Fiction: Johnny Cat, Chapter 5: True To His Nature
Title: Johnny Cat, Chapter 5: True to His Nature
Rating: PG
Characters: John, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. OCs: a cat named Johnny, Ray, Rhonda, Ines, Marisol, and Sylvia
Warnings: None.
Word Count: This chapter: almost 4,900. 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 5: True to His Nature
John woke up hung-over but happy. The last thing he remembered about that night on the rooftop bar was Ray and his friends leaving with a group of three very tall, very elegant ladies who, just before closing time, had sauntered into the bar like a pride of hungry lionesses.
Lively and flirtatious, the Amazons had utterly enchanted the Shriners who had then invited them to go dancing at a favorite Cuban nightclub. John had briefly considered joining them, but it had been late and the beer had made him sleepy. Besides, he's had a conference to attend the next morning and so, when Ray invited him, "not taking no for an answer," John had politely declined. As he'd finished his beer and watched Ray and company head, laughing, for the elevator, John had considered that, perhaps, he should point out to Ray the rather prominent Adam's apples on his new-found dance partners. In the end he'd decided against it. John knew that, despite their outward appearance, Ray and his mates were no strangers to life in the big city and were quite capable of taking care of themselves. Besides, they'd figure it out, eventually.
Now giggling to himself alone in his room, John wondered whether that night would ever make it into Ray's "Ya mess with the bull, ya get the horn" repertoire of stories. John guessed not.
After a shower and a few cups of flavorless tea, John was ready to hit the conference. There were a couple of lectures he really wanted to hear, but other than that, he wasn't very enthused. Besides, there was the unpleasant possibility he'd run into Rhonda or some of the other people who had witnessed their "misunderstanding" in the bar.
John grimaced, then laughed, then grimaced again as he remembered all the painful details of that encounter. He knew he ought to be used to it by now. Because since moving in with Sherlock, the occasional awkward moment (and sometimes outright humiliation) had become a regular part of his dating routine. In fact John could fill a very long, sad, and humorous book about the many ways Sherlock had managed to embarrass him on dates, often sabotaging any chance of a follow-up. Why the incident with Rhonda had occurred, with Sherlock an ocean away, was an issue John chose not to examine for the moment as the answer would likely be complicated and a little disturbing. Then again, one flirtation gone wrong was nothing to get upset about. Of course, if he made a habit of taking over Sherlock's role of being his love life's worst enemy, John would have no choice but to take up the issue with his therapist. Maybe. God, he hoped it wouldn't come to that.
The whole incident with Rhonda aside, John was simply done, ready to go home, back to London and his childish, self-absorbed, manipulative, yet adored friend and flatmate whom he missed more and more with each passing hour. But of course John could not, would not, shirk his obligation. He was a guest of the committee, of Dr. Shapiro, and it was his duty to attend. And so he would. None the less, on his way out of his room, John picked up his detective novel and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat; just on the odd chance there'd be some down time. And, given his current mood, he really hoped there would be.
It was Wednesday and Mrs. Hudson decided she would run upstairs to ask the boys whether they needed any groceries. She needed a few things herself and was happy to save them the trip.
The night before she had heard some rather odd noises coming from Sherlock and Dr. Watson's flat, confusing sounds that she couldn't quite place as they weren't quite angry yells (a quarrel) or moans of pain (an accident) but rather something in between. But the sounds hadn't lasted long, and since no one had stormed off down the stairs and no one had required an ambulance, she decided that, perhaps, the sounds had been of a romantic nature and, thus, were best left uninvestigated.
Not wanting to disturb her "shy ones" (as Mrs. Turner called them) just in case they were still "occupied", Mrs. Hudson tiptoed quietly up the stairs. The last thing she wanted was to embarrass anyone, not least of all herself. As she approached their door she heard Sherlock talking, not using that pedantic tone of his (so he wasn't working) but a tone that was rich and ingratiating; a personal matter then. She paused a moment to listen, not to eavesdrop (heavens no) but just to be sure she wasn't interrupting at a bad time.
If asked, Sherlock would have said that it was a bad time; for at that moment he was fully engrossed in a journal article, a scintillating piece about the beautifully complex and much maligned relationship between corpses and blowflies. He was reclining on the sofa, so engaged, when Johnny jumped up to join him. Eyes never leaving the page, Sherlock used his free hand to deftly scoop up the small cat, who'd landed on his lap, and relocated him higher on his chest, just in case the cheeky miscreant decided to start "making biscuits" again with those sharp claws.
Having settled into his new position, Johnny looked his friend squarely in the eye before starting into his grooming regime. A stickler for routine, he began, as always, by licking his paw and rubbing it in brisk circles across his face. He then worked his way lower, pulling and preening his tawny fur with long vigorous strokes, until he reached his nether regions. Here the cat stayed a good long time, cleaning and smoothing and stroking, legs inelegantly raised and splayed, eyes closed in contentment. Sherlock forgot all about blowflies as he looked on in amazement, marveling at the high degree of flexibility demonstrated in this unapologetically hedonistic display.
After a good ten minutes, the show was over. Johnny had finished with his lusty libations, and so Sherlock returned his attention to his journal. It was Johnny's habit to take a nap after a "bathe", so it was understandable that the detective was taken by surprise when the little cat walked right up to his face and, in what Sherlock could only guess was a gesture of feline camaraderie, began licking his mouth with his rough, moist tongue. Shocked and appalled, Sherlock bolted upright. He was having none of that. Holding the little transgressor up at eye level to be sure it was paying attention, Sherlock imitated the tone his old headmaster had always used when dressing down a boy; loud and firm.
"We both know where that clever little tongue of yours has been, Johnny, and until you improve your oral hygiene, considerably, you will keep it out of my mouth. Understood?"
He then transferred Johnny to his usual chair and gave him the, "What am I going to do with you?" look John gave him from time to time. Johnny, unimpressed, curled up to sleep.
Mrs. Hudson was mortified at what she had overheard. But, in truth, she was also a little pleased. Except for that curious commotion they'd made night before (which, in light of what she'd just overheard, was clearly of a romantic nature) Sherlock and his doctor were usually so quiet and discrete that she worried. The only noises she ever heard were footfalls and the rare thump or crash when Sherlock's experiments went awry. Her own marriage may not have been a stellar example, but Mrs. Hudson knew the sounds of a happy, healthy relationship when she heard them. She was also glad that Sherlock felt secure enough to make some rules about those little issues that came up in a relationship-oral hygiene could be overlooked once or twice in the blind passion of those early days, but addressing an issue like that now would help ensure that the romance would stay strong and the union would last. As everyone knows, petty grievances, left unaddressed, had a way of trying one's nerves.
Quietly Mrs. Hudson tiptoed back down the stairs to get her purse and her shopping list. She decided she'd pick up a nice pack of digestives for the boys and a pair of toothbrushes too. If they asked about the toothbrushes, she'd just explain that Tesco was having a sale. A few white lies are always necessary in greasing the skids. It was the least she could do to help her boys.
One lecture down and one to go. John headed to the courtesy buffet to find something light, an apple perhaps. But all that was left were some rich looking cheese Danish topped with colorful chunks, fruit most likely, but John found it hard to identify the particular varieties as they'd absorbed so much heavy syrup that they now sat bloated and bleached, half hidden beneath a sugary glaze. With a small sigh of disappointment John took the one most closely resembling cherry, poured himself a tall cup of coffee, and set off to find a quiet place to read his book. The second lecture was not until 3:00 PM, so he had plenty of time.
The hotel had a large number of meeting rooms, and it didn't take long for John to find empty one with a comfortable chair. Happy to have escaped the noisy bustle of the conference, John sat down and began to read. He was half way through, at the point where the hero detective was having trouble convincing the plodding, "by the book" police inspector of his account of the murders, partly because the hero, himself, was a suspect. "Dull; predictable," thought John. Yet somehow, despite the banal storyline, he found the adventure of the brilliant but misunderstood gumshoe to be surprisingly comforting, a reminder of the life he'd left back in London; his real life, while he passed one last day living what seemed more and more like someone else's.
As he reached the end of the chapter, John suddenly became aware that he was no longer alone. For sitting in a tight circle in the opposite corner of the room were three deeply tanned, dark-eyed young women talking quietly amongst themselves. Judging by their nametags, they too were conference refugees. John couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed in himself, as he took prided in his ability to keep tabs on all important changes in his environs, both as a trained soldier and as an avid appreciator of the fairer sex. But never one to let his ego get in the way of an opportunity, John quickly recovered and set about observing the women as nonchalantly as possible from behind his book.
As it turned out they were medical students; first years most likely, as they were quizzing each other on elements of human anatomy. They reminded John of some of the women he'd know long ago when he, himself, had been a student; bright young things as adept at memorizing a metabolic cascade during a late night study session as they were at charming the pants off him, quite literally, in the wee hours of the morning that followed. Those memories, still powerful after all those years, brought an involuntary flicker of a smile to John's lips and a low purr of satisfaction down in his throat. And if he'd had a tail it would have twitched.
As John watched, the tallest of the three twisted her long dark hair around her finger as she tried to recall the names of the bones in the foot. She listed the medial, intermediate, and lateral cuneiform before stopping with a weak smile and a shrug. Silence ensued: apparently none of the others could help. John could and so he did, happy for the excuse to talk to such a charming assembly of feminine pulchritude.
"The cuboid's next. Then the navicular, the talus, and the calcaneous."
The response was all that he'd hoped. Three sets of eyes turned his way. Three lipsticked smiles beamed. And then the happy chorus began, so sweet and exuberant, it was, indeed, music to John's ears.
"Nicely done! Thank you," said the tall one, whose broad grin brought about a charming display of dimples.
"Care to join us? We could use your help," said her friend, the one with the lovely caramel-coloured eyes that glinted mischievously from behind her dark, half-tamed fringe.
"Yes, please! We all forgot to bring our textbooks," said the third, a petite pixie-faced thing with a nose stud and large hoop earrings. Chin raised in bold invitation, she casually swept her hair back from her face as she added, "Besides, our book doesn't have that lovely accent."
As if on cue Dimples recited, "Cubouid, navicular, talus, calaneous. See? I remember them now. It must be your accent that made the difference." The way she twirled the toe of her black pump as she spoke had a way of drawing John's gaze so that it followed her length of long, shapely leg upward until it disappeared beneath the thick fabric of her knee-length skirt. John caught himself staring a second too long and quickly blinked his mind back into focus.
His mission, thus presented, was blissfully clear. The three of them were so grateful and were asking so nicely, how could John refuse to help? And besides, wasn't it the duty of an established physician like himself to lend a hand to the next wave of aspiring medical professionals? As he rose from his chair and made his way across the room, John could feel his chest fill with the happy anticipation of being useful and, even better, spending time in the company of three decidedly attractive young women.
If Sherlock had been in the room at that moment, he would have rolled his eyes in feigned disgust while chuckling inwardly with amusement at the familiar scene. For as bright and observant as John was about so much, the doctor was completely unaware of just how strongly the fairer sex affected him. One whiff of pheromone was like throwing a switch, and all of John's energy and focus would immediately train on the subject of interest. And while John never lost his natural reserved, his always decorous manner, around a pretty woman his every word, his every gesture was wrapped in an aura of desire. He became like a taught violin string waiting to be bowed.
According to Sherlock, the most telltale sign was John's walk. Around an attractive female, John's brisk gate, which usually sprang lightly from his calves, would begin to flow more slowly, smoothly, and powerfully from his hips, giving the modest doctor the smallest hint of a swagger; a glimpse, perhaps, of the highly capable soldier hidden within. It was that leisurely strut that always told Sherlock when there was a real threat of John becoming, inconveniently, indisposed.
For his part, John had no idea that he was walking any differently as he crossed the meeting room floor that day. All he knew was that, at that moment, he held in rapt attention three sets of dark, alluring eyes. And that was good, very good.
John took the empty chair offered and, looking into the three eager faces before him, said in his most warm and gracious tone, "So, how may I be of assistance?"
There was a brief pause, only a few seconds, during which the women, exchanging glances, seemed to be talking over their answer telepathically.
"You could help us review the thorax and vertebral column, if it's not too much trouble, Doctor…?" It was the smallest and, it seemed, the boldest of the three who spoke, looking up at him with studied coyness from beneath her lashes.
"No trouble at all. And it's John, John Watson," he said offering a boyishly lopsided smile and extending his hand to each in turn. He could not help but note the softness of their skin, the bold hues of their lacquered nails, and the beautifully filigreed silver rings that bedecked their slender fingers. How absolutely lovely, he thought as a new wave of hormones raced madly about his body, stirring his blood, adjusting his priorities, and lighting up the deepest, most primal pleasure centers of his brain.
Over the next hour John got to know his new acquaintances: Marisol, Ines, and Sylvia. He'd been right; they were first year medical students. Apparently they'd skipped classes in order to attend a lecture given by one of their professors. Marisol and Ines were locals, both from the borough of Queens. Brash little Sylvia was from San Diego. "Surfer girl," the other two mocked with affection. As they chatted, reviewing anatomy and discussing the trials and tribulations of medical school, John found all three of them to be charming, flirtatious, and, yes, very bright. In fact when they told John that, no, there was no pending anatomy exam, no exam of any kind, in fact, as the school's spring break was to begin the following day, he began to suspect that the whole study session had been a clever ruse to get his attention and lure him away from his book. That idea, he found, pleased him very much.
At noon Marisol's cousin Oscar picked them up in his vintage Corolla, and the five of them went to lunch at a favorite cheap eats place, Ray's Mango, a glorified hotdog stand that was, they informed him, a popular destination for poor students, taxi drivers, and the after-hours bar crowd.
The ride was harrowing; that is to say John wouldn't have missed it for the world. Room in the back seat was limited, so John agreed, out of necessity, to sit with Sylvia, the smallest, on his lap. Initially he'd found this arrangement pleasant and rather relaxing as she was light and her hair, which swished gently against his face at every turn, smelled like tropical flowers. However, the tranquil atmosphere inside the car abruptly changed when a favorite song came over the radio, and all at once the back seat became a roiling sea of shimmying chests and gyrating hips. To both John's delight and chagrin, Sylvia, the little surfer girl, was (how to put it?) riding a wave of Salsa over his lap. Even with the barrier of their winter coats between them, her lithe swimmer's body was making a highly provocative, if unintentional, assault on John's groin. It was not long before the combination of the pounding rhythm, their rising body heat, and the relentless press of Sylvia's dancing hips began to erode John's proper reserve. Desperate to keep his state of arousal at a socially acceptable level, John engaged his strongest defense, a tried and true method he'd used to distract himself under similar, if not identical, circumstances. Starting with "drooling severed head", John silently began to recite every last disgusting item Sherlock had ever brought into their flat. It was a long list and he was only half way through when the car pulled up in front of their destination and Oscar, mercifully, silenced the radio.
Trying to find a parking spot would have been futile, so Sylvia was sent out for the food while the rest of them drove time-killing circles around the block. Apparently lunch, like everything else in New York, was to be enjoyed on-the-go.
From his long time spent dining with his fellow soldiers in Afghanistan, John had thought he'd heard them all; every single bawdy, double entendre, phallic hotdog joke. He was wrong. Ines, Marisol, and Sylvia had quite a repertoire, and seemed to delight in making John fidget and blush like a schoolboy as they suggestively devoured their lunch. It wasn't that their jokes were particularly crude; in fact most were quite funny and clever. It was just that, coming out of the pretty mouths of such delicate looking creatures, John found himself newly thin-skinned. It didn't help that impish Sylvia, again perched on his lap, giggled in body-shaking fits of laughter at his reactions; that is, when she wasn't sucking down her fruity drink in long, slow pulls, sending John's eyes fleeing in panic to the refuge of the floormats. Even Oscar, a rawboned youth of eighteen, was amused and laughed as he caught John's uneasy expression in the rearview mirror.
"Careful you don't choke," was John all could offer as a defense as Ines smirked and licked her lips before taking yet another obscenely large bite of her condiment-laden delicacy.
John was so distracted that it wasn't until the car had stopped in front of a small brick house in a residential neighborhood that he realized he wasn't getting back to the conference or his hotel any time soon.
"I thought…I thought you were going back to class. I thought you were dropping me back at the conference," he stammered as everyone piled out. Somehow he had missed the moment when they'd all decided to skip school for the rest of the day and hang out at Marisol's house.
"Oh, John, don't tell me there's something you'd rather do than hang out with us this afternoon," said Ines, her eyes wide with innocence. Not waiting for an answer, she affectionately (or was it possessively?) took John's arm and led him up the walkway.
"Well, there was that lecture at three, but…." John's voice trailed off in a smile. All he could think of as he approached the door, accompanied by three very attractive, very self-assured young women was, "Could be dangerous." Really, there was no choice. He went inside.
The afternoon at the house was like a repeat of the car ride with the three young women flirting, and teasing, and competing with one another to see who could get the best reaction and the most attention from their English guest. Apparently Marisol's parents were off on vacation and so wouldn't be bothered by their little party. Oscar put on some music, and there was some beer and some dancing. The women were impressed at how quickly John picked up the steps of the cumbia, a dizzying Latin American swing dance fueled by the fluttering pulse of an accordion. It wasn't long before he and Oscar were weaving and twirling their three eager partners in giddy turns about the living room.
For the most part the three women were content to share and didn't seem to mind dancing with their "hermano" Oscar or sitting on the couch while waiting their turn in John's arms. There came, however, a few tense moments when Sylvia refused to let Ines cut in, at which time John excused himself to find the WC while the two of them sorted out their differences in loud, impassioned Spanish. The argument became a three way affair when Sylvia and Ines began angrily questioning Marisol after seeing her walk John past the door of the nearby powder room and up the stairs on a mission of suspicious intent. To John's ears the voices that came through the upstairs bathroom wall sounded quite upset, and he began to wonder whether he should leave. But by the time he rejoined them in the living room, the three friends were bunched together on the couch, drinking bottled water and laughing as they watched Oscar demonstrate his most flamboyant steps.
As afternoon blurred happily into evening, Marisol brought out platters of food prepared and left by her mother, a fabulous cook as it turned out. As they ate, John told a couple of war stories, the most humorous in his repertoire, before trying his best to fill them in on their main interest, London's club scene. Even though he knew that his hosts would be amazed and impressed by his work with Sherlock, on that subject John kept quiet. Sherlock alone was hard enough to explain, and John always found it best to let their complicated (and easily misconstrued) relationship go unmentioned, especially around women he fancied.
The conversation had wound down, and John was just getting ready to say that he needed to be heading back to his hotel to pack for his return trip to London, when Marisol made a surprising announcement. Apparently Sylvia was to be flying home to San Diego that very evening, and it was now time to leave for the airport if she were going to make her 7:00 fight.
Surprised but unfazed by this sudden change in plan, John said he'd call a cab. The women, however, wouldn't hear of it. Reaching up, little Sylvia slid two delicate fingers along John's neck and over his carotid artery. Her eyes twinkled as she solemnly pronounced her medical opinion, that John was still warm from dancing and so should not be subjected to the cold, impersonal backseat of a cab. John, laughing, started to protest, saying that, while he appreciated her concern, he'd be perfectly fine taking a cab. But this sentence went unfinished and John's train of thought was abruptly derailed as Marisol, who'd been helping him into his coat, took it upon herself to use her soft clever hands to straighten the collar of his shirt. John stifled a moan and shivered at the unexpected sensation of her warm fingers sweeping, nape to collar bone, across his skin. And before he could regain his equilibrium, he was thrown again, as Ines began carefully wrapping her own colorful hand-knit scarf about his neck, her warm breath wafting over John's cheek in soft, intimate puffs. She was so close, and she was smiling, and John found himself wanting to circle his finger about the enticing pucker of her dimple. Stepping back, Ines gave John (and her handiwork) a long sweeping look of approval. John found her gaze, a mix of admiration and conquest, to be intoxicating. Before he knew it, cousin Oscar was off, walking the few blocks to his house, while John and the three dark-eyed enchantresses were back in the Corolla, Marisol behind the wheel, merging fearlessly into heavy the evening traffic.
The departure time of Sylvia's plane was delayed. Then it was delayed again. John and his companions decided to kill time in bar near the airport. Marisol, the driver, ordered a soda. Sylvia and Ines, however, decided that that evening's end-of-term celebration called for something stronger. As small and delicate as they looked, these young med students had a surprising tolerance for alcohol, and John was glad that, after two quick shots of Mescal (which his "when in Rome" code of etiquette dictated he match) Sylvia and Ines decided to switch to coffee. When finally it was time to go, John was both slightly buzzed and very, very alert.
They parked and walked Sylvia to security. John stood back politely as Sylvia and her two friends embraced and said their goodbyes. When it was his turn, John leaned in, planted a chaste on kiss her cheek and enclosed her small frame in an unmistakably avuncular hug. But just as he was pulling away, about to wish Sylvia success in her studies, John was caught by surprise; for he suddenly became aware that one of Sylvia's hands had found its way into his back pocket and was engaged in what could only be called a clandestine grope. Gasping in response, John was surprised again when Sylvia leaned in quickly, using the opportunity to capture a very bold open-mouth kiss. It was long and slow and with enough tongue that John could taste not only that evening's coffee and Mescal but also the sweet mango drink she'd had for lunch, and possibly even the orange juice she'd had for breakfast.
"That's my thanks for the anatomy lesson, Dr. Watson," Sylvia said with a beguiling elfin grin when she finally released him. John, the drum of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, could barely hear his own sincere reply;"You're very welcome." Confused, a little stunned, but all-in-all quite happy with the turn of events, he was not really sure what to make of what had just happened. For, while it could have been his imagination, John though he saw Sylvia flash an "I told you I'd do it" look in the direction of Marisol and Ines who were now standing, heads together, giggling and whispering in excitement.
Still awash with that heady mix of joy, lust, and adrenaline, John watched as Sylvia's small form entered the security gate and then disappeared amongst the throngs of fellow travelers. It was only then, when she was out of sight, that John's mood began to deflate as the inevitable sense of loss, of an opportunity missed, settled in. John would not discover the note in his pocket, the one with Sylvia's phone number, until two days later when he was back in London doing laundry.
During the drive back to the city and his hotel, John, alone in the back seat, had plenty of time to think about how much he'd enjoyed his last day in New York. Yes, he'd been over-matched, and the three twenty-something med students had sported with him, had always had the upper hand. But he hadn't really minded. If that was the price for being surrounded by so much life and beauty, he was more than willing to pay it.
(Note: Here's a link to a mesmerizing demonstration of the cumbia. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmbC7D6HfuM)
Chapter 6: The Things I Do For You
Chapter 4: Fine Alone, Better Together
Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Chapter 1: On His Own