Fic: The Cat of the 221B Bakervilles 1/3
Title: The Cat of the 221B Bakervilles
Author: harlequinehands
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John and kitten!
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2,000+
Spoilers: Whole of the Series and Post "The Great Game"
Warnings: Un-beta’d, Violent Case, Implied child death, and Scared kittens D:
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of these lovely characters, they are property of BBC and Moffat ect.
Summary: John finds a traumatized kitten at the scene of their latest case and decided to take it home and raise it with love. Sherlock is less than thrilled and more than a little jealous. Hilarious kitten antics ensue. But the case darkens even as the cat brings changes neither men could have predicted.
An: I try to write fluff and then it gets crunchy plot and angst in it! D: I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON. But this is for the lovely person who posted on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme about wanting to see John find a stray cat and bring it home. I was originally going to write John/kitten but then it became this. Hope that's acceptable OP. Also, KITTENS YAY! Also forgive me my terrible pun title.
It was one of the most gruesome scenes John and Sherlock had come upon in years. The whole house had a deep wrongness about it. Probably because it was home to a father who had murdered his wife and three girls. Sherlock relied on the physical but even John could see he was bristling at the atmosphere in here. John was slightly more superstitious; he had seen enough death, sadness, suffering, and hatred to know that it could scar places just as well as people.
Once they had heard the details of the scene he had brushed past him without a word and John had followed with heavier feet than usual. There was a horrible crumple of newsprint stuck in his throat at the sight of the blood all over the kitchen sink and linoleum. He knew the daughter's rooms where upstairs but didn't want to really investigate them. Sherlock was down in the kitchen working at trying to find where the husband had spirited himself off to but John was just wandering about like usual. This time he lingered closer to the exits than usual. He didn't want to but he knew he should go investigate upstairs. His flight or fight reflexes where singing high hymns in his ears as he reluctantly climbed the stairs.
The door to the first daughter's room was open but he bypassed it for the bright cheery pink of the last room on the right. He might not have seen things the way Sherlock did but he did see things. And that was when he noticed the dumped hamper in the youngest daughter's room. Thankfully they had removed the body only the creeping, shockingly massive, bloodstain remained.
John crept carefully in his booties over to the pile and crouched down, gently taking the blood splattered yellow floral jumper off the top of the pile with one steady gloved hand. A small gray striped kitten cowered before him. It was no bigger than his palm to tip of his middle finger and it was shaking like it was about coming apart. When John picked it up it turned to a floppy doll made of water and skin and let out a pathetic mewl. He felt tears prick his eyes then.
Any one would didn't believe that animals could have feelings had never seen one love, cry, or cower in terror. Some times they were more human than people. John has seen enough monsters in his life and none of them had actually been animals. And this poor girl, because now that he was looking her over for any blood splatter or physical evidence and saw she was a she, had survived the death of her entire family. He couldn't even imagine being helpless to stop the death of some one he loved, of Sherlock, while he stood stone still hiding for his life.
When the kitten appeared to be clean he tucked her softly against his chest and felt her trembling ease a little as she tried to burrow under his ribs. He was allergic to cats but he couldn't let her go to the RSPCA. He knew her trauma and now some how she was his. It was that easy. She had already grabbed his heart and curled in on herself around it.
He smiled crookedly as he thought of how much Sherlock would protest. But it didn't matter; this kitten was coming home with him. He found the small pocket just inside the breast of his blazer and set her down gently inside it. He felt her purring start to whirl as her shakes only came in small spasms every once in a while. He made his way downstairs to find that Sherlock had already left him there. Sighing at an apologetic Lestrade he hailed a cab and headed back to 221B.
When John got back to the flat he set her down gently on the couch and then went to the kitchen to rummage in the fridge among the pickled metacarpals and strange looking ooze in old Tupperware for the milk. Once he located what was left of the perpetually three quarters empty bottle he took a step back and heard a keening yelp of a meow. He cringed as he hopped away and watched her flee, slightly limping underneath the couch in the living room. He had stepped on the poor thing! John cursed under his breath and slammed the door before chasing after her apologizing rapidly,
"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry."
Escaped his lips as he rushed after the impossibly small creature. She was cowering again in the farthest dustiest corner under the couch and nothing he was doing was succeeding in coaxing her out from under there. He finally gave up and placed the bowl full of almost the rest of their milk on the floor under their end table. He then went to make himself a cuppa while he watched the bowl out of the corner of his worried sight.
Sure enough he saw a blurry ball of gray dart out from the couch and gingerly approach the bowl. He watched her dip her tiny paw in then lick it carefully before she stuck her face in it and started lapping greedily. So she was smart as well as tiny.
She jumped slightly when he sat down on the couch but when he made no move towards her and just sat there sipping his tea she cautiously approached him. Her head darted back and forth between his legs and the seat of the coach before she deftly jumped up his calves and used her tiny claws to pull her self up on to his lap. He made to pet her but she skittered across the couch and sat there all coiled muscles and wary bones.
John just tried to smile reassuringly at her and picked up a book that he had been reading between cases. He felt her padding slowly over the top of the cushions, her weight barely a whisper, and smiled ruefully when her felt her crawl in to his lap. But she didn't stop there.
When he didn't move to cast her off she clambered up his bicep and nestled herself on his chest right below his chin. He felt his smile turn brighter as she started to purr. Either she was desperate for human affection or she had forgiven for almost crushing her. He would have to warn Sherlock about not stepping on her because she was so tiny and liked to follow people about.
He felt his nose start to tickle uncomfortably but didn't have the heart to move her now that she had fallen in to a contented slumber.
Just then Sherlock came blustering in to the room in the glory of his flapping fury of trench and scarf. He seemed to have not seen John but he knew better than that. Sherlock saw everything he was just ignoring him for the time being. After tossing his coat on the chair opposite him he looked briskly at John and said,
"John you're allergic. Get rid of that thing before your throat swells and closes."
John cleared his throat indignantly and felt bad about it afterwards as the kitten stirred a bit. He tried not to make too much noise as he said levelly,
"I'm not severely allergic. Also she's had the worst day of her life I don't think shipping her off to a shelter will improve it."
Sherlock sighed exasperated with the conversation already,
"She's a cat John. Just an animal that feeds off of human compassion and stupidity. She seems perfectly wrought sleeping soundly and making that dreadful racket on your chest."
John had to fight the smile that was starting to tug at his lips. Leave it to Sherlock to describe purring as a horrendous din. But his face set in to the determined look he got when he had made up his mind about following Sherlock in to mortal danger and beyond,
"You would seek comfort too if some one who was your whole world died before your eyes while you looked helplessly on. At least she has some one to look after her who cares. So yes she's going to be living with us from now on."
Sherlock's face blanched even whiter than its usual pallor, making the hollows under his eyes turn a vivid purple. His mouth was a grim thin line but he managed to get out in clipped words,
"Fine the beast can stay; just keep it out of my experiments."
He smiled at his minor victory and carefully started to scratch behind her ears,
"She's not an it she's a she. What do you suppose we should name her?"
Sherlock snorted as he started to bang some beakers together in the kitchen,
"I want no part of the life of that creature. Name it whatever you want."
John had known him long enough to know he wasn't truly mad, if he were he wouldn't even be responding to his musing out loud. So he continued on unperturbed,
"I'm not very good at names. Maybe Sally, or Molly, or better yet Anderson."
He heard Sherlock slam something heavy and glass very loudly on the counter,
"John if you name that monster Anderson I will put a fetal pig under your bed that you won't know about until it starts to smell."
He huffed playfully,
"Again? Is that really the best you can do?"
Sherlock actually moved in to his line of sight from the kitchen just to glare at him with those haunting blue eyes,
"How about Ebola, or Botulism, or Sarin, or Anthrax?"
He returned his scowl and said flatly,
"We're not naming her after any diseases or poisons."
He threw his hands up in mock frustration,
"Okay then how about Mittens, Boots, or Buttercup? Those are all acceptable cat names correct?"
John pulled a disgusted face,
"Yeah if you're some daft old cat lady. How about Maddie, Scarlet, or Jade? She needs a real name because she's so clever."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously at that,
"John that cat has no more thinking capacity than plant or likely rock and it is most certainly not clever. But then very few beings really are."
He rolled his eyes. If he was really going to be jealous of his affections towards a cat then they were more far-gone than he had imagined. When the silence held between them without either budging got too long finally Sherlock muttered,
"How about Arthur?"
John actually turned to face him and accidentally startled the kitten awake. She tromped down his chest languidly and made such a tiny cry as she sat down in his lap he made a vow to stay stiller.
"Why Arthur? She's a girl cat Sherlock. Last time I checked that was a boy's name."
Sherlock went back to his experiment and said evenly,
"It's as good a name as any for a cat. If you must know there's an author by that name who's quite good. Also she seems a bit mannish for a kitten."
He gave him a half amused half frustrated look but laughed as Arthur batted lazily at his bootlaces.
"Arthur it is."
John was about to mention something about going to get a litter box and some chow when he interrupted him,
"And if you are so intent on keeping her and care enough to name her I would recommend getting her cream if you insist on giving her dairy, less lactose. Cats over eight weeks tend to have trouble metabolizing it."
John really did look at him then but Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze. He wanted to say something along the lines of "Brilliant" but instead just looked at Sherlock in awe.
For some one who claimed to be a high functioning sociopath with no heart he seemed to care a lot. He just did it in his own way. John was no longer worried about him accidently stepping on Arthur because he knew that even if he did he would feel just as bad about it as he had.
John now had an extra life depending on his own but so did Sherlock. This could be amazing or disaster. Only time would tell.
Author: harlequinehands
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing/Characters: Sherlock/John and kitten!
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 2,000+
Spoilers: Whole of the Series and Post "The Great Game"
Warnings: Un-beta’d, Violent Case, Implied child death, and Scared kittens D:
Disclaimer: Don’t own any of these lovely characters, they are property of BBC and Moffat ect.
Summary: John finds a traumatized kitten at the scene of their latest case and decided to take it home and raise it with love. Sherlock is less than thrilled and more than a little jealous. Hilarious kitten antics ensue. But the case darkens even as the cat brings changes neither men could have predicted.
An: I try to write fluff and then it gets crunchy plot and angst in it! D: I'M A TERRIBLE PERSON. But this is for the lovely person who posted on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme about wanting to see John find a stray cat and bring it home. I was originally going to write John/kitten but then it became this. Hope that's acceptable OP. Also, KITTENS YAY! Also forgive me my terrible pun title.
It was one of the most gruesome scenes John and Sherlock had come upon in years. The whole house had a deep wrongness about it. Probably because it was home to a father who had murdered his wife and three girls. Sherlock relied on the physical but even John could see he was bristling at the atmosphere in here. John was slightly more superstitious; he had seen enough death, sadness, suffering, and hatred to know that it could scar places just as well as people.
Once they had heard the details of the scene he had brushed past him without a word and John had followed with heavier feet than usual. There was a horrible crumple of newsprint stuck in his throat at the sight of the blood all over the kitchen sink and linoleum. He knew the daughter's rooms where upstairs but didn't want to really investigate them. Sherlock was down in the kitchen working at trying to find where the husband had spirited himself off to but John was just wandering about like usual. This time he lingered closer to the exits than usual. He didn't want to but he knew he should go investigate upstairs. His flight or fight reflexes where singing high hymns in his ears as he reluctantly climbed the stairs.
The door to the first daughter's room was open but he bypassed it for the bright cheery pink of the last room on the right. He might not have seen things the way Sherlock did but he did see things. And that was when he noticed the dumped hamper in the youngest daughter's room. Thankfully they had removed the body only the creeping, shockingly massive, bloodstain remained.
John crept carefully in his booties over to the pile and crouched down, gently taking the blood splattered yellow floral jumper off the top of the pile with one steady gloved hand. A small gray striped kitten cowered before him. It was no bigger than his palm to tip of his middle finger and it was shaking like it was about coming apart. When John picked it up it turned to a floppy doll made of water and skin and let out a pathetic mewl. He felt tears prick his eyes then.
Any one would didn't believe that animals could have feelings had never seen one love, cry, or cower in terror. Some times they were more human than people. John has seen enough monsters in his life and none of them had actually been animals. And this poor girl, because now that he was looking her over for any blood splatter or physical evidence and saw she was a she, had survived the death of her entire family. He couldn't even imagine being helpless to stop the death of some one he loved, of Sherlock, while he stood stone still hiding for his life.
When the kitten appeared to be clean he tucked her softly against his chest and felt her trembling ease a little as she tried to burrow under his ribs. He was allergic to cats but he couldn't let her go to the RSPCA. He knew her trauma and now some how she was his. It was that easy. She had already grabbed his heart and curled in on herself around it.
He smiled crookedly as he thought of how much Sherlock would protest. But it didn't matter; this kitten was coming home with him. He found the small pocket just inside the breast of his blazer and set her down gently inside it. He felt her purring start to whirl as her shakes only came in small spasms every once in a while. He made his way downstairs to find that Sherlock had already left him there. Sighing at an apologetic Lestrade he hailed a cab and headed back to 221B.
When John got back to the flat he set her down gently on the couch and then went to the kitchen to rummage in the fridge among the pickled metacarpals and strange looking ooze in old Tupperware for the milk. Once he located what was left of the perpetually three quarters empty bottle he took a step back and heard a keening yelp of a meow. He cringed as he hopped away and watched her flee, slightly limping underneath the couch in the living room. He had stepped on the poor thing! John cursed under his breath and slammed the door before chasing after her apologizing rapidly,
"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry."
Escaped his lips as he rushed after the impossibly small creature. She was cowering again in the farthest dustiest corner under the couch and nothing he was doing was succeeding in coaxing her out from under there. He finally gave up and placed the bowl full of almost the rest of their milk on the floor under their end table. He then went to make himself a cuppa while he watched the bowl out of the corner of his worried sight.
Sure enough he saw a blurry ball of gray dart out from the couch and gingerly approach the bowl. He watched her dip her tiny paw in then lick it carefully before she stuck her face in it and started lapping greedily. So she was smart as well as tiny.
She jumped slightly when he sat down on the couch but when he made no move towards her and just sat there sipping his tea she cautiously approached him. Her head darted back and forth between his legs and the seat of the coach before she deftly jumped up his calves and used her tiny claws to pull her self up on to his lap. He made to pet her but she skittered across the couch and sat there all coiled muscles and wary bones.
John just tried to smile reassuringly at her and picked up a book that he had been reading between cases. He felt her padding slowly over the top of the cushions, her weight barely a whisper, and smiled ruefully when her felt her crawl in to his lap. But she didn't stop there.
When he didn't move to cast her off she clambered up his bicep and nestled herself on his chest right below his chin. He felt his smile turn brighter as she started to purr. Either she was desperate for human affection or she had forgiven for almost crushing her. He would have to warn Sherlock about not stepping on her because she was so tiny and liked to follow people about.
He felt his nose start to tickle uncomfortably but didn't have the heart to move her now that she had fallen in to a contented slumber.
Just then Sherlock came blustering in to the room in the glory of his flapping fury of trench and scarf. He seemed to have not seen John but he knew better than that. Sherlock saw everything he was just ignoring him for the time being. After tossing his coat on the chair opposite him he looked briskly at John and said,
"John you're allergic. Get rid of that thing before your throat swells and closes."
John cleared his throat indignantly and felt bad about it afterwards as the kitten stirred a bit. He tried not to make too much noise as he said levelly,
"I'm not severely allergic. Also she's had the worst day of her life I don't think shipping her off to a shelter will improve it."
Sherlock sighed exasperated with the conversation already,
"She's a cat John. Just an animal that feeds off of human compassion and stupidity. She seems perfectly wrought sleeping soundly and making that dreadful racket on your chest."
John had to fight the smile that was starting to tug at his lips. Leave it to Sherlock to describe purring as a horrendous din. But his face set in to the determined look he got when he had made up his mind about following Sherlock in to mortal danger and beyond,
"You would seek comfort too if some one who was your whole world died before your eyes while you looked helplessly on. At least she has some one to look after her who cares. So yes she's going to be living with us from now on."
Sherlock's face blanched even whiter than its usual pallor, making the hollows under his eyes turn a vivid purple. His mouth was a grim thin line but he managed to get out in clipped words,
"Fine the beast can stay; just keep it out of my experiments."
He smiled at his minor victory and carefully started to scratch behind her ears,
"She's not an it she's a she. What do you suppose we should name her?"
Sherlock snorted as he started to bang some beakers together in the kitchen,
"I want no part of the life of that creature. Name it whatever you want."
John had known him long enough to know he wasn't truly mad, if he were he wouldn't even be responding to his musing out loud. So he continued on unperturbed,
"I'm not very good at names. Maybe Sally, or Molly, or better yet Anderson."
He heard Sherlock slam something heavy and glass very loudly on the counter,
"John if you name that monster Anderson I will put a fetal pig under your bed that you won't know about until it starts to smell."
He huffed playfully,
"Again? Is that really the best you can do?"
Sherlock actually moved in to his line of sight from the kitchen just to glare at him with those haunting blue eyes,
"How about Ebola, or Botulism, or Sarin, or Anthrax?"
He returned his scowl and said flatly,
"We're not naming her after any diseases or poisons."
He threw his hands up in mock frustration,
"Okay then how about Mittens, Boots, or Buttercup? Those are all acceptable cat names correct?"
John pulled a disgusted face,
"Yeah if you're some daft old cat lady. How about Maddie, Scarlet, or Jade? She needs a real name because she's so clever."
Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously at that,
"John that cat has no more thinking capacity than plant or likely rock and it is most certainly not clever. But then very few beings really are."
He rolled his eyes. If he was really going to be jealous of his affections towards a cat then they were more far-gone than he had imagined. When the silence held between them without either budging got too long finally Sherlock muttered,
"How about Arthur?"
John actually turned to face him and accidentally startled the kitten awake. She tromped down his chest languidly and made such a tiny cry as she sat down in his lap he made a vow to stay stiller.
"Why Arthur? She's a girl cat Sherlock. Last time I checked that was a boy's name."
Sherlock went back to his experiment and said evenly,
"It's as good a name as any for a cat. If you must know there's an author by that name who's quite good. Also she seems a bit mannish for a kitten."
He gave him a half amused half frustrated look but laughed as Arthur batted lazily at his bootlaces.
"Arthur it is."
John was about to mention something about going to get a litter box and some chow when he interrupted him,
"And if you are so intent on keeping her and care enough to name her I would recommend getting her cream if you insist on giving her dairy, less lactose. Cats over eight weeks tend to have trouble metabolizing it."
John really did look at him then but Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze. He wanted to say something along the lines of "Brilliant" but instead just looked at Sherlock in awe.
For some one who claimed to be a high functioning sociopath with no heart he seemed to care a lot. He just did it in his own way. John was no longer worried about him accidently stepping on Arthur because he knew that even if he did he would feel just as bad about it as he had.
John now had an extra life depending on his own but so did Sherlock. This could be amazing or disaster. Only time would tell.