Fiction: Johnny Cat. Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
Title: Johnny Cat, Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
Rating: PG
Characters: John, Sherlock, a cat named Johnny (OC), Ray (OC)
Warnings: None for this chapter.
Word Count: This chapter: 2,800ish. 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 friendship.
Beta: ShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.
Johnny Cat
Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
John spent the rest of the afternoon holed up in his hotel room, reading the pulpy detective novel he'd picked up at the airport, the one staring a detective so brilliant he could deduce the identity of the killer from a single grape. Somehow this ridiculous book with its contrived plot and its two-dimensional hero (a street-wise loner with a whip-smart brain and a tortured, Byronesque soul) made him feel better, closer to the life he'd left back in London, his life with Sherlock. Because after yesterday, as much as he'd enjoyed the admiration of his fellow doctors, John realized they weren't his people anymore. But had they ever been? John had always been quite comfortable mixing with members of the mainstream medical establishment, but that was before Afghanistan, before Sherlock. Now John found that the world of medical research, with its dry papers and overheated lecture halls, made him feel both agitated and logy, made him positively itch to do something spontaneous and physical like jump across rooftops or shoot a wall full of holes. As strange as it seemed, the twists and turns of John's life had made Sherlock-that brilliant, childish, difficult man-his people. They were an odd tribe of two.
Around six John was hungry and, still feeling a bit addled from all those drinks, decided to stay in. After devouring an enormous and oh-so-tasty pastrami on rye (recommended by the desk clerk and delivered from the local deli) he stretched out on the bed. The loud, steady drone of the air conditioner sent him right off to sleep and into the waiting arms of a beautiful dream; nothing but dark coattails, heart-pounding risk, ice-blue eyes, and brilliant deductions. John's newly rotund middle gurgled with contentment as his sleepwalking tongue licked the last of the salty, fatty flavor off his fingers.
When John awoke it was already 10:00 PM, and he was feeling well-rested. After flicking through a few channels of vacuous television, he decided he really ought to get out and tour the city. Who knows when he'd get another chance? So after a quick shower and shave, John headed down to the lobby to ask the concierge to recommend a destination. Certainly New York would have some worthwhile amusement to help a solitary traveler pass the time.
As he was approaching the front desk, a group of older gentlemen-five in all-burst in through the front door. Loud in both voice and dress, they could have been ordinary New York tourists, except for an odd unifying theme: these men all wore red fezzes and silver bolo ties. Everything about these men shouted "celebration!", and the mute-beige lobby now sparkled with the colorful din of their easy camaraderie.
"We're takin' this party to the roof!" one of them announced, giving the desk clerk a cheeky wink and devilish smile. Then, looking at John, he added, "You're more than welcome to join us, if ya don't mind freezin' your briskets off. It's a hell of a view up there, and there's always room for one more in this crowd. Besides, these ol' cowboys have already heard my stories." There was a laughing roar of agreement as the party headed for the elevator two by three, arm in arm. John could hear the beginning of what sounded like an old, vulgar drinking song before the elevator doors closed and the room returned to its beige silence.
"Who are those guys? Where are they going?" John asked the clerk who was still smiling in amusement as she bustled about behind her desk sorting papers.
Those men, she told John, leaning in conspiratorially, were her absolute most favorite guests. They always stayed at La Hacienda whenever they were in town, which was often. They were Shriners, members of a men's philanthropic organization. The Shriners raised money for children's hospitals but were equally famous for their love of having a good time. The highlights of their lives were the times they could scrape up money for a plane ticket, leave the wives at home (usually somewhere in small-town America) and come to New York for a convention or a parade. Sometimes they were a little loud and their jokes a little "blue", but the clerk always found them "hale fellows well met", always friendly, always polite. And, she confided, they tipped generously.
The Shriner's favorite hangout was the hotel's rooftop bar where the view was astoundingly good, especially considering the reasonable price of the drinks. These fellows had limited cash and were always looking for ways to economize so that the party would last as long as possible. And, of course, there was the added benefit of a close bed for when they overindulged, which they almost always did.
It took John no time at all to decide he would rather spend his evening hanging out with some friendly fellow travelers than taking his chances at some overcrowded and fashionably overpriced nightspot. He'd have to take it easy on the alcohol, though. This afternoon had taught him nothing if not that he needed to stay sharp to make sure that his English that left his lips was coming in clearly to their American ears. One small but hugely embarrassing cultural misunderstanding was enough for one day.
When the elevator doors opened, John could see the city lights twinkling in the cold. Just beautiful! The March air was a little nippy, but there was no wind to chase away the patrons. Not surprisingly, over half the seats were taken.
Above the loud and easy banter old cronies, John heard the genial boom of a familiar voice, "Glad you could make it! A beer for my new friend and keep 'em comin'! Everything's on me tonight!" The man motioned for John to join him at the bar.
"Name's Ray." The big fellow grinned as he clasped John's hand in a friendly bear-paw grip.
This, John realized, was the happiest he'd been since arriving in the Big Apple.
Sherlock awoke with a start. The noise had been so horrifically loud and so grating he'd nearly fallen off of the couch. Readjusting his robe with a haughty flourish, he got up to investigate. The sound, clearly identifiable now as a caterwaul, was echoed by a faint reply coming from the street below. Johnny was at the window pacing back and forth, tail raised, ears pricked, obviously wanting to go out.
"Keep that up and you'll wake Mrs. Hudson and the jig will be up," Sherlock warned the wee cat in a hushed and serious tone. Johnny looked up at Sherlock and wailed more softly, beseechingly. Sherlock, sounding much like John, huffed out a put-upon sigh.
"From experience I know that if I don't let you out for a little," he paused dramatically, searching the air with his hand for the least distasteful word, "recreation with your female companions, you'll become distracted and useless."
Sherlock didn't think he could, if pressed, define Johnny's usefulness (he was still collecting data on the subject) yet he was sure that he felt and worked better when Johnny was around and, most importantly, focused on Sherlock. So, specifics aside, Sherlock thought his statement valid.
Sherlock opened the window and, like a shot, Johnny was out onto the fire escape. In no time the little cat had descended, disappearing into the pheromone-soaked darkness of the street.
"Come back to me, John," Sherlock spoke softly into the night, or would have if he ever spoke his emotions aloud. But this was not Sherlock's way, so instead he pressed his fingers against the windowpane and searched the night for his feline companion. But Johnny, a cat on a mission, was long gone.
Sherlock returned to the couch. There he lay, stock-still, eyes closed, listening to the sound of at least three cats yowling their passion into the still night air. An untold number of minutes passed as Sherlock tired, without success, to distinguish the sounds made by his small friend from all the others floating upon the cool evening breeze. Occupied as he was, Sherlock did not remember drifting off to sleep.
Ray was in his late sixties, had leathered brown skin, and sported an impressive beer belly that lapped over an uncomfortable looking saucer-sized belt buckle. When John asked what brought him to New York, it was like uncorking a bottle of champagne: Ray just loved to talk.
Ray began by saying that he'd flown in from Tulsa, Oklahoma two days ago. He and his buddies would be participating in the Saint Patrick's Day parade the coming Sunday. It was going to be a hoot. They'd be driving miniature cars in tight circles and intricate drill-team formations in front of the Shrine float as it tooled down Fifth Avenue. The float, a glitzy rig featuring an unlikely mix of sword fighting pirates and doctors tending to sick children, was something else. But it had been Ray's experience that, no matter how pretty the floats, no matter how good the bands, kids everywhere always liked the little Shriner cars best of all. He and his fellow drivers would be goddam celebrities for a day.
As much as Ray was looking forward to the parade, the week of partying in the city was going to be even better. Ray and his compadres had already been dancing at a Russian nightclub in Brighton Beach and had big plans for the days ahead. He'd be down to his last dollar by the time he boarded that plane for home. "Only live once," Ray added with a wink.
John had not gotten a word in since introducing himself. But that was fine. He was just as happy to nurse his beer and let Big Ray (as the man sometimes referred to himself) tell his stories. And he had a lot of them. Ray was a gifted raconteur, a master of blending conflict, suspense, and a large dose of self-deprecating humour to achieve a truly gripping tale. But after the first few, John detected a pattern. Ray's stories all had the same basic format. Ray would have some "cracker" of an idea that became a project. Then some "ignorant hard-on" would interfere, try to stop him or worse, take over, and then there'd be the inevitable confrontation, usually an argument, but sometimes a couple of punches were thrown. Ray always came out on top. (They were Ray's stories, after all.) And to John's great amusement, the stories always ended the same way, with the same punchy line that Ray used as an exclamation point, both to let the listener know the story was over and to remind them that Ray had, once again, emerged victorious.
"So I told that jackass, "Ya mess with the bull, ya get the horns!""
Thinking back, John decided that there'd been at least two occasions since he'd begun working with Sherlock that he really would have enjoyed saying that line himself, times when he'd bested an overconfident criminal, often a dim-witted gorilla who'd underestimated John based on his small stature and quiet demeanor. Yes, John decided, when he got back to London he would definitely make that phrase his own. Or perhaps he'd invent another one very much like it. He'd have to think on it.
Ray continued to tell stories, his arm now around John, his eyes lighting up whenever John gave any sign of appreciation. He was a bit of a blowhard, but John also found Ray to be gracious in his hospitality and, truthfully, could not see much of the pugnacious and posturing hero of the stories in the man telling them.
At some point, Ray felt the need to pause his oration to take a drink. He was about to start up again when a look of realization crossed his face.
"Son of a bitch, John. You must think I was raised in a barn, sittin' hear yammerin' away. Christ, I ain't even asked where you're from. I'm guessin' it sure as hell ain't New York City. No, don't tell me. You're from Ireland. Am I right?"
"Close. England."
"Oh, yeah, sure, like that James Bond guy…Sean Connery!" another Shriner joined in.
"Well, no, he's Scottish," John said patiently. "I'm more like the other Bond, Roger Moore."
"Oh, English-like Prince Charles!" said still another. All five Shriners were now gathered around John in a semicircle of bright eyes, old jovial faces, and red fezzes.
"I'd say more like Roger Moore," John insisted.
Why John thought it was important that these guys identified him with the suave Bond actor rather than the decidedly less glamorous prince, he didn't know. Maybe he missed the style and grace that came with having Sherlock by his side and needed to compensate. He never realized before what a beautiful accessory Sherlock was. John had always thought that Sherlock made him look dull by comparison, but now that he was without him he knew this was not true. Sherlock's glamorous aura enveloped him, included him, rubbed off on him somehow, and now, out on his own in a big foreign city, John keenly missed that shine.
At sunup Sherlock was awakened by the feel of four small paws landing softly on his stomach. Johnny, looking knackered but happy, started on his long and, to Sherlock, slightly vulgar grooming ritual. Sherlock decided he'd rather not watch, and moved Johnny to his chair while he went to the kitchen to fetch him some milk. He was pleased the cat had decided to return to him and wanted to reinforce this behavior with a reward. But by the time he'd returned, Johnny was sound asleep. The tip of Johnny's ear showed a fresh scratch, but otherwise his little street fighter was untouched.
"So you fought off at least one rival I see," Sherlock said with admiration.
Unable to resist, Sherlock stroked the sleeping cat. Johnny yawned and rolled over exposing his belly, slightly rounded and covered with short silky fur. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then very gently moved his hand along the length of the cat's abdomen. The feeling of warmth and trust that radiated up though his fingers was overwhelming.
"How marvelous," he thought, "So different from people. I could never do this with a human."
Sherlock quickly realized he wouldn't enjoy touching strangers anyway. But John, as usual, was another case entirely. Sherlock thought about how it would be so nice to be able to sit with John on the couch while they watched telly or worked on their laptops and casually stroke John's hair, maybe around his ear, even snuggle up close with his arm around him so they would share that feeling of touching something warm and alive. But John, as wonderful and tolerant as he was, was still human, and would likely suspect these gestures contained hidden meanings. Knowing Sherlock as he did, John wouldn't suspect the usual, that they were some kind of foreplay, but rather that Sherlock was manipulating him to do something, or perhaps experimenting on him. For Johnny, a cat, Sherlock's caresses were just that, gentle touches, close and warm and reassuring, a blissful moment of connection and nothing more.
"Damn humans and their subtext."
Sherlock was well aware of the irony in this thought, as reading the subtext in human behavior was, in fact, his stock and trade. That didn't make him feel better about the fact that the time was soon approaching when John would come and Johnny would go, and with him the joy of petting a soft, plump furry tummy.
But, perhaps, if he put his mind to it, Sherlock thought, he could find a way to remedy this problem. He began to wonder just how he would go about convincing John to switch from wearing jumpers made of traditional English worsted wool to something softer, Angora perhaps. That, of course, would be the easy part. Getting John to wear them two sizes smaller so that the material clung to his torso like it was his own pelt would be the far greater challenge. The problem was intriguing. So, as Sherlock went about his day, conducting experiments in the kitchen, taking Johnny on "stakeouts", and crank texting various former executives of News of the World, he daydreamed about various ways he could contrive to spend late evenings, reading or working on his laptop, all the while contentedly stroking sleeping John's soft Angora-clad tummy.
Chapter 5: True To His Nature
Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Chapter 1: On His Own