Ficlet: Sherlock: Whither We Wander [G]
I was washing the dishes this afternoon, and Loki was sitting on the edge of the sink watching me, and while I worked this little ficlet popped into my head.
It's complete, unapologetic fluff. But I had to run with it. Unbeta-ed and written rather quickly. My first attempt at Sherlock fic; be nice.
Title: Whither We Wander
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,187
Warnings: Fluff. Obliquely implied John/Sherlock, if you squint a bit.
Spoilers: Very vague spoilers for episode three.
Disclaimer: Not even a little mine.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes appears to have a penchant for attracting strays.
It’s around midnight on Saturday when John finally stumbles across the threshold, delivered at last to safety from the violent arms of the storm. Sherlock is awake, and has been for days; he beats the bow of his violin against the side of his armchair, marking time for every heavy step his flat mate ascends up the stairs (no visible limp, not anymore, though he still favors one leg slightly over the other.)
Predictable; the sound, the phantom shuffle, the squelch of saturated rubber against old, well-worn wood. But John still has it in him to surprise Sherlock occasionally, even after six months, and the tiny, bedraggled face peering over the collar of the doctor’s jacket is only predictable in retrospect.
“I’ll call the shelter in the morning,” John says simply. “Do we have any milk?”
Mrs. Hudson coos and coddles when she comes to check in on them a little while later, creating a little nest out of clean, fluffy towels and commenting in an affectionate undertone about Sherlock’s penchant for attracting strays.
Sherlock ignores them.
. . .
In the morning, John goes out for cat food and litter and a toy or two, to keep the tiny black kitten from chewing on something more important. He returns to find Sherlock still sitting in his chair, watching the cat play with his shoelaces, and, somehow, he never gets around to calling the shelter.
. . .
“Well, hello; who’s this?”
Sherlock’s expression twists into impatient disgust, disgust that’s quickly redirected towards John: I told you to keep it out of the way.
“The latch on my bedroom door doesn’t close properly,” John offers apologetically, crouching near the floor and snapping his fingers to divert the kitten’s attention. “I think she’s figured out how to open it.”
The escape artist in question is much more interested in twining around Lestrade’s legs than she is in heeding her rescuer’s call, ingratiating herself in a manner that might have been nauseating, were not so artful. “Are you taking in strays, now, Sherlock?” the inspector chuckles, running the tips of his fingers over the kitten’s sleek fur.
“Too many,” Sherlock mutters, and John winces; the adventure at the swimming pool is almost a month in the past already, but he still uncomfortably remembers Moriarty’s remark about his dog-like faithfulness. Sighing to himself, he scoops the cat up into his arms and spirits her upstairs.
“Now, stay here this time, alright?” he instructs her firmly, placing her at the center of his neatly made bed. She blinks her large, intelligent eyes in his direction, and John can’t help but think that he’s seen that look of disdain somewhere before.
. . .
“Jim!” Sherlock snaps in disgust a week later, quickly snatching a file folder off the cluttered kitchen table to salvage it from the tea now dripping onto the floor. It takes John a few minutes to realize who’s being addressed.
“… Jim?” he challenges curiously, already heading in the direction of the paper towels.
“Yes, Jim,” Sherlock agrees, giving the kitten a wary look. The feline returns his stare a moment, entirely unperturbed, before scampering off in the direction of the sofa.
“You named her Jim?”
“Yes, Jim,” Sherlock repeats, his tone taking on the edge it reserves for moments when John’s being especially stupid.
“Why do you call her Jim?”
“Because that’s her name. Now, if you wouldn’t mind restraining her while I finish my …” he trailed off into a sigh, pushing himself to his feet and pursuing the wayward animal into the sitting room. “She took my pen. Again,” he explains over his shoulder, and just like that, the moment is gone.
‘Asking’ is something else John never seems to get around to doing.
. . .
Searching for lost objects recently stolen (and subsequently hidden) by Jim, however, is something John gets around to doing rather often. Pens, pencils, keys, the remote to the telly; anything not nailed to the floor is liable to disappear without warning, resurfacing again in a host of rather unlikely places. Between Sherlock’s general mess and Jim’s mischievous inventiveness, John despairs of ever locating his belongings quickly again.
“You have ownership problems,” John announces one evening, giving up the search for his phone charger as a lost cause. “Both of you. You both take what’s mine, use it without permission, and then fail to put it away.”
Sherlock, lost in contemplation of John’s laptop monitor, merely hums a distracted agreement.
. . .
Three weeks after Jim’s arrival, John comes home from the clinic to the rather unlikely sight of the kitten curled up and sleeping on Sherlock’s knee. “Lestrade’s mobile,” the detective supplies in response to John’s unasked question, just as though that might somehow explain everything. Knowing Sherlock, he probably believes it does.
“Yes? Would you care to elaborate?” John stopped at the grocery store on his way in, and Sherlock’s subsequent reply is muffled somewhat on the other side of the refrigerator door.
“Lestrade was being a prat. As usual. Jim stole his phone and hid it between the sofa cushions.” The closing door reveals one of Sherlock’s mischievous half-smiles. He looks inordinately proud of the feline, as though the kitten hadn’t played the very same trick on both of them countless times before.
Still, it’s a moment of truce for them, and afterward the balance of allegiance changes.
Now, Jim sleeps on the back of Sherlock’s armchair while he’s playing the violin and twines around his ankles while he’s pacing. Sherlock feeds the kitten scraps of food from his own (mostly untouched) plate, and at night Jim forsakes her place at the foot of John’s bed for Sherlock’s.
First, there was the skull; then, John. Now, Sherlock mulls over his theories and questions in the cat’s presence, long fingers playing over the creature’s silky ears. John suspects the detective sees this as an improvement, which is right about the time the doctor he realizes he’s actually a little jealous of their tiny ward.
“I’m the one who rescued you,” he reminds the cat sternly, after failing to lure it from Sherlock’s knee over onto his. “He didn’t even want to keep you.” He sounds petulant, and he doesn’t care, because he is petulant. Sherlock’s glance flickers briefly from the screen of his phone to John, a heartbeat of motion that the doctor doesn’t see.
“Problem?” he asks softly, in a tone that actually says: You’re being ridiculous.
“You’ve done nothing but yell at her and chase her from the room for weeks,” John complains, hearing the unspoken words but ignoring them. “Constantly driving her away. And yet, there she is, happy as can be, content with whatever scrap of attention you deign to throw her.”
“I know,” Sherlock agrees, and there’s another one of his firefly smiles: bright and brief, warm as summer. His attention has returned to the cell phone in his hand, which, it turns out, isn’t his phone at all. “Honestly, there’s just no accounting for it at all.”
John’s silent for a moment, thinking about that. Then he settles back on the sofa, hiding his own smile behind the evening paper.
It's complete, unapologetic fluff. But I had to run with it. Unbeta-ed and written rather quickly. My first attempt at Sherlock fic; be nice.
Title: Whither We Wander
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Rating: G
Word Count: 1,187
Warnings: Fluff. Obliquely implied John/Sherlock, if you squint a bit.
Spoilers: Very vague spoilers for episode three.
Disclaimer: Not even a little mine.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes appears to have a penchant for attracting strays.
It’s around midnight on Saturday when John finally stumbles across the threshold, delivered at last to safety from the violent arms of the storm. Sherlock is awake, and has been for days; he beats the bow of his violin against the side of his armchair, marking time for every heavy step his flat mate ascends up the stairs (no visible limp, not anymore, though he still favors one leg slightly over the other.)
Predictable; the sound, the phantom shuffle, the squelch of saturated rubber against old, well-worn wood. But John still has it in him to surprise Sherlock occasionally, even after six months, and the tiny, bedraggled face peering over the collar of the doctor’s jacket is only predictable in retrospect.
“I’ll call the shelter in the morning,” John says simply. “Do we have any milk?”
Mrs. Hudson coos and coddles when she comes to check in on them a little while later, creating a little nest out of clean, fluffy towels and commenting in an affectionate undertone about Sherlock’s penchant for attracting strays.
Sherlock ignores them.
. . .
In the morning, John goes out for cat food and litter and a toy or two, to keep the tiny black kitten from chewing on something more important. He returns to find Sherlock still sitting in his chair, watching the cat play with his shoelaces, and, somehow, he never gets around to calling the shelter.
. . .
“Well, hello; who’s this?”
Sherlock’s expression twists into impatient disgust, disgust that’s quickly redirected towards John: I told you to keep it out of the way.
“The latch on my bedroom door doesn’t close properly,” John offers apologetically, crouching near the floor and snapping his fingers to divert the kitten’s attention. “I think she’s figured out how to open it.”
The escape artist in question is much more interested in twining around Lestrade’s legs than she is in heeding her rescuer’s call, ingratiating herself in a manner that might have been nauseating, were not so artful. “Are you taking in strays, now, Sherlock?” the inspector chuckles, running the tips of his fingers over the kitten’s sleek fur.
“Too many,” Sherlock mutters, and John winces; the adventure at the swimming pool is almost a month in the past already, but he still uncomfortably remembers Moriarty’s remark about his dog-like faithfulness. Sighing to himself, he scoops the cat up into his arms and spirits her upstairs.
“Now, stay here this time, alright?” he instructs her firmly, placing her at the center of his neatly made bed. She blinks her large, intelligent eyes in his direction, and John can’t help but think that he’s seen that look of disdain somewhere before.
. . .
“Jim!” Sherlock snaps in disgust a week later, quickly snatching a file folder off the cluttered kitchen table to salvage it from the tea now dripping onto the floor. It takes John a few minutes to realize who’s being addressed.
“… Jim?” he challenges curiously, already heading in the direction of the paper towels.
“Yes, Jim,” Sherlock agrees, giving the kitten a wary look. The feline returns his stare a moment, entirely unperturbed, before scampering off in the direction of the sofa.
“You named her Jim?”
“Yes, Jim,” Sherlock repeats, his tone taking on the edge it reserves for moments when John’s being especially stupid.
“Why do you call her Jim?”
“Because that’s her name. Now, if you wouldn’t mind restraining her while I finish my …” he trailed off into a sigh, pushing himself to his feet and pursuing the wayward animal into the sitting room. “She took my pen. Again,” he explains over his shoulder, and just like that, the moment is gone.
‘Asking’ is something else John never seems to get around to doing.
. . .
Searching for lost objects recently stolen (and subsequently hidden) by Jim, however, is something John gets around to doing rather often. Pens, pencils, keys, the remote to the telly; anything not nailed to the floor is liable to disappear without warning, resurfacing again in a host of rather unlikely places. Between Sherlock’s general mess and Jim’s mischievous inventiveness, John despairs of ever locating his belongings quickly again.
“You have ownership problems,” John announces one evening, giving up the search for his phone charger as a lost cause. “Both of you. You both take what’s mine, use it without permission, and then fail to put it away.”
Sherlock, lost in contemplation of John’s laptop monitor, merely hums a distracted agreement.
. . .
Three weeks after Jim’s arrival, John comes home from the clinic to the rather unlikely sight of the kitten curled up and sleeping on Sherlock’s knee. “Lestrade’s mobile,” the detective supplies in response to John’s unasked question, just as though that might somehow explain everything. Knowing Sherlock, he probably believes it does.
“Yes? Would you care to elaborate?” John stopped at the grocery store on his way in, and Sherlock’s subsequent reply is muffled somewhat on the other side of the refrigerator door.
“Lestrade was being a prat. As usual. Jim stole his phone and hid it between the sofa cushions.” The closing door reveals one of Sherlock’s mischievous half-smiles. He looks inordinately proud of the feline, as though the kitten hadn’t played the very same trick on both of them countless times before.
Still, it’s a moment of truce for them, and afterward the balance of allegiance changes.
Now, Jim sleeps on the back of Sherlock’s armchair while he’s playing the violin and twines around his ankles while he’s pacing. Sherlock feeds the kitten scraps of food from his own (mostly untouched) plate, and at night Jim forsakes her place at the foot of John’s bed for Sherlock’s.
First, there was the skull; then, John. Now, Sherlock mulls over his theories and questions in the cat’s presence, long fingers playing over the creature’s silky ears. John suspects the detective sees this as an improvement, which is right about the time the doctor he realizes he’s actually a little jealous of their tiny ward.
“I’m the one who rescued you,” he reminds the cat sternly, after failing to lure it from Sherlock’s knee over onto his. “He didn’t even want to keep you.” He sounds petulant, and he doesn’t care, because he is petulant. Sherlock’s glance flickers briefly from the screen of his phone to John, a heartbeat of motion that the doctor doesn’t see.
“Problem?” he asks softly, in a tone that actually says: You’re being ridiculous.
“You’ve done nothing but yell at her and chase her from the room for weeks,” John complains, hearing the unspoken words but ignoring them. “Constantly driving her away. And yet, there she is, happy as can be, content with whatever scrap of attention you deign to throw her.”
“I know,” Sherlock agrees, and there’s another one of his firefly smiles: bright and brief, warm as summer. His attention has returned to the cell phone in his hand, which, it turns out, isn’t his phone at all. “Honestly, there’s just no accounting for it at all.”
John’s silent for a moment, thinking about that. Then he settles back on the sofa, hiding his own smile behind the evening paper.