Fic: Cat's Cradle
Title: Cat's Cradle
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 4,426
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Unabashedly fluffy - FLUFFY TO THE MAX.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock and John end up with a kitten. Humor and fluff ensue.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: For some reason I have the most fun writing fluff for a show that is far from fluffy. A warning that the end here is a bit cracked. Actually, the whole thing can probably be considered crackish. But hopefully still fun to read. Also, be on the look out for a 'Community' joke! If you spot it, let me know!
As far as crime scenes go, it had been pretty standard so far.
The victim had obviously been stabbed multiple times but there was some question as to why her ring finger had been removed post mortem and also why she was the third person in so many weeks to have this odd quirk.
Two bodies earlier in the week - one an apparent suicide and another dead from a gunshot wound - were also found sans ring finger. Sherlock was currently inspecting this woman with much interest, hand delicately holding her wrist, eyes on the bloody stub where her finger had been when he murmured, “Has anyone seen her glove?”
“Glove?” Lestrade repeated.
Sherlock let out a painful sigh, “Yes. Her right hand wears a glove so, obviously, her left would have as well but the killer, needing to remove her finger, also removed her glove. Where is the glove?”
This led to a thorough search of the alley where she had been found - Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, and John searched high and low when suddenly Sally cried out, “Think I foun-” her words ended in a high pitched shriek.
The men rushed to her side as she backed away from where she had been crouching near a skip, “Something’s - something’s moving down near it!”
John was more than prepared to face a mouse or a rat as he saw that indeed something alive was squirming amongst the trash and the missing glove. It was small and furry and most certainly not the first (nor likely the last) rodent he had had to face in the midst of a case.
However, as the creature struggled amongst the refuse it soon became clear that it was neither a mouse nor a rat, the sounds leaving it too familiarly marked as feline mewling. A small kitten emerged. It was completely black and couldn’t have been much older than eight weeks. The sounds it released bordered on the very edges of pitiful.
Sally melted instantly, “Aw! Look at the little thing!”
She reached out a hand towards it and, in a surprising turn of events, the kitten seemed to instantly transform from pathetic to fierce, letting out a particularly ear-splitting noise as it swatted at her. She drew back her hand, scowling, “Christ! Mangy runt! Did you see that? Tried to claw me!”
“Sally, it’s just scared.” Lestrade returned and he too reached out, intent on grabbing the glove near the animal more than anything but he was rebuffed also, a hiss escaping the kitten, its jaws snapping forward. He frowned, “Damn bugger’s territorial.”
“I’ll get it.” Anderson grumbled and he seemed to more than relish the idea of pushing the kitten out of the way when Sherlock’s voice broke in behind them, “What on earth is taking so long?”
Lestrade turned to him, “Found your glove but seems a cat has as well. Bloody thing seems a might feral. Doesn’t want to let us get near it.”
Anderson let out a cry then, clutching one hand, “Wretched monster got me!”
“You get the glove?” Lestrade asked with genuine interest but the look Anderson shot him answered it succinctly as he moaned, “I’ve probably got rabies now.”
“Here, let us have a look,” John offered and he inspected Anderson’s ‘wound’, laughing dryly, “Rabies is unlikely, you’re not even scratched.”
“Yes I am! I’m bleeding!”
“You are not. There’s not even a mark on your skin. See?” John lifted Anderson’s hand closer to his face for inspection, “Think you’re just a bit skittish. Pretty reasonable considering the little thing took shots at both Sergeant Donovan and Inspector Lestrade.”
“Creature’s a menace! Best call Animal Control!” Anderson tossed out and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re all being perfectly ridiculous! See here,” he walked over and, with a great flourish, picked the kitten and the glove up, one in each hand as if it was no great feat, “Problem solved.”
The group watched with some awe and Sherlock walked to John, thrusting the kitten in his direction, “Here. Take this.”
John numbly took the kitten from him as Sherlock began inspecting the glove with great interest. Eventually he turned to Lestrade, “The woman was a bridal consultant from out of Sussex. Most likely came into town for a quick meeting with a client or an affiliate, regardless, after eating at the restaurant two doors down from here she stepped out for a cigarette down this alley where she was caught off guard by our killer. He made quick work of her but, unlike the previous murders; he took more enjoyment here, this patently noted by the particular weapon used. The other two were clean, quick but this was flashier, more labor intensive.”
“He knew her?” John offered and Sherlock rewarded him with one of his rare smiles, glaring at the other three, “Correct, John. Clearly being in my presence has had an auspicious effect on you.”
“Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.” Sally grumbled, “Might want to watch yourself, doctor. Be a shame if you went down the same path. Got enough work cut out for us with one psychopath running around, two’d be a bit much.”
“All right, all right.” Lestrade intervened before things became too heated, “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”
Everyone got so engaged back in the case that it took John several minutes to even realize he was still holding a living, breathing being in one hand. The kitten had curled deep into his jumper, claws catching on the material. John tried to detach himself with little to no avail. Sherlock, seeing this, rolled his eyes, “Honestly.”
He walked over to John and took hold of the kitten, easily extracting it. He looked down at the creature, then back at John, shaking his head, “Come on then.”
*
The case of ‘The Ring Fingers’ (blog title pending) was solved long before the yet-untitled case of the kitten. Somehow, in the blur of everything involved in the last mystery, the kitten had ended up taking residence at their flat and John had had yet to address the issue.
In fact he had only managed to take note of three things. One, the kitten was female, two, the kitten still had yet to be named, and three, she was completely and irrevocably in love with Sherlock. She followed him from room to room and, quite often, John could overhear him raging at her, such gems as, “Stop getting under foot, you infernal beast!”
And, humorously enough, the kitten would remark with a brightly loud ‘mew’ or some other noise to which, Sherlock, even more humorously, would respond, “Don’t make that sound! It will get you nothing! Now. Go. Away.” Each word spaced out, firm, and insistent.
John didn’t know if she went away or not, when given such vicious commands, but he did know that Sherlock did indeed protest too much. When John eventually suggested they give the kitten up for adoption, Sherlock had sniffed at the very idea, “Yes, well, we can do that, John. But, keep in mind, considering where we found the little beast the agency in question might decide she’s no good for adoption and euthanize her, and I highly doubt you would want to be party to such an affair.”
John scoffed, “Sherlock, they’re not going to put her down just because she was a former alley cat. They’ll see she gets a veterinary exam and shots and then some lucky child will take her home.”
Sherlock sneered, “A child? You think that better for her? Children can barely take care of themselves, much less an animal. They’ll eye her for five minutes then go back to their television and video games. She would be better off back in the alley where things are actually interesting.”
“You want I should release her back into the wild then?”
“Don’t be absurd! She found a key piece of evidence in a murder case. She deserves something a little better than a life on the streets.”
John couldn’t fight off his grin any longer, “Sherlock, if you want to keep her, you can just say so.”
“Please,” He moaned as if it was foolish for John to even suggest such a thing, “I want the vile thing gone, but…you know, properly.”
“Properly?”
“Yes."
“I see. And how’s that, exactly?”
“We’ll find her a home ourselves. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” John parroted, grin having burst forth into a full smile. Sherlock eyed him warily, “Yes. Now, see to it that she has the essentials. We won’t have a solution right away, so it would be best to see that she has what she needs. Also, that veterinary exam you mentioned wouldn’t be remiss.”
John wanted to ask why he was the one in charge of seeing all these things done but, like most commands Sherlock made, he found himself carrying them out before he even thought to question them in the first place. The vet gave the kitten a clean bill of health, remarking that John was lucky to have found her when he had as well as making several recommendations on how she should be cared for. As such, John came home one evening with not only the kitten in tow in a carrier but a collection of odds and ends in a large brown paper bag.
Food, toys, and, most important of all, a book that he thrust at a moping, sofa-ridden Sherlock. Sherlock, who had had one arm tossed dramatically over his eyes, lost in the process of a proper, bored sulk started at the feel of the book tossed upon him and removed the arm, picking up the book to glare at it, “What’s this?”
“Book about cat care. Best you read it. You’ll be in charge of her litter, her feeding.”
“John, I told you we will not be keeping her. Her staying with us is merely temporary.”
“Well regardless, she’ll be your responsibility. I’ve done my part. I wash my hands of it.” and, with this said, he released the kitten who immediately exited her carrier to trot over to Sherlock. She looked up at him with great interest then released a deep throated questioning noise.
Sherlock sat up and she leapt up on to the sofa to crouch down next to him. He stared at her. She stared back. John bit his lip to keep from smiling like a loon. He was, however, unable to keep himself from muttering, “What a pair.”
*
The next few weeks may have been dreadfully dull case wise, but it was more than made up for by the exploits of both the kitten and Sherlock. John did his best to uphold his decree that he was out of the situation, but he couldn’t be entirely immune to watching the scenarios play out.
Mainly because they were of the highly entertaining variety.
For example, one evening Sherlock, bemoaning what he had labeled ‘the nasty little terror’, had taken to sequestering himself in his bedroom, remarking blithely that it was his only recourse in order to escape his unwanted stalker.
He had barely been behind the closed door for five minutes before the kitten, who had planted herself firmly outside, took to crying out in wild desperation, despairing being parted from him. Sherlock had done his level best to ignore her and John, gritting his teeth, had done the same. It was almost at the point where, out of the three of them, John was positive he was going to break first when, shockingly; Sherlock opened his door, hissing, “Come in then, if it’ll shut you up!”
The kitten rose, tail held high, and happily scurried into his room.
Then there was the matter of her litter training - John had noticed, with some surprise, that there never seemed to be an issue in this regard. He had highly anticipated - out of everything pertaining to the cat - that this would be the biggest problem but, amazingly, this seemed to be well and truly taken care of. John thought it best not to wonder how or why but just accept it as an unspoken blessing.
Another odd blessing was the revelation that Sherlock was (remarkably) reading the book John got for him. John caught him late one evening studying it and when he had cleared his throat to draw attention to this fact, Sherlock had leveled him with a withering glance and summed it up with a dry, “There’s nothing better to do.”
John had merely beamed, offering a careful, “You might want to consider giving her a name.”
“What?”
“Well, you can’t keep calling her the mixed garden variety of ‘beast’ and ‘monster’ and what have you. She ought to have a proper name.”
“I am not naming her. That’s completely preposterous. Personifying a creature by naming it is asinine. Firstly, the little thing’s mind isn’t even cognizant enough to recognize it has one. Secondly, as I have told you before and must repeat because you apparently deliberately chose not to believe me, I tell you again, we are not keeping her. I absolutely refuse to have a pet.”
“And why is that?”
“Pets require more work, attention, and responsibility than I am willing to give - much like children and romantic relationships - it would also interfere with my work and experiments. Disruptive, messy - not to mention the hair. The cat’s hair is everywhere. Being black it is not terribly noticeable, seeing as most of my wardrobe is the same colour, regardless, I notice it and I detest the hair.”
“You seem to have this well thought out.”
“I think everything out; you know this, even if the particular matter is a great waste of my time to do so, it receives some thought.”
“Right, well then, I’ll start looking for a home for her.”
“See that you do.” Sherlock had groused but continued to read through the book and, once he felt John was out of earshot, said quietly under his breath, “Come to think of it, I already do have one pet…”
He grimaced slightly when he heard John’s voice call out, “Heard that!”
Still, the best incident that came out of the kitten being in their lives came very early one morning. John had had a restless sleep and chosen to give up in favor of some early breakfast and tea. He had come downstairs to find that Sherlock had finally given in to sleep. This happened upon occasion - Sherlock would work himself well and truly into exhaustion and would simply collapse on the best available surface for sleep - the sofa, the floor, John’s favorite chair - almost never his own bed.
This time the sofa had been the winner and Sherlock lay on it in with an almost artistic sprawl, long limbs dangling gracefully about as if he’d been arranged. And there, rested right smack center on his chest, was a curled fluffy ball of kitten, her purrs close to deafening. John had looked at her with raised eyebrows, a smile quirking his lips.
As if sensing him, her head had risen and she had looked at John with glossy, narrowed eyes. Her whole demeanor spoke of a possessive nature, ears twitching, and he got the craziest sense she was warning him. Her whole attitude broadcasting an air of ‘Don’t come any closer. He’s mine’.
Her jealousy was terribly amusing and, if John was honest, slightly unnerving. For a kitten, she sure had a lot of…presence. He had left both the kitten and Sherlock to their own devices, wondering how much longer it was going to be before everything came to a head.
*
John soon found that it fell to him to resolve the kitten issue once and for all. Sherlock had been insisting that, in his spare time, he too, had been looking for a proper home for the cat but, if this was indeed true (which John seriously doubted), apparently none of the potential owners had met with Sherlock’s high standards.
He had been noted as saying, as casually as possible, that they couldn’t simply hand her off to any old individual. The kitten - while being a, quote, ‘grievously annoying burden’ - was also relatively intelligent as far as felines go and couldn’t be afflicted with being placed in any substandard domicile.
Yes, truly, Sherlock must have thought the kitten capable of some relatively high minded thinking as he had now taken to talking to her aloud while conducting experiments as well as working through cases. John had turned to the skull at one point, shaking his head, “Is this how you felt, then? When I first came on to the scene?”
The skull did not respond and yet John kept talking, “That’s the kind of ungrateful sod he is, using us for a time then tossing us to the wind.”
“I can hear you, you know.” Sherlock had muttered from where he sat at the kitchen table, pipette held high above a glass cylinder.
“Yes, that was rather the idea.”
Sherlock had scoffed ‘ridiculous’ but John noted when he said it he shot a look at the kitten as if to see if she would concur with him. She had merely given him a lazy blink but it must have been close enough to an agreement for him because his lips quirked at the sight.
He had also taken to referring to her now and again in a way that bordered dangerously close to affection, albeit begrudgingly. There were several instances of her getting into cabinets and unexpected crawl spaces. Not to mention John couldn’t set down a shopping bag for a moment before she would try routing through it. Sherlock had done a pretty poor job of pretending he didn’t enjoy her overabundance of curiosity.
“She’s an inquisitive pest. I’ll give her that.” He had said, a sort of smugness to his tone, “Not necessarily a bad trait to have no matter what species you are.”
And so John had decided it was high time that the matter be settled. He came home and informed Sherlock, as gravely as possible, that he had found a home for the cat. It wasn’t a complete lie, the woman he described was certainly real enough and had even mentioned her need for a pet - granted, she had been talking to John about this during her medical exam and she had been talking about getting a dog but he left out these pertinent facts to focus more on her and how she would offer a wonderful home for the kitten.
He made sure to wrap it up with a provoking, “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and you want to keep her.”
“Of course I don’t want to keep her.” Sherlock returned flippantly, “I’ll be gladly rid of the nuisance. I’ll go collect her for you then, shall I?”
Sherlock disappeared and while John knew exactly where he was going, he chose to wait at least ten minutes before following him, knowing that that would be more than enough time. Sure enough he found Sherlock exactly where he knew he would. He sat on the floor of his room, back propped up against the foot of his bed, kitten curled up in his arms in the same way one would hold an infant.
His long fingers stroked the kitten beneath her chin and she looked absolutely blissed out, eyes tightly sealed shut, purring as incessant and loud as it had been the day she had slept on him. Happy cat, indeed. John smirked and took a seat next to Sherlock, who wouldn’t meet his eyes as he started to speak, “If you go retrieve the carrier, I will-”
“I’m not taking your cat.” Sherlock began to sputter protests and John spoke over him, “Oh, shut up. You’re as infatuated with her as she is with you. You’re her owner. She’s your pet. And that’s the way of it.”
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to grouse, but instead he had taken to petting her between the ears as John sighed, “Now please, I beg of you, name the blasted thing.”
“I told you, a name is unnecessary. And, in a roundabout way, demeaning. She is a wild creature. She does not require a name.”
“Well, we could just go about calling her the cat, if you wish, but I would much prefer if you would simply name her. Can’t be that hard to-”
“It’s surprisingly and exceedingly difficult, I assure you.”
John’s smile was blinding, “You’ve been trying to think of a name for her in secret, haven’t you? Oh, this just gets better and better.”
“Shut up.”
“No, really, you just love her to pieces, don’t you?”
“I plan on experimenting on her.”
“Don’t believe you.”
“Why not? Sergeant Donovan would.”
“Yes, well, while I think Sergeant Donovan and Lestrade and most of the boys at the Yard are far cleverer than you give them credit for, I will admit they misunderstand you in most regards. As much as it pains them and, oddly enough, you, you are not some completely heartless, psychopathic monster.”
“True, I am in fact a socio-”
“No. You’re not that either. Try again.”
“And just what would you classify me as?” Sherlock scowled.
“An idiot. Naturally.” John said as if Sherlock should really know better and then they both gave themselves over to a moment of joint laughter. Sherlock caught his breath, muttering, “No name seems to fit.”
“How about ‘Mystery’? Or ‘Shadow’?”
The face Sherlock shot him made John raise his hands in surrender, “Okay, okay. Right. Awful names, I grant you.”
“I entertained the notion of the moniker ‘Wattles.’”
“‘Waddles’? She’s not that fat.”
“No, ‘Wattles’, with ‘t’s’.”
“Wattles? What kind of name is-hang on, Wat…that’s kind of like my name.”
“Yes.”
“But, I mean, it sounds like my name but sort of,” John narrowed his eyes, defensive, “I’m not fat, either!”
Sherlock shrugged, “You’re not skinny.”
“Not all of us can afford to be bean poles, you know. Some of us eat.” John crossed his arms and glared at him and Sherlock shrugged again, “You’re not obese, if that is your concern. You’re a perfectly acceptable weight. And in perfectly good condition.”
“Oh, yes, well, thanks for that.”
“Anyway, I disregarded the idea of that name because it is patently stupid. I don’t even really know why it came to mind. The next name was a bit more tolerable, that of Watlock.”
“Sounds like a boy’s name.” John muttered, then, “And what’s with these bastardizations of my name? And this one has your name in it too, like some god awful amalgam.”
“I’ll confess that, at some point, I resolved myself to the realization that we would most likely be keeping this animal. As such, I expected that, once I agreed to keep her, you would lift your ban on your involvement in her life. With this in mind, she will be just as much your cat as she is mine.”
“So…you’re saying she’s ours.”
“I am.”
“Why-?” John felt sort of dizzy and breathless, as if someone had snuck up behind him and hit him on the head. When he finished speaking he felt as if the words weren’t even coming out of his own mouth, “Why do I get the feeling I am being hoodwinked into something…significant?”
“Such as?”
“The name, the way you’re talking about the…it’s…well, it’s a bit like we're in a relationship.” John laughed but the sound had no humour in it.
Sherlock merely deadpanned, “Ah, you are quite astute, John. Very well. It’s settled. We shall name her ‘Baby’.”
*
As far as crime scenes go, it had been pretty standard so far.
Or, at least, it had been until Lestrade frowned and pointed a finger at Sherlock, “Your coat moved.”
Sherlock didn’t look away from the body he was examining, “Hmm?”
“Your coat, it-oi! It’s moving again! The pocket! You got something in there?”
Sherlock rose to his feet quickly, one hand settling into said pocket, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Perfectly timed to disprove him, a sound rang out from Sherlock’s coat within the vicinity of his pocket, a delicate ‘mew’. Lestrade’s eyes grew wide, “Did your pocket just ‘meow’?”
“No. That’s ludicrous.” Sherlock returned and he looked towards John, clearing his throat to signal him over. John came over and, as he did so, Sherlock stripped off his coat, carefully handing it to him, “Here, John, would you see to this? It seems to be disturbing Lestrade.”
“Sure.” John said and, taking the coat, he noted it had more weight than expected. He looked down and, having a clear view into Sherlock’s pocket, gasped and turned his back to Lestrade. Sherlock did the same. John leaned close to him, hissing, “You brought her to a crime scene?”
“She helped at one before.” Sherlock offered silkily, “Besides, she gets so dejected when we’ve been gone great lengths of time.”
“Sherlock, you can’t bring a kitten to a crime scene!”
“John, we’re here so obviously I can and I did.”
“Christ! I’ll take her home and meet you later.”
“Hmm, probably for the best, I suppose. Don’t want her to get overexcited. Shame though, she would be far more helpful than most of the lack wits here.”
John just shook his head, “You’re a nutter, swear to god.”
Sherlock looked down in the pocket, “See you later, Baby.”
“That name is still pending.”
“You didn’t seem to object much to the idea of our family unit last night.” Sherlock returned, a slightly wolfish look about him, “Especially the bit of us having ‘parental relations’.”
John felt heat rise in his cheeks, eyes darting about, “Shh! Someone’ll hear!”
“Whatever you say,” Sherlock eased closer, his mouth near John’s ear as he whispered, “'Daddy’.”
John was positive he was beet red by this point, “I hate you.”
“Again, not what you said last night.”
John grumbled and started walking away. He hailed a cab and, once inside, he looked down at the kitten, “This is entirely your fault.”
She looked back with wide, innocent eyes and John couldn’t help but smile, “Thank you.”
She meowed again. He sighed, answering just as Sherlock would have, “Tell you what, I’ll let you have one of my old jumpers to claw up to your heart’s content. Sound good?”
She nudged his hand as answer and as he petted her he sighed, “Thanks again, Baby.”
Author: she_burns1
Word Count: 4,426
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Unabashedly fluffy - FLUFFY TO THE MAX.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Summary: Sherlock and John end up with a kitten. Humor and fluff ensue.
Disclaimers: I own nothing.
Author's Note: For some reason I have the most fun writing fluff for a show that is far from fluffy. A warning that the end here is a bit cracked. Actually, the whole thing can probably be considered crackish. But hopefully still fun to read. Also, be on the look out for a 'Community' joke! If you spot it, let me know!
As far as crime scenes go, it had been pretty standard so far.
The victim had obviously been stabbed multiple times but there was some question as to why her ring finger had been removed post mortem and also why she was the third person in so many weeks to have this odd quirk.
Two bodies earlier in the week - one an apparent suicide and another dead from a gunshot wound - were also found sans ring finger. Sherlock was currently inspecting this woman with much interest, hand delicately holding her wrist, eyes on the bloody stub where her finger had been when he murmured, “Has anyone seen her glove?”
“Glove?” Lestrade repeated.
Sherlock let out a painful sigh, “Yes. Her right hand wears a glove so, obviously, her left would have as well but the killer, needing to remove her finger, also removed her glove. Where is the glove?”
This led to a thorough search of the alley where she had been found - Lestrade, Sally, Anderson, and John searched high and low when suddenly Sally cried out, “Think I foun-” her words ended in a high pitched shriek.
The men rushed to her side as she backed away from where she had been crouching near a skip, “Something’s - something’s moving down near it!”
John was more than prepared to face a mouse or a rat as he saw that indeed something alive was squirming amongst the trash and the missing glove. It was small and furry and most certainly not the first (nor likely the last) rodent he had had to face in the midst of a case.
However, as the creature struggled amongst the refuse it soon became clear that it was neither a mouse nor a rat, the sounds leaving it too familiarly marked as feline mewling. A small kitten emerged. It was completely black and couldn’t have been much older than eight weeks. The sounds it released bordered on the very edges of pitiful.
Sally melted instantly, “Aw! Look at the little thing!”
She reached out a hand towards it and, in a surprising turn of events, the kitten seemed to instantly transform from pathetic to fierce, letting out a particularly ear-splitting noise as it swatted at her. She drew back her hand, scowling, “Christ! Mangy runt! Did you see that? Tried to claw me!”
“Sally, it’s just scared.” Lestrade returned and he too reached out, intent on grabbing the glove near the animal more than anything but he was rebuffed also, a hiss escaping the kitten, its jaws snapping forward. He frowned, “Damn bugger’s territorial.”
“I’ll get it.” Anderson grumbled and he seemed to more than relish the idea of pushing the kitten out of the way when Sherlock’s voice broke in behind them, “What on earth is taking so long?”
Lestrade turned to him, “Found your glove but seems a cat has as well. Bloody thing seems a might feral. Doesn’t want to let us get near it.”
Anderson let out a cry then, clutching one hand, “Wretched monster got me!”
“You get the glove?” Lestrade asked with genuine interest but the look Anderson shot him answered it succinctly as he moaned, “I’ve probably got rabies now.”
“Here, let us have a look,” John offered and he inspected Anderson’s ‘wound’, laughing dryly, “Rabies is unlikely, you’re not even scratched.”
“Yes I am! I’m bleeding!”
“You are not. There’s not even a mark on your skin. See?” John lifted Anderson’s hand closer to his face for inspection, “Think you’re just a bit skittish. Pretty reasonable considering the little thing took shots at both Sergeant Donovan and Inspector Lestrade.”
“Creature’s a menace! Best call Animal Control!” Anderson tossed out and Sherlock rolled his eyes, “You’re all being perfectly ridiculous! See here,” he walked over and, with a great flourish, picked the kitten and the glove up, one in each hand as if it was no great feat, “Problem solved.”
The group watched with some awe and Sherlock walked to John, thrusting the kitten in his direction, “Here. Take this.”
John numbly took the kitten from him as Sherlock began inspecting the glove with great interest. Eventually he turned to Lestrade, “The woman was a bridal consultant from out of Sussex. Most likely came into town for a quick meeting with a client or an affiliate, regardless, after eating at the restaurant two doors down from here she stepped out for a cigarette down this alley where she was caught off guard by our killer. He made quick work of her but, unlike the previous murders; he took more enjoyment here, this patently noted by the particular weapon used. The other two were clean, quick but this was flashier, more labor intensive.”
“He knew her?” John offered and Sherlock rewarded him with one of his rare smiles, glaring at the other three, “Correct, John. Clearly being in my presence has had an auspicious effect on you.”
“Yeah, if that’s what you want to call it.” Sally grumbled, “Might want to watch yourself, doctor. Be a shame if you went down the same path. Got enough work cut out for us with one psychopath running around, two’d be a bit much.”
“All right, all right.” Lestrade intervened before things became too heated, “Let’s get back to work, shall we?”
Everyone got so engaged back in the case that it took John several minutes to even realize he was still holding a living, breathing being in one hand. The kitten had curled deep into his jumper, claws catching on the material. John tried to detach himself with little to no avail. Sherlock, seeing this, rolled his eyes, “Honestly.”
He walked over to John and took hold of the kitten, easily extracting it. He looked down at the creature, then back at John, shaking his head, “Come on then.”
*
The case of ‘The Ring Fingers’ (blog title pending) was solved long before the yet-untitled case of the kitten. Somehow, in the blur of everything involved in the last mystery, the kitten had ended up taking residence at their flat and John had had yet to address the issue.
In fact he had only managed to take note of three things. One, the kitten was female, two, the kitten still had yet to be named, and three, she was completely and irrevocably in love with Sherlock. She followed him from room to room and, quite often, John could overhear him raging at her, such gems as, “Stop getting under foot, you infernal beast!”
And, humorously enough, the kitten would remark with a brightly loud ‘mew’ or some other noise to which, Sherlock, even more humorously, would respond, “Don’t make that sound! It will get you nothing! Now. Go. Away.” Each word spaced out, firm, and insistent.
John didn’t know if she went away or not, when given such vicious commands, but he did know that Sherlock did indeed protest too much. When John eventually suggested they give the kitten up for adoption, Sherlock had sniffed at the very idea, “Yes, well, we can do that, John. But, keep in mind, considering where we found the little beast the agency in question might decide she’s no good for adoption and euthanize her, and I highly doubt you would want to be party to such an affair.”
John scoffed, “Sherlock, they’re not going to put her down just because she was a former alley cat. They’ll see she gets a veterinary exam and shots and then some lucky child will take her home.”
Sherlock sneered, “A child? You think that better for her? Children can barely take care of themselves, much less an animal. They’ll eye her for five minutes then go back to their television and video games. She would be better off back in the alley where things are actually interesting.”
“You want I should release her back into the wild then?”
“Don’t be absurd! She found a key piece of evidence in a murder case. She deserves something a little better than a life on the streets.”
John couldn’t fight off his grin any longer, “Sherlock, if you want to keep her, you can just say so.”
“Please,” He moaned as if it was foolish for John to even suggest such a thing, “I want the vile thing gone, but…you know, properly.”
“Properly?”
“Yes."
“I see. And how’s that, exactly?”
“We’ll find her a home ourselves. Obviously.”
“Obviously.” John parroted, grin having burst forth into a full smile. Sherlock eyed him warily, “Yes. Now, see to it that she has the essentials. We won’t have a solution right away, so it would be best to see that she has what she needs. Also, that veterinary exam you mentioned wouldn’t be remiss.”
John wanted to ask why he was the one in charge of seeing all these things done but, like most commands Sherlock made, he found himself carrying them out before he even thought to question them in the first place. The vet gave the kitten a clean bill of health, remarking that John was lucky to have found her when he had as well as making several recommendations on how she should be cared for. As such, John came home one evening with not only the kitten in tow in a carrier but a collection of odds and ends in a large brown paper bag.
Food, toys, and, most important of all, a book that he thrust at a moping, sofa-ridden Sherlock. Sherlock, who had had one arm tossed dramatically over his eyes, lost in the process of a proper, bored sulk started at the feel of the book tossed upon him and removed the arm, picking up the book to glare at it, “What’s this?”
“Book about cat care. Best you read it. You’ll be in charge of her litter, her feeding.”
“John, I told you we will not be keeping her. Her staying with us is merely temporary.”
“Well regardless, she’ll be your responsibility. I’ve done my part. I wash my hands of it.” and, with this said, he released the kitten who immediately exited her carrier to trot over to Sherlock. She looked up at him with great interest then released a deep throated questioning noise.
Sherlock sat up and she leapt up on to the sofa to crouch down next to him. He stared at her. She stared back. John bit his lip to keep from smiling like a loon. He was, however, unable to keep himself from muttering, “What a pair.”
*
The next few weeks may have been dreadfully dull case wise, but it was more than made up for by the exploits of both the kitten and Sherlock. John did his best to uphold his decree that he was out of the situation, but he couldn’t be entirely immune to watching the scenarios play out.
Mainly because they were of the highly entertaining variety.
For example, one evening Sherlock, bemoaning what he had labeled ‘the nasty little terror’, had taken to sequestering himself in his bedroom, remarking blithely that it was his only recourse in order to escape his unwanted stalker.
He had barely been behind the closed door for five minutes before the kitten, who had planted herself firmly outside, took to crying out in wild desperation, despairing being parted from him. Sherlock had done his level best to ignore her and John, gritting his teeth, had done the same. It was almost at the point where, out of the three of them, John was positive he was going to break first when, shockingly; Sherlock opened his door, hissing, “Come in then, if it’ll shut you up!”
The kitten rose, tail held high, and happily scurried into his room.
Then there was the matter of her litter training - John had noticed, with some surprise, that there never seemed to be an issue in this regard. He had highly anticipated - out of everything pertaining to the cat - that this would be the biggest problem but, amazingly, this seemed to be well and truly taken care of. John thought it best not to wonder how or why but just accept it as an unspoken blessing.
Another odd blessing was the revelation that Sherlock was (remarkably) reading the book John got for him. John caught him late one evening studying it and when he had cleared his throat to draw attention to this fact, Sherlock had leveled him with a withering glance and summed it up with a dry, “There’s nothing better to do.”
John had merely beamed, offering a careful, “You might want to consider giving her a name.”
“What?”
“Well, you can’t keep calling her the mixed garden variety of ‘beast’ and ‘monster’ and what have you. She ought to have a proper name.”
“I am not naming her. That’s completely preposterous. Personifying a creature by naming it is asinine. Firstly, the little thing’s mind isn’t even cognizant enough to recognize it has one. Secondly, as I have told you before and must repeat because you apparently deliberately chose not to believe me, I tell you again, we are not keeping her. I absolutely refuse to have a pet.”
“And why is that?”
“Pets require more work, attention, and responsibility than I am willing to give - much like children and romantic relationships - it would also interfere with my work and experiments. Disruptive, messy - not to mention the hair. The cat’s hair is everywhere. Being black it is not terribly noticeable, seeing as most of my wardrobe is the same colour, regardless, I notice it and I detest the hair.”
“You seem to have this well thought out.”
“I think everything out; you know this, even if the particular matter is a great waste of my time to do so, it receives some thought.”
“Right, well then, I’ll start looking for a home for her.”
“See that you do.” Sherlock had groused but continued to read through the book and, once he felt John was out of earshot, said quietly under his breath, “Come to think of it, I already do have one pet…”
He grimaced slightly when he heard John’s voice call out, “Heard that!”
Still, the best incident that came out of the kitten being in their lives came very early one morning. John had had a restless sleep and chosen to give up in favor of some early breakfast and tea. He had come downstairs to find that Sherlock had finally given in to sleep. This happened upon occasion - Sherlock would work himself well and truly into exhaustion and would simply collapse on the best available surface for sleep - the sofa, the floor, John’s favorite chair - almost never his own bed.
This time the sofa had been the winner and Sherlock lay on it in with an almost artistic sprawl, long limbs dangling gracefully about as if he’d been arranged. And there, rested right smack center on his chest, was a curled fluffy ball of kitten, her purrs close to deafening. John had looked at her with raised eyebrows, a smile quirking his lips.
As if sensing him, her head had risen and she had looked at John with glossy, narrowed eyes. Her whole demeanor spoke of a possessive nature, ears twitching, and he got the craziest sense she was warning him. Her whole attitude broadcasting an air of ‘Don’t come any closer. He’s mine’.
Her jealousy was terribly amusing and, if John was honest, slightly unnerving. For a kitten, she sure had a lot of…presence. He had left both the kitten and Sherlock to their own devices, wondering how much longer it was going to be before everything came to a head.
*
John soon found that it fell to him to resolve the kitten issue once and for all. Sherlock had been insisting that, in his spare time, he too, had been looking for a proper home for the cat but, if this was indeed true (which John seriously doubted), apparently none of the potential owners had met with Sherlock’s high standards.
He had been noted as saying, as casually as possible, that they couldn’t simply hand her off to any old individual. The kitten - while being a, quote, ‘grievously annoying burden’ - was also relatively intelligent as far as felines go and couldn’t be afflicted with being placed in any substandard domicile.
Yes, truly, Sherlock must have thought the kitten capable of some relatively high minded thinking as he had now taken to talking to her aloud while conducting experiments as well as working through cases. John had turned to the skull at one point, shaking his head, “Is this how you felt, then? When I first came on to the scene?”
The skull did not respond and yet John kept talking, “That’s the kind of ungrateful sod he is, using us for a time then tossing us to the wind.”
“I can hear you, you know.” Sherlock had muttered from where he sat at the kitchen table, pipette held high above a glass cylinder.
“Yes, that was rather the idea.”
Sherlock had scoffed ‘ridiculous’ but John noted when he said it he shot a look at the kitten as if to see if she would concur with him. She had merely given him a lazy blink but it must have been close enough to an agreement for him because his lips quirked at the sight.
He had also taken to referring to her now and again in a way that bordered dangerously close to affection, albeit begrudgingly. There were several instances of her getting into cabinets and unexpected crawl spaces. Not to mention John couldn’t set down a shopping bag for a moment before she would try routing through it. Sherlock had done a pretty poor job of pretending he didn’t enjoy her overabundance of curiosity.
“She’s an inquisitive pest. I’ll give her that.” He had said, a sort of smugness to his tone, “Not necessarily a bad trait to have no matter what species you are.”
And so John had decided it was high time that the matter be settled. He came home and informed Sherlock, as gravely as possible, that he had found a home for the cat. It wasn’t a complete lie, the woman he described was certainly real enough and had even mentioned her need for a pet - granted, she had been talking to John about this during her medical exam and she had been talking about getting a dog but he left out these pertinent facts to focus more on her and how she would offer a wonderful home for the kitten.
He made sure to wrap it up with a provoking, “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind and you want to keep her.”
“Of course I don’t want to keep her.” Sherlock returned flippantly, “I’ll be gladly rid of the nuisance. I’ll go collect her for you then, shall I?”
Sherlock disappeared and while John knew exactly where he was going, he chose to wait at least ten minutes before following him, knowing that that would be more than enough time. Sure enough he found Sherlock exactly where he knew he would. He sat on the floor of his room, back propped up against the foot of his bed, kitten curled up in his arms in the same way one would hold an infant.
His long fingers stroked the kitten beneath her chin and she looked absolutely blissed out, eyes tightly sealed shut, purring as incessant and loud as it had been the day she had slept on him. Happy cat, indeed. John smirked and took a seat next to Sherlock, who wouldn’t meet his eyes as he started to speak, “If you go retrieve the carrier, I will-”
“I’m not taking your cat.” Sherlock began to sputter protests and John spoke over him, “Oh, shut up. You’re as infatuated with her as she is with you. You’re her owner. She’s your pet. And that’s the way of it.”
Sherlock looked as if he wanted to grouse, but instead he had taken to petting her between the ears as John sighed, “Now please, I beg of you, name the blasted thing.”
“I told you, a name is unnecessary. And, in a roundabout way, demeaning. She is a wild creature. She does not require a name.”
“Well, we could just go about calling her the cat, if you wish, but I would much prefer if you would simply name her. Can’t be that hard to-”
“It’s surprisingly and exceedingly difficult, I assure you.”
John’s smile was blinding, “You’ve been trying to think of a name for her in secret, haven’t you? Oh, this just gets better and better.”
“Shut up.”
“No, really, you just love her to pieces, don’t you?”
“I plan on experimenting on her.”
“Don’t believe you.”
“Why not? Sergeant Donovan would.”
“Yes, well, while I think Sergeant Donovan and Lestrade and most of the boys at the Yard are far cleverer than you give them credit for, I will admit they misunderstand you in most regards. As much as it pains them and, oddly enough, you, you are not some completely heartless, psychopathic monster.”
“True, I am in fact a socio-”
“No. You’re not that either. Try again.”
“And just what would you classify me as?” Sherlock scowled.
“An idiot. Naturally.” John said as if Sherlock should really know better and then they both gave themselves over to a moment of joint laughter. Sherlock caught his breath, muttering, “No name seems to fit.”
“How about ‘Mystery’? Or ‘Shadow’?”
The face Sherlock shot him made John raise his hands in surrender, “Okay, okay. Right. Awful names, I grant you.”
“I entertained the notion of the moniker ‘Wattles.’”
“‘Waddles’? She’s not that fat.”
“No, ‘Wattles’, with ‘t’s’.”
“Wattles? What kind of name is-hang on, Wat…that’s kind of like my name.”
“Yes.”
“But, I mean, it sounds like my name but sort of,” John narrowed his eyes, defensive, “I’m not fat, either!”
Sherlock shrugged, “You’re not skinny.”
“Not all of us can afford to be bean poles, you know. Some of us eat.” John crossed his arms and glared at him and Sherlock shrugged again, “You’re not obese, if that is your concern. You’re a perfectly acceptable weight. And in perfectly good condition.”
“Oh, yes, well, thanks for that.”
“Anyway, I disregarded the idea of that name because it is patently stupid. I don’t even really know why it came to mind. The next name was a bit more tolerable, that of Watlock.”
“Sounds like a boy’s name.” John muttered, then, “And what’s with these bastardizations of my name? And this one has your name in it too, like some god awful amalgam.”
“I’ll confess that, at some point, I resolved myself to the realization that we would most likely be keeping this animal. As such, I expected that, once I agreed to keep her, you would lift your ban on your involvement in her life. With this in mind, she will be just as much your cat as she is mine.”
“So…you’re saying she’s ours.”
“I am.”
“Why-?” John felt sort of dizzy and breathless, as if someone had snuck up behind him and hit him on the head. When he finished speaking he felt as if the words weren’t even coming out of his own mouth, “Why do I get the feeling I am being hoodwinked into something…significant?”
“Such as?”
“The name, the way you’re talking about the…it’s…well, it’s a bit like we're in a relationship.” John laughed but the sound had no humour in it.
Sherlock merely deadpanned, “Ah, you are quite astute, John. Very well. It’s settled. We shall name her ‘Baby’.”
*
As far as crime scenes go, it had been pretty standard so far.
Or, at least, it had been until Lestrade frowned and pointed a finger at Sherlock, “Your coat moved.”
Sherlock didn’t look away from the body he was examining, “Hmm?”
“Your coat, it-oi! It’s moving again! The pocket! You got something in there?”
Sherlock rose to his feet quickly, one hand settling into said pocket, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Perfectly timed to disprove him, a sound rang out from Sherlock’s coat within the vicinity of his pocket, a delicate ‘mew’. Lestrade’s eyes grew wide, “Did your pocket just ‘meow’?”
“No. That’s ludicrous.” Sherlock returned and he looked towards John, clearing his throat to signal him over. John came over and, as he did so, Sherlock stripped off his coat, carefully handing it to him, “Here, John, would you see to this? It seems to be disturbing Lestrade.”
“Sure.” John said and, taking the coat, he noted it had more weight than expected. He looked down and, having a clear view into Sherlock’s pocket, gasped and turned his back to Lestrade. Sherlock did the same. John leaned close to him, hissing, “You brought her to a crime scene?”
“She helped at one before.” Sherlock offered silkily, “Besides, she gets so dejected when we’ve been gone great lengths of time.”
“Sherlock, you can’t bring a kitten to a crime scene!”
“John, we’re here so obviously I can and I did.”
“Christ! I’ll take her home and meet you later.”
“Hmm, probably for the best, I suppose. Don’t want her to get overexcited. Shame though, she would be far more helpful than most of the lack wits here.”
John just shook his head, “You’re a nutter, swear to god.”
Sherlock looked down in the pocket, “See you later, Baby.”
“That name is still pending.”
“You didn’t seem to object much to the idea of our family unit last night.” Sherlock returned, a slightly wolfish look about him, “Especially the bit of us having ‘parental relations’.”
John felt heat rise in his cheeks, eyes darting about, “Shh! Someone’ll hear!”
“Whatever you say,” Sherlock eased closer, his mouth near John’s ear as he whispered, “'Daddy’.”
John was positive he was beet red by this point, “I hate you.”
“Again, not what you said last night.”
John grumbled and started walking away. He hailed a cab and, once inside, he looked down at the kitten, “This is entirely your fault.”
She looked back with wide, innocent eyes and John couldn’t help but smile, “Thank you.”
She meowed again. He sighed, answering just as Sherlock would have, “Tell you what, I’ll let you have one of my old jumpers to claw up to your heart’s content. Sound good?”
She nudged his hand as answer and as he petted her he sighed, “Thanks again, Baby.”