that he wasn't the thin, ashen, agitated mess he'd expected. But that had always been their routine; John left, Sherlock suffered in his absence, and John (wracked by guilt for having left in the first place) doted on Sherlock until he was restored to his vital and insufferable self. He knew it was wrong, but John couldn't help feeling a little disappointed that Sherlock had figured out how to manage so very well without him. Because the Sherlock he'd just seen, clicking salad tongs and humming, was not just OK, he was radiant! His eyes gleamed, his hair was lustrous (even more so than usual) and his skin, though pale, positively glowed. And worst of all, it appeared that, in John's absence, Sherlock had been really and truly happy. John could not deny that he was more than a little jealous of whatever Sherlock had found to take his place.
Catching his own reflection in the mirror; lines deepened from exhaustion, eyes puffy and red-rimmed, skin dull and winter-worn (God, was that a blemish erupting on his cheek?); John saw the toll his trip had taken. Worse, on the inside John felt like just like he looked, like shit. Clearly the accumulation of heavy meals, too much alcohol, a small dose of humiliation, and that seven hour plane ride from hell had really done a number on his physical self as well as his disposition. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked and sounded healthier than before John had left, leaving John to wonder, "What the bloody use, then, am I?"
John's soldier brain, having zero tolerance for self-pity, again came to the rescue. There was, it told him, a perfectly plausible explanation. Maybe, in John's absence, Mrs. Hudson had really stepped up her game. Maybe she had found a way to circumnavigate Sherlock's usual defenses against her sometimes overzealous mothering. John wouldn't put it past her-experience had taught him she was a woman of great ingenuity and surprising depths. The more John thought about it, the more he liked the Mrs. Hudson scenario. Selfishly, he knew that Sherlock could not tolerate Mrs. Hudson's doting for long and so would be very glad to have John back looking after him in his easy, more companionable way. Still, as Sherlock often said, it was best not to jump to conclusions before examining all the facts. This dinner of Sherlock's would tell him a lot. If the meal was a plate of jammy dodgers and a mug of burnt coffee, John could rest at ease.
Well dinner wasn't jammy dodgers, but it wasn't beef burgundy either. It was sardines, some kind of raw leafy greens, undressed, and milk. Yes, milk. John hadn't had milk for supper since he was a boy.
The second John sat down, Sherlock tucked into his meal, not bothering to cut up the fish, but instead popping them into his mouth whole so that the tails wriggled as he chewed until they too slid past his lips. He alternated fish, then greens, then milk in quick succession and was done in three minutes flat. John's plate was clean, so he must have eaten his meal, but honestly, he couldn't remember, being so tired and more than a little distracted by Sherlock's imitation of feeding time at the marine mammal sanctuary. There was also the distraction of unanswered questions hanging in the air. Since when did Sherlock make dinner? Since when did he even care about the flat's appearance, never mind clean it? And why was he so damned happy? "Well", thought John, "at least I know why he looks so healthy." John's suspicion that Sherlock, not one to be overly concerned with food, had eaten the same three items at every single meal the entire time John had been gone was quickly confirmed.
"I apologize that there's no more sardines. I went through your entire cache while you were away, but not to worry-the case I ordered online should arrive tomorrow. Would you like some more milk? I know I would."
Before Sherlock had risen out of his chair, John leapt up saying "I'll get it. Least I can do what with you doing all this…um…cooking." If he were going to reassert himself as the domestic caretaker in this partnership, John thought it best he start immediately.
Swinging open the refrigerator door, John let out a shriek. He thought he'd be used to this by now, surprises in the fridge, but he wasn't. There in the door where the milk usually resided, hung a row of six dead mice. They were swinging by their tails, the ends of which Sherlock had apparently taped to the underside of the butter compartment. John thought the sight reminded him of a macabre mobile, the kind Sherlock might have enjoyed as a child.
"Don't jostle the experiment!" barked Sherlock as he raced to the fridge and then, with great care, shut the door.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know. I've been away, or hadn't you noticed? Besides, you've never appropriated this part of the fridge before. Honestly, Sherlock, is not even the milk compartment sacred?"
John realized that he was starting to sound unreasonably peevish and, with a sigh, changed his tone.
"Not the usual variety, those mice. Did your supplier run out of the usual white mus musculus? Those looked more like common field mice."
Sherlock's eyes sparkled with amusement. He remembered how Johnny had surprised him that first day by escaping out the window only to return with a small furry offering of friendship. With a touching air of ceremonious solemnity, the proud little cat had dropped the mouse, stunned but still very much alive, at Sherlock's feet. Johnny had repeated this ritual five more times during the course of his stay, although the mice sometimes ended up in a shoe or, on one occasion, in Sherlock's bed. That particular mouse had revived before Sherlock found it, giving Johnny a chance to put on a spectacular midnight display of his hunting skills. Sherlock regretted he'd not had a clear view of the hunt until the final pounce and capture when the mouse, miscalculating, made a desperate dash across Sherlock's chest.
"For this experiment I got my supplies from a friend. He prefers field mice, being an absolute wizard at live-trapping. And since I'm testing the effectiveness of various embalming techniques, the variety is of no consequence as long as it's consistent."
"Friend? Which friend?" John tried so very hard not to sound jealous but failed.
Sherlock had known the instant he'd observed John's weary posture and haggard face that the trip to the medical conference had been a disappointment. But Sherlock didn't particularly care about that. What interested Sherlock was what he saw when he looked in John's eyes; that familiar brightness and eagerness as John sought out Sherlock's own, trying to reconnect. They told Sherlock what he most wanted to hear; that his friend had missed him terribly and was very glad to be home.
For Sherlock's part, it felt wonderful to have John back. Yes, Johnny had been good company, a rare find, indeed. But humans, with their way of complicating everything by interjecting their hopes, their fears, their egos (and that ever-present subtext) into every gesture, every word, were beautiful, beautiful like long equations with enormous numbers of variables. And John was his human. Definitely. John's life was tied up with Sherlock's own in such glorious complexity as no one else's had ever been, and Sherlock loved the man for it. Their bond was beyond shallow sentiment-they just fit each other so perfectly, like a matched set, and each was better, happier, and more complete for the association. So while on some level Sherlock found John's irrational insecurity upsetting, he could not help but revel in the warm feeling that now flowed outward from his chest and into his long extremities. Because Sherlock knew that the ache in John's voice as he asked about Sherlock's new "friend" was proof that John felt this bond too, and that Sherlock, a difficult man whom so few liked, was loved.
Supremely confident that John would soon reject this ridiculous notion that he could ever by replaced by another "friend", Sherlock decided to capitalize on the opportunity John's current state of mind presented. Being tired and a little emotionally off balance, John would be unusually susceptible to Sherlock's well-intentioned manipulation, for their mutual benefit, of course. So, with absolute conviction that the end justified the means, Sherlock initiated his plan. He began by changing the subject.
"I bought you a present. It's on your bed. Go try it on."
"Sherlock! You really didn't have to…"
Sherlock watched as, predicted, John's face registered first astonishment, then relief, followed by joy.
"Are you saying you don't want it? Because you haven't even seen it yet, and it doesn't make sense..."
Sherlock had often found guilt to be a powerful motivator when delivered subtly.
"No, no. It's from you so of course I want it, Sherlock. I guess I'm just a little surprised. Something to wear then?"
John's head was reeling. Sherlock had gone shopping? For a present? For him? If it weren't for the dead mice in the fridge, this salad tong wielding, flat cleaning, song humming Sherlock would be almost unrecognizable. Thank God for those dead mice!
"Yes. Obviously. Go and put it on while I do the washing up. I want to see how it looks."
"Now? But it's late, how about…"
"I saw it in a shop and I thought it would suit you. I'm eager to get confirmation," Sherlock lied. He'd decided upon the exact specifications of this gift long before making his purchase.
At this point, the look on John's (his John's) face, tired and confused, but so openly glad to see him, made Sherlock break, for just a moment, from his well-intended plan.
"John, before you go, I'd just like you to know that you are always sorely missed whenever you're away. It's hard for me to say things like that. That's why I had the flat cleaned. And made dinner. So you'd know."
Upon finishing this spontaneous confession, Sherlock felt the color spread across his cheeks the same way it had that first day at school when Mummy, saying her goodbyes, had kissed him in front of his new school mates. Like he'd done back then, Sherlock stood silent for a few seconds, eyes to the floor, biting his lip until the uncomfortable, but not entirely unwelcome, feelings passed.
Despite the unpleasant awkwardness, Sherlock found he was pleased he'd told John how he felt. But he made a mental note that, in future, he would guard against speaking his heart except in the rarest of circumstances as, apparently, emoting temporarily drained him. Luckily John's foot-shifting, blushing, ear-to-ear-grinning acceptance of Sherlock's admission helped him to recover quickly.
"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, a mix of exasperation and relief. "Here I was thinking you'd cleaned the flat because you'd blown something up."
John beaming up at his unpredictable flatmate; the one person who would never bore him but also always knew how to put him at ease.
"Well, the place was in a bit of a state before the maid got at it. My friend, you see, gets a little rambunctious and we invented this game…"
Predictably, upon the mention of Sherlock's "friend", John's expression snapped defensively into one of mild irritation. Sherlock was more than willing to mislead John into thinking he had a rival for Sherlock's affection if that meant it made him more amenable to Sherlock's gentle persuasion. The payoff was going to be so good that John's minor emotional distress was not worth worrying about. Besides, the deception wouldn't last long. John, when well-rested, was really quite perceptive. That's why it was imperative that Sherlock implement his plan immediately, before John had a chance to sleep.
"You know Sherlock, it's late and I'm really tired. I'll try on your present, but then I'd really like to unwind a bit, watch a little telly, and then get to bed. Can we talk about this friend of yours in the morning?"
"Fine. As long as I get to see you wearing my present." Sherlock resisted hopping madly about the flat in giddy anticipation. Instead he just smiled expectantly.
The cobalt blue jumper was like nothing John owned, like nothing he would ever, ever buy for himself. He knew that the color suited him, but still it seemed just a little too flashy. And the material was not the usual sturdy jumper wool but a fiber much softer, silky even. John wasn't sure that suited him either. But as Sherlock had made such a big deal about it (and had cleaned the flat and had made dinner) the least he could do was try it on.
John first tried pulling the jumper on over his shirt, but the fit was so snug he couldn't get it down past his shoulders. He thought about asking Sherlock to exchange it for a larger size, but, as he wasn't planning on wearing it much anyway, John decided to take off his shirt and try again. This time he was able to get it on, although the fit was uncomfortably, even revealingly, tight. John had to admit, though, that the soft feel of the material close against his skin was not entirely unpleasant. Maybe after Sherlock had seen him in it, he'd understand why John wanted to exchange the jumper for a larger size. John would have to make up some excuse as to why the larger one he came back with was beige.
Tightly sheathed in his new present, John walked into the living room where he found Sherlock already seated on one side of the couch. Fully engrossed with whatever was on the screen of his laptop, Sherlock seemed oblivious to both John's presence and the telly, which, apparently, he'd tuned to an old science fiction movie, a favorite of John's. John could not help but smile at the significance of the choice as he knew that Sherlock loathed science fiction, considering it a mockery of his own very real and very important work.
John was about to sit on his usual chair when he noticed a large wet spot on the seat. Without taking his eyes off the laptop, Sherlock pointed to the empty space on the couch saying, "The maid had to apply quite a bit of stain remover. Apparently someone has not been careful while eating his crisps."
John settled into place offered him. Sherlock, still busy with his computer, had yet to say anything about the jumper, so John cleared his throat, loudly. He'd gone through the trouble of trying it on, at Sherlock's insistence, so Sherlock owed him some eye contact at the very least.
"Well?" John asked when Sherlock finally looked up. "It's a mite snug. The color's nice, though. Bright, but nice."
"I knew it would suit you," Sherlock answered with a pressed smile before turning his face back to the screen. "Go ahead and put your feet up. It may not be as comfortable as that chair of yours, but there's plenty of room. You can lean against me. It's cold outside and the furnace doesn't appear to be quite up to the job. In fact a little body heat would not be unwelcome."
John hesitated just a second as he mulled over his flatmate's invitation to, in short, "snuggle up together" on the couch. Sherlock only liked touching other people, John included, when he had a purpose. It was very possible that this was part of some sort of experiment Sherlock was conducting, but John could not, for the life of him, figure out what it might be. Anyhow, what Sherlock had suggested made sense. John was very tired, it was a little cold in the flat, and stretching out on the couch while watching mindless telly did sound very appealing. Carefully John leaned against Sherlock's shoulder and slid his legs up onto the other end of the couch. Sherlock shifted slightly so that John's head and back fit comfortably against his side. Sherlock's eyes, however, never left the screen.
"OK?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded and gave a soft grunt for "yes".
The movie was dreadfully, wonderfully campy. About ten minutes in it became apparent that Sherlock was paying attention after all. He added his usual commentary, mainly groans of annoyance, but sometimes an indignant "Please!" when the offending pseudoscience was particularly egregious. But for John, the best moment by far was when Sherlock yelled, "No, no, no, he's using the wrong voltage!" during the scene when the mad scientist animated his creature.
Sherlock's protests worked like a lullaby, and soon John found himself in a drowsy, contented stupor. His belly was full of unusual but satisfying food. His friend was back at his side. And the new jumper, having somehow stretched and adjusted to conform to his shape, was not a bit uncomfortable. In fact, it felt quite nice, kind of like he had grown his own soft pelt that would protect him from winter's chill.
Now on the brink of sleep, John was unaware that he had slumped lower so that his head now rested in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock had put away his laptop in anticipation of John's more supine position and was studying his friend a little anxiously, wondering when would be the right moment to take the next step. There was a lot riding on his timing, specifically John's trust, but Sherlock had taken his plan this far and was not about to stop now. Although he didn't have a clear view of John's eyes, and so couldn't be positive they were closed, Sherlock could still tell that John was nearly asleep. John's previously tense neck muscles had relaxed against his thigh while his head had grown heavy in Sherlock's lap. A few minutes later John's breathing slowed to a restful pace. Then, like an answer to Sherlock's prayer, John rolled completely onto his back so that his well-fed Angora-clad belly was turned upward like an offering of comfort to Sherlock's waiting hand.
As he entered that fanciful REM state, John began having the most wonderful dream. He dreamt he was an animal, fur-clad, bewhiskered, and sleek; an otter lying snug in his burrow, his holt. Everything around him spoke of home and comfort, from the soft mat of vegetation beneath him to the rich aromas of damp earth and his own musky pelt. John knew about holts because, as a boy on holiday with his family, he'd seen one, an inconspicuous hole dug out beneath an old log on the bank of the River Stour. Long an interest of his, John had dreamt about otters before, but this was the first dream in which he actually was one.
In his dream John felt something pleasant rub up against him, a warm furry body much like his own. Even in the darkness he was able to recognize this fellow otter, though feel and smell, as his friend and life companion, Sherlock's counterpart in this ottery dream world. With a grunt of recognition, Otter John leaned back into the long familiar form, one that, not surprisingly, knew just how to cradle him. The warmth, the pulse, the life that Otter John felt as he lay against his companion was indescribably comforting. Outside the holt the March wind raged and it was bitterly cold, but he didn't care. He was warm and safe and with his friend, and so he was home.
Blissfully relaxed and sated with a belly full of fish, Otter John didn't think he couldn't want for more. He soon found he was wrong. For just as he was being overtaken by sleep, Otter John distinctly felt a paw very carefully, very tenderly, trace small circles through the silky coat of his belly. Apparently, his otter companion had decided to groom him. To his surprise, Otter John found that the act had a meaning that went far beyond the superficial; for the rhythmic rubbing and stroking was a language unto itself, one that reached the deepest places that words could not touch. In response Otter John purred with happiness. Stretching himself out, he adjusted his angle of repose to better receive the gift he was offered, the gift of a caring touch, of mutual trust and close companionship, in short, the gift of love.
-Fin-
Chapter 6: The Things I Do For You
Chapter 5: True to His Nature
Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Chapter 1: On His Own