The Final Purr-oblem
Title: The Final Purr-oblem
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Molly, Jim
Warnings: Cute animals getting hurt! But the nice ones are all better at the end, I promise.
Summary: AU where Sherlock is a cat and John is his long suffering owner. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49807670#t49807670
"There's... there's a mouse head in the fridge," John said, not quite believing it.
Sherlock, sprawled on the couch as usual, gave a long, audible yawn.
"How did you get a mouse head into the fridge? God, how did you even open the door?" He stood and glared at Sherlock.
The tuxedo cat's only reply was to give his front paw a leisurely washing. Damned if he didn't have a smug look on his little dark-furred face. Then he rolled onto his back, exposing the length of his fluffy white belly, and looked at John expectantly.
John sighed, knelt by the couch (because Sherlock was taking up so much room), and dutifully administered a belly rub.
"Why do I put up with you?" he asked rhetorically. Sherlock purred.
*
When Sherlock started bringing home live mice, John was at his wit's end. Luckily the first one was so dazed, he was able to scoop it up and drop it in the metal trash bin beside his desk, where it scurried around loudly and tried to hide under a wad of tissue. Sherlock leapt onto the desk and peered down into the bin, purring loudly.
"Oh, you're pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?" John was still annoyed, but he couldn't help being amused. "Always wanted a pet of your own, hmm?"
Sherlock watched, tail twitching, as the little brown mouse ate the peanuts and crackers John dropped in, then curled up and slept in a nest of shredded tissues. He made no further attempts to kill it, just sat and purred.
Well. John didn't think he could kill the poor thing now.
"I'm naming it Molly," he told Sherlock, and Sherlock sniffed as though to say, How pedestrian.
*
The next day Sherlock brought home another live mouse. John came home to find them locked in a battle of speed and wits on the sitting room carpet. Sherlock pinned the little white creature to the floor, his claws flexing, a growl rumbling in his throat, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to kill it. His pale grey eyes seemed riveted on it.
More than once, Sherlock raised his paw hesitantly and let the mouse up. It ran towards Sherlock, startling him, or it ran to hide under a discarded jumper, or it staggered to its feet and acted like it was mortally wounded. This last bit seemed to be a sham. It always made Sherlock growl again, and then the white mouse would run like the devil.
"Give me that," John said when Sherlock had it trapped again. Sherlock grumbled, but he let John take the mouse by the tail and pull it out of his paws. It made a tiny clink at the bottom of the trash bin.
"There. A nice boyfriend for Molly," John told the cat. "Although tomorrow I'm going to have to drive out to the countryside and let them both go, so don't get too attached." Sherlock sat on the desk and glowered down at the pair, tail lashing angrily.
The mice touched their quivering noses together and seemed to make friends, although John never caught them mating.
John named the white mouse Mousiarty.
*
The next morning, Mousiarty was missing and John found a terrible mess in the kitchen.
"How could one mouse do all this?" he asked Sherlock, who looked remarkably guilty for a cat. "He's gotten into the flour, the crackers, the pasta--oh, hell!" A jar of boysenberry jam had been pushed off the counter and shattered. Jam and glass shards were everywhere, and tiny boysenberry prints led away from the scene of the crime.
Sherlock bent to sniff at the prints. His tail lashed as he followed the trail.
*
Sherlock was officially the most annoying pet in the world. When he tried to clean up the kitchen, Sherlock growled at him and nipped his ankle. Then he went back to pacing around, sniffing at things. Anyone would think he was an investigator at a crime scene. John decided to dine out for breakfast.
When he got home, there was a terrible scuffling racket going on in the kitchen. "Sherlock? Is that you?"
He found Sherlock and the little white mouse facing off on the kitchen table. He sighed.
"Sherlock, you know you're not allowed up there..."
Sherlock pounced. Both animals fell off the table. Sherlock landed with a thump.
"Sherlock?" John had never seen Sherlock land quite so gracelessly. He knelt and stroked his pet's neck.
Sherlock drew himself up, looking rather shaken. He licked one paw thoroughly. Then he licked the other. His body language said clearly, I meant to do that.
On the floor lay Mousiarty, dead.
John picked Sherlock up and let him rest his chin on John's shoulder. He rubbed Sherlock's ears. "You're still the most annoying pet in the world," he told him. Sherlock purred. "Good cat."
Rating: G
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Molly, Jim
Warnings: Cute animals getting hurt! But the nice ones are all better at the end, I promise.
Summary: AU where Sherlock is a cat and John is his long suffering owner. Written for this prompt: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10038.html?thread=49807670#t49807670
"There's... there's a mouse head in the fridge," John said, not quite believing it.
Sherlock, sprawled on the couch as usual, gave a long, audible yawn.
"How did you get a mouse head into the fridge? God, how did you even open the door?" He stood and glared at Sherlock.
The tuxedo cat's only reply was to give his front paw a leisurely washing. Damned if he didn't have a smug look on his little dark-furred face. Then he rolled onto his back, exposing the length of his fluffy white belly, and looked at John expectantly.
John sighed, knelt by the couch (because Sherlock was taking up so much room), and dutifully administered a belly rub.
"Why do I put up with you?" he asked rhetorically. Sherlock purred.
*
When Sherlock started bringing home live mice, John was at his wit's end. Luckily the first one was so dazed, he was able to scoop it up and drop it in the metal trash bin beside his desk, where it scurried around loudly and tried to hide under a wad of tissue. Sherlock leapt onto the desk and peered down into the bin, purring loudly.
"Oh, you're pretty pleased with yourself, aren't you?" John was still annoyed, but he couldn't help being amused. "Always wanted a pet of your own, hmm?"
Sherlock watched, tail twitching, as the little brown mouse ate the peanuts and crackers John dropped in, then curled up and slept in a nest of shredded tissues. He made no further attempts to kill it, just sat and purred.
Well. John didn't think he could kill the poor thing now.
"I'm naming it Molly," he told Sherlock, and Sherlock sniffed as though to say, How pedestrian.
*
The next day Sherlock brought home another live mouse. John came home to find them locked in a battle of speed and wits on the sitting room carpet. Sherlock pinned the little white creature to the floor, his claws flexing, a growl rumbling in his throat, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to kill it. His pale grey eyes seemed riveted on it.
More than once, Sherlock raised his paw hesitantly and let the mouse up. It ran towards Sherlock, startling him, or it ran to hide under a discarded jumper, or it staggered to its feet and acted like it was mortally wounded. This last bit seemed to be a sham. It always made Sherlock growl again, and then the white mouse would run like the devil.
"Give me that," John said when Sherlock had it trapped again. Sherlock grumbled, but he let John take the mouse by the tail and pull it out of his paws. It made a tiny clink at the bottom of the trash bin.
"There. A nice boyfriend for Molly," John told the cat. "Although tomorrow I'm going to have to drive out to the countryside and let them both go, so don't get too attached." Sherlock sat on the desk and glowered down at the pair, tail lashing angrily.
The mice touched their quivering noses together and seemed to make friends, although John never caught them mating.
John named the white mouse Mousiarty.
*
The next morning, Mousiarty was missing and John found a terrible mess in the kitchen.
"How could one mouse do all this?" he asked Sherlock, who looked remarkably guilty for a cat. "He's gotten into the flour, the crackers, the pasta--oh, hell!" A jar of boysenberry jam had been pushed off the counter and shattered. Jam and glass shards were everywhere, and tiny boysenberry prints led away from the scene of the crime.
Sherlock bent to sniff at the prints. His tail lashed as he followed the trail.
*
Sherlock was officially the most annoying pet in the world. When he tried to clean up the kitchen, Sherlock growled at him and nipped his ankle. Then he went back to pacing around, sniffing at things. Anyone would think he was an investigator at a crime scene. John decided to dine out for breakfast.
When he got home, there was a terrible scuffling racket going on in the kitchen. "Sherlock? Is that you?"
He found Sherlock and the little white mouse facing off on the kitchen table. He sighed.
"Sherlock, you know you're not allowed up there..."
Sherlock pounced. Both animals fell off the table. Sherlock landed with a thump.
"Sherlock?" John had never seen Sherlock land quite so gracelessly. He knelt and stroked his pet's neck.
Sherlock drew himself up, looking rather shaken. He licked one paw thoroughly. Then he licked the other. His body language said clearly, I meant to do that.
On the floor lay Mousiarty, dead.
John picked Sherlock up and let him rest his chin on John's shoulder. He rubbed Sherlock's ears. "You're still the most annoying pet in the world," he told him. Sherlock purred. "Good cat."