Black Cat
Title: Black Cat
Wordcount: 3,000
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warning: NONE
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The black cat was at his door again. John didn't particularly mind, to be honest, although the cat was an extremely strange one. He counted it as a normal day that the cat was there, inside of a locked building, sitting in front of his flat.
The black cat was at his door again.
John didn't particularly mind, to be honest, although the cat was an extremely strange one. He counted it as a normal day that the cat was there, inside of a locked building, sitting in front of his flat.
He stepped by the cat where he sat, tall and proud, soaking his paw and scrubbing it behind his ear, and slid his key into the lock.
Peculiar gray eyes flashed at him in the dim hall, but he didn't mind that either.
“Not allowed to have pets, I hope you know,” John said conversationally.
The cat dragged his paw over his eyes, then blinked slowly. He had long lashes framing his small and staring eyes.
“Of course, you don't care.”
He twisted the key deftly, the lock releasing with a click. The heavy door slid easily open.
“Surely you have a home, though?”
The sleek cat slid by him, coating his trouser leg with fur, and waltzed into his flat as though he owned it. He was thin, and wiry, but he was still handsome in a feline way.
He made John feel dumpy.
“Go on,” he rumbled, pulling the key from the doorknob. “Make yourself at home.”
“Miaaw,” the cat meowed deeply.
John shut the door. “Masculine little fellow, aren't you?”
The cat had wandered off, but John wasn't worried, so he sat on his bed and unlaced his shoes wearily. His monotonous and futile days always ended with him untying his shoes.
The little furry animal huffed very close to his shoes. Close enough that John felt the hot breath on the back of his knuckles. When John looked down, he saw the cat crouched in front of him, watching him closely, like a puzzle.
John flipped the end of a shoe-lace at the cat. Stoically, the cat ignored it, his eyes not even twitching.
John sat up a little so that his forearms were resting on his knees, and chuckled. “Surely cats like to play with laces?”
The cat narrowed his eyes and let a rumbling purr escape him.
John smiled, wagging a finger at the cat. “I know better than to think that means you're content, silly creature. You'd sooner take my hand off than submit to me.”
The cat purred again, eyes slitting in pleasure.
“I'm not that clever, though sometimes I suspect you think so,” John wondered aloud. He rested on his knees for a few minutes, dangling his fingers above the cat. The feline sat up and extended his neck so that his black velvet nose bumped John's fingertips, leaving a wet slime of mucus across his skin.
John sighed. “Just tea for me tonight,” he explained as he stood, reaching for his cane. “Milk?”
He limped to the piece of counter that passed as a kitchenette and opened the tiny fridge. Inside was a hunk of mouldy cheese, jam, and a carton of milk. He reached for the carton and shook it, gauging how much was left. He sighed again, pulling the milk out and letting the door of the refrigerator fall shut.
“Miaw,” the cat said, practically seated atop John's feet.
He looked down. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Not that much left.”
The cat blinked up at him slowly.
John frowned. “I forget that you can't understand, sometimes.” He pulled his feet carefully away, moved to set the carton on the counter, then switched on the kettle. “Milk's the only thing that makes this crap tea palatable,” he explained, sorry there was barely a splash of milk left.
The cat had already wandered off.
John only had two mugs, and both were clean, so he chose to drink from the blue one for no other reason than he had last drank from the red one. He reached into the tea box and fished out the last bag, the heavy weight of poverty settling low in his stomach.
“Harry'll never let me live it down,” he mumbled as he thought about asking her for food. “'You can't even afford food, John? Have your wits fled you? Come home.'” He ripped the paper apart and dropepd the tea bag in the empty mug. “I don't want to go home,” he grumbled, lifting his make-shift sugar dish (a teacup) and scraping the last few grains out with a spoon.
The kettle began to whistle.
As he switched it off and poured the boiling water into his mug, the cat wandered back. John watched the steam rise and spoke to the cat.
“I think I'll call you Shirley.”
The cat rumbled, so after putting down the kettle he looked down at the creature sitting at his feet.
“If that's all right with you.” He smiled a little. “I wouldn't presume that you were mine, of course.” His smile fell off his face so he raised the steaming mug up close to smell the pungent herbs, and to hide his expression from the cat.
Delicately, the cat flexed a paw, claws extended, ad pressed down on one of John's feet. He gripped once as if to say 'I could hurt you, but I choose not to,' closed his eyes, and purred.
“Shirley,” John said, trying the name out. “You are a strange cat.”
The cat sneezed.
John snorted. Then he set the mug on the counter and poured the last of the milk into his weak tea.
“Miaaw,” the cat griped, latching his two front paws into John's trousers and kneading the corduroy.
“Sorry, no more milk.” He pulled his leg away until the cat disengaged and trudged to his desk. He set the mug down and ignored the cat by opening the drawer and pulling his laptop out. He set it next to his tea and sat in the chair.
The cat, Shirley, leaped upon the desk as John opened his laptop and pressed the on button. He walked to one side, then back to the tea where he sat and stared at John expectantly.
John typed in his password, then looked at the cat.
“No milk,” he told it.
It blinked, then looked at his tea very pointedly.
After a momentary staring contest, John stood and walked away. He plucked a small plate from his short stack of mismatched dishes next to the electric kettle and returned to his desk, placing it on the surface with a clatter-thunk.
Wordlessly, he tipped some of his milky tea into the saucer. It spilled into the shallow dish, an ugly brown color, and flowed to the brim. A third of his tea gone, he lifted the remainder to his lips and slurped, gazing implacably at the cat.
Shirley sat primly, his eyes locked with John's.
“Well,” John took another sip. “Gone on then. You're the one who insisted.”
Without looking away, the cat raised a paw, dipped it in the saucer, and defiantly raised it to his face to clean it off.
John laughed.
In response, Shirley narrowed his eyes in pleasure and allowed a low rumbling purr to escape form his throat.
John's aching stomach didn't go away, the tea only serving to awaken his taste buds, but the cat's quiet company was a nice counterpoint to the clacking of his keyboard as he struggled with his blog.
All I have left to east is a dash of milk, tea, and some sugar, he wrote. I gave nearly half of it to a homeless cat even though my wallet is empty and I can't afford to shop.
He paused, staring at the blinking cursor. He then selected it all and hit delete.
Nothing ever happens to me.
Shirley dropped to the floor, a quiet thud onto the threadbare carpet, and padded to the window.
“Leaving so soon?”
He sprang to the sill, slipped the knob up, and stepped on it with two paws to pop the window open. Then the catwriggled into the gap to drop onto the fire escape with a clatter.
John watched the window for a long minute, but Shirley didn't return.
Later, when he picked up his mug to wash up, he grabbed the saucer as well. Every drop of tea had been cleaned form the saucer as though they had never been there.
~~
Shirley never showed up when anyone else was around. Vaguely, John wondered if he made up the cat, hallucinated him into being, until he came back to the flat one day and found a tuft of black fur on his pillow.
John should have probably wondered how Shirley got in and out of his flat while he wasn't there, but he could only smile.
~~
John was limping down a dark alley one night, pacing the city to rid himself of insomnia, when he head it.
“YEE-OW!” a cat screamed.
Instinctively, John spun around and ducked.
He did this just in time, as a man prepared to swing a bat at John's head instead tripped over the doctor and sprawled to the pavement.
John stood and stumbled away, only able to watch as the man stood, bat in hand, and prepared to swing again.
The cat yowled and sprang at the man's arm, spitting and clawing at the hand grasping the bat.
John darted forward to disable the man, but didn't reach him before he swung the cat at the wall. The black bundle hit the brick with a crunch and fell to the ground.
In seconds, John kicked, blowing out them mugger's knee, snatched the bat, and pulled it tightly under the man's chin. As he sank to ground, he choked himself on his own weapon.
“That was a mistake,” John hissed, grinding the bat into the man's windpipe.
Shirley lay still, on the ground, his shining gray eyes hidden by unconsciousness.
John could only feel simmering rage.
After the mugger passed out form lack of oxygen, John let him and the bat fall to the ground. The wooden implement bounced with a clatter.
The sound was still ringing out when John crouched and touched the cat with carefully prodding fingers. The little body trembled slightly under his touch with every single breath Shirley took.
John sighed, relieved.
The thin body was bony in his hands as he carefully lifted Shirley from the pavement, long and lithe with loose muscles in his relaxed state. John cradled him close, unsure how to keep him from being jostled, and decided upon pinning him to his chest with one arm supporting and the other arm corralling.
Attention focused downward on the previous burden in his arms, John didn't notice the car at the end of the alley until he emerged into the pool of light from a street lamp.
The cat was shiny black with tinted windows, and from the back seat a man and a woman emerged. She had the look of a personal assistant, focus locked on her blackberry, and he was a man in a suit holding an umbrella.
“Good evening,” the man said.
The assistant continued tapping away on her phone.
John wanted to sidle around the car,but settled for shifting his arm to shelter Shirley from view and stood firmly at attention. “Evening,” he said shortly.
“I apologize for waylaying you,” the man said insincerely.
“I'm sure you are,” John replied.
The man's smile was slow, creeping, and entirely devoid of warmth. “No worries, you may leave shortly. But first,” he nodded to his assistant who finally slipped he blackberry into her pocked and fixed her attention on John. “you are carrying something in your arms that doesn't belong to you.”
John reflexively tightened his grip, but released when he heard the cat huff a gusty breath. “Oh?”
“The cat,” the man qualified. “He is not your s, and you cannot properly care for him.”
“I am a doctor,” John said defensively.
“And a fine one, I am sure.”
The woman stepped forward, arms extended.
“Please, Dr. Watson,” the man said. “I will take good care of him.”
“Is he yours?” John asked skeptically, despite that fact that he was already reluctantly passing the cat over to the woman.
“I think you'll find that this cat very much belongs to himself.”
The woman cradled Shirley gently, which reassured John, as the man in the suit looked John up and down considerately.
“At least, he has until now. Good evening, Dr. Watson.”
The cat had pulled away and John had traveled four blocks without his cane before he paused and wondered aloud, “How did he know my name?”
Overhead, the street lamp flickered.
~~
Shirley didn't return for over a week, when John was there or otherwise. John spent most of that time roaming the city. His cane had been left at the front desk for him, anonymously, but he assumed that the mysterious man was the perpetrator. He didn't need it as often, however, thanks to his adventure with Shirley, and took great advantage of his absent limp.
Miraculously cured limp or not, he would rather not be stuck in his tiny flat. Walking around all of the time kept his mind off of his empty stomach as well.
He returned late in the afternoon a week after he gave up Shirley to find said cat curled upon his pillow, seemingly sound asleep. John let the door shut behind him, smiled, and watched the cat gently breathe for several minutes.
“I don't care that you're leaving black fur on the coverlet,” he swore.
The cat's body, which he knew to be long and skinny, was curled in an impossibly small bundle at the head of the bed. His strange gray eyes were sheltered by the fur of his belly where his face was tucked.
As John tapped at his laptop, he occasionally paused, and smiled again.
Shirley's soft breaths wheezed steadily through the evening.
~~
John grew used to seeing Shirley the cat fairly often. Sometimes in his room, sometimes in the hall, and even on his frequent walks around London.
He was a curious cat who investigated every little thing-like a dog, and often led John on his wanderings. John was no longer surprised when Shirley showed up wherever he pleased.
But one evening, John slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, stepped into his flat, and immediately knew that something was off. His muscles stiff with tension across his shoulders, he carefully shut the door and gazed around the cramped room.
A man was sprawled on his bed.
The scratchy sheet was twined around his curled and sleeping form, but by the long arch of his pale neck and bare shoulder peeking from the sheet, John could tell that the man was wearing very little-if he wore anything at all.
His hands loose at his sides, ready to defend himself, John stepped closer, drinking in the sight of the strange man in his bed.
Each little breath disturbed the black curls laying tousled on John's pillow, stark against the man's porcelain pale skin. The curly hair was long and loose, hanging past delicate ears and draping across sharp cheekbones.
When John's eyes reached the dusky lashes laying against smooth skin, he realized that he was holding his breath.
He let it go and took another step closer. The man was all angles-from his sharp cheekbones and protruding shoulder to the knee that had slipped out form under the sheets. He lay on his side, limbs akimbo, and nuzzled into John's pillow with a contented loon on his face. When a purr seemed to rumble from his chest, John gasped.
A single eyelid opened and a gray eye was shone before the lid fell shut again. A low-level purr began to thrum, igniting recognition in John.
He perched on the edge of the bed and lowered a hesitant hand to the bare shoulder. When the shoulder pushed insistently back, he pressed down and rubbed the soft skin.
“Shirley?” he murmured in disbelief.
The man stretched his lanky limbs and yawned, showing off his sharp pearly whites.
“Very close,” he rumbled, his voice surprisingly deep. “I suppose it was my eyes that gave me away?”
“That too,” John agreed, letting his hand sooth over Shirley's back.
“What was it, then?” Shirley asked, rolling so that his slitted and content gaze met John's eyes.
John smiled. “No one else would have the gall to set up camp in my bed like you,” he admitted.
“I should hope not,” Shirley growled, pushing a hand out and grasping proprietorially at John's leg.
In response, John dragged his hand up to Shirley's hair and let his fingers run through the silky strands.
“That man told me,” John said quietly, “That you were owned by no one.” He paused. “Does that mean that you own me, Shirley?”
The other man sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, and sniffed at John's neck before licking a broad stripe up to his ear. “Of course,” he murmured into John's ear, rubbing his nose against the delicate shell and causing John to shiver. “You have been for weeks.”
“Oh?” John responded skeptically despite the breathy quality to his voice.
He could feel the man grin ferociously, hot breath puffing against his skin.
“When was the last time you looked at your gun and wondered whether you should just give up?”
John didn't answer.
Shirley nipped at his ear, hands slipping around John and drawing him down to the bed.
“Call me Sherlock,” he said, fingers plucking at John's shirt buttons.
“Sh-Sherlock,” John moaned, and let himself be pulled down.
“You're moving in with me,” Sherlock pronounced.
“Oh God yes.”
FIN
Wordcount: 3,000
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warning: NONE
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The black cat was at his door again. John didn't particularly mind, to be honest, although the cat was an extremely strange one. He counted it as a normal day that the cat was there, inside of a locked building, sitting in front of his flat.
The black cat was at his door again.
John didn't particularly mind, to be honest, although the cat was an extremely strange one. He counted it as a normal day that the cat was there, inside of a locked building, sitting in front of his flat.
He stepped by the cat where he sat, tall and proud, soaking his paw and scrubbing it behind his ear, and slid his key into the lock.
Peculiar gray eyes flashed at him in the dim hall, but he didn't mind that either.
“Not allowed to have pets, I hope you know,” John said conversationally.
The cat dragged his paw over his eyes, then blinked slowly. He had long lashes framing his small and staring eyes.
“Of course, you don't care.”
He twisted the key deftly, the lock releasing with a click. The heavy door slid easily open.
“Surely you have a home, though?”
The sleek cat slid by him, coating his trouser leg with fur, and waltzed into his flat as though he owned it. He was thin, and wiry, but he was still handsome in a feline way.
He made John feel dumpy.
“Go on,” he rumbled, pulling the key from the doorknob. “Make yourself at home.”
“Miaaw,” the cat meowed deeply.
John shut the door. “Masculine little fellow, aren't you?”
The cat had wandered off, but John wasn't worried, so he sat on his bed and unlaced his shoes wearily. His monotonous and futile days always ended with him untying his shoes.
The little furry animal huffed very close to his shoes. Close enough that John felt the hot breath on the back of his knuckles. When John looked down, he saw the cat crouched in front of him, watching him closely, like a puzzle.
John flipped the end of a shoe-lace at the cat. Stoically, the cat ignored it, his eyes not even twitching.
John sat up a little so that his forearms were resting on his knees, and chuckled. “Surely cats like to play with laces?”
The cat narrowed his eyes and let a rumbling purr escape him.
John smiled, wagging a finger at the cat. “I know better than to think that means you're content, silly creature. You'd sooner take my hand off than submit to me.”
The cat purred again, eyes slitting in pleasure.
“I'm not that clever, though sometimes I suspect you think so,” John wondered aloud. He rested on his knees for a few minutes, dangling his fingers above the cat. The feline sat up and extended his neck so that his black velvet nose bumped John's fingertips, leaving a wet slime of mucus across his skin.
John sighed. “Just tea for me tonight,” he explained as he stood, reaching for his cane. “Milk?”
He limped to the piece of counter that passed as a kitchenette and opened the tiny fridge. Inside was a hunk of mouldy cheese, jam, and a carton of milk. He reached for the carton and shook it, gauging how much was left. He sighed again, pulling the milk out and letting the door of the refrigerator fall shut.
“Miaw,” the cat said, practically seated atop John's feet.
He looked down. “Sorry,” he apologized. “Not that much left.”
The cat blinked up at him slowly.
John frowned. “I forget that you can't understand, sometimes.” He pulled his feet carefully away, moved to set the carton on the counter, then switched on the kettle. “Milk's the only thing that makes this crap tea palatable,” he explained, sorry there was barely a splash of milk left.
The cat had already wandered off.
John only had two mugs, and both were clean, so he chose to drink from the blue one for no other reason than he had last drank from the red one. He reached into the tea box and fished out the last bag, the heavy weight of poverty settling low in his stomach.
“Harry'll never let me live it down,” he mumbled as he thought about asking her for food. “'You can't even afford food, John? Have your wits fled you? Come home.'” He ripped the paper apart and dropepd the tea bag in the empty mug. “I don't want to go home,” he grumbled, lifting his make-shift sugar dish (a teacup) and scraping the last few grains out with a spoon.
The kettle began to whistle.
As he switched it off and poured the boiling water into his mug, the cat wandered back. John watched the steam rise and spoke to the cat.
“I think I'll call you Shirley.”
The cat rumbled, so after putting down the kettle he looked down at the creature sitting at his feet.
“If that's all right with you.” He smiled a little. “I wouldn't presume that you were mine, of course.” His smile fell off his face so he raised the steaming mug up close to smell the pungent herbs, and to hide his expression from the cat.
Delicately, the cat flexed a paw, claws extended, ad pressed down on one of John's feet. He gripped once as if to say 'I could hurt you, but I choose not to,' closed his eyes, and purred.
“Shirley,” John said, trying the name out. “You are a strange cat.”
The cat sneezed.
John snorted. Then he set the mug on the counter and poured the last of the milk into his weak tea.
“Miaaw,” the cat griped, latching his two front paws into John's trousers and kneading the corduroy.
“Sorry, no more milk.” He pulled his leg away until the cat disengaged and trudged to his desk. He set the mug down and ignored the cat by opening the drawer and pulling his laptop out. He set it next to his tea and sat in the chair.
The cat, Shirley, leaped upon the desk as John opened his laptop and pressed the on button. He walked to one side, then back to the tea where he sat and stared at John expectantly.
John typed in his password, then looked at the cat.
“No milk,” he told it.
It blinked, then looked at his tea very pointedly.
After a momentary staring contest, John stood and walked away. He plucked a small plate from his short stack of mismatched dishes next to the electric kettle and returned to his desk, placing it on the surface with a clatter-thunk.
Wordlessly, he tipped some of his milky tea into the saucer. It spilled into the shallow dish, an ugly brown color, and flowed to the brim. A third of his tea gone, he lifted the remainder to his lips and slurped, gazing implacably at the cat.
Shirley sat primly, his eyes locked with John's.
“Well,” John took another sip. “Gone on then. You're the one who insisted.”
Without looking away, the cat raised a paw, dipped it in the saucer, and defiantly raised it to his face to clean it off.
John laughed.
In response, Shirley narrowed his eyes in pleasure and allowed a low rumbling purr to escape form his throat.
John's aching stomach didn't go away, the tea only serving to awaken his taste buds, but the cat's quiet company was a nice counterpoint to the clacking of his keyboard as he struggled with his blog.
All I have left to east is a dash of milk, tea, and some sugar, he wrote. I gave nearly half of it to a homeless cat even though my wallet is empty and I can't afford to shop.
He paused, staring at the blinking cursor. He then selected it all and hit delete.
Nothing ever happens to me.
Shirley dropped to the floor, a quiet thud onto the threadbare carpet, and padded to the window.
“Leaving so soon?”
He sprang to the sill, slipped the knob up, and stepped on it with two paws to pop the window open. Then the catwriggled into the gap to drop onto the fire escape with a clatter.
John watched the window for a long minute, but Shirley didn't return.
Later, when he picked up his mug to wash up, he grabbed the saucer as well. Every drop of tea had been cleaned form the saucer as though they had never been there.
~~
Shirley never showed up when anyone else was around. Vaguely, John wondered if he made up the cat, hallucinated him into being, until he came back to the flat one day and found a tuft of black fur on his pillow.
John should have probably wondered how Shirley got in and out of his flat while he wasn't there, but he could only smile.
~~
John was limping down a dark alley one night, pacing the city to rid himself of insomnia, when he head it.
“YEE-OW!” a cat screamed.
Instinctively, John spun around and ducked.
He did this just in time, as a man prepared to swing a bat at John's head instead tripped over the doctor and sprawled to the pavement.
John stood and stumbled away, only able to watch as the man stood, bat in hand, and prepared to swing again.
The cat yowled and sprang at the man's arm, spitting and clawing at the hand grasping the bat.
John darted forward to disable the man, but didn't reach him before he swung the cat at the wall. The black bundle hit the brick with a crunch and fell to the ground.
In seconds, John kicked, blowing out them mugger's knee, snatched the bat, and pulled it tightly under the man's chin. As he sank to ground, he choked himself on his own weapon.
“That was a mistake,” John hissed, grinding the bat into the man's windpipe.
Shirley lay still, on the ground, his shining gray eyes hidden by unconsciousness.
John could only feel simmering rage.
After the mugger passed out form lack of oxygen, John let him and the bat fall to the ground. The wooden implement bounced with a clatter.
The sound was still ringing out when John crouched and touched the cat with carefully prodding fingers. The little body trembled slightly under his touch with every single breath Shirley took.
John sighed, relieved.
The thin body was bony in his hands as he carefully lifted Shirley from the pavement, long and lithe with loose muscles in his relaxed state. John cradled him close, unsure how to keep him from being jostled, and decided upon pinning him to his chest with one arm supporting and the other arm corralling.
Attention focused downward on the previous burden in his arms, John didn't notice the car at the end of the alley until he emerged into the pool of light from a street lamp.
The cat was shiny black with tinted windows, and from the back seat a man and a woman emerged. She had the look of a personal assistant, focus locked on her blackberry, and he was a man in a suit holding an umbrella.
“Good evening,” the man said.
The assistant continued tapping away on her phone.
John wanted to sidle around the car,but settled for shifting his arm to shelter Shirley from view and stood firmly at attention. “Evening,” he said shortly.
“I apologize for waylaying you,” the man said insincerely.
“I'm sure you are,” John replied.
The man's smile was slow, creeping, and entirely devoid of warmth. “No worries, you may leave shortly. But first,” he nodded to his assistant who finally slipped he blackberry into her pocked and fixed her attention on John. “you are carrying something in your arms that doesn't belong to you.”
John reflexively tightened his grip, but released when he heard the cat huff a gusty breath. “Oh?”
“The cat,” the man qualified. “He is not your s, and you cannot properly care for him.”
“I am a doctor,” John said defensively.
“And a fine one, I am sure.”
The woman stepped forward, arms extended.
“Please, Dr. Watson,” the man said. “I will take good care of him.”
“Is he yours?” John asked skeptically, despite that fact that he was already reluctantly passing the cat over to the woman.
“I think you'll find that this cat very much belongs to himself.”
The woman cradled Shirley gently, which reassured John, as the man in the suit looked John up and down considerately.
“At least, he has until now. Good evening, Dr. Watson.”
The cat had pulled away and John had traveled four blocks without his cane before he paused and wondered aloud, “How did he know my name?”
Overhead, the street lamp flickered.
~~
Shirley didn't return for over a week, when John was there or otherwise. John spent most of that time roaming the city. His cane had been left at the front desk for him, anonymously, but he assumed that the mysterious man was the perpetrator. He didn't need it as often, however, thanks to his adventure with Shirley, and took great advantage of his absent limp.
Miraculously cured limp or not, he would rather not be stuck in his tiny flat. Walking around all of the time kept his mind off of his empty stomach as well.
He returned late in the afternoon a week after he gave up Shirley to find said cat curled upon his pillow, seemingly sound asleep. John let the door shut behind him, smiled, and watched the cat gently breathe for several minutes.
“I don't care that you're leaving black fur on the coverlet,” he swore.
The cat's body, which he knew to be long and skinny, was curled in an impossibly small bundle at the head of the bed. His strange gray eyes were sheltered by the fur of his belly where his face was tucked.
As John tapped at his laptop, he occasionally paused, and smiled again.
Shirley's soft breaths wheezed steadily through the evening.
~~
John grew used to seeing Shirley the cat fairly often. Sometimes in his room, sometimes in the hall, and even on his frequent walks around London.
He was a curious cat who investigated every little thing-like a dog, and often led John on his wanderings. John was no longer surprised when Shirley showed up wherever he pleased.
But one evening, John slipped his key into the lock, opened the door, stepped into his flat, and immediately knew that something was off. His muscles stiff with tension across his shoulders, he carefully shut the door and gazed around the cramped room.
A man was sprawled on his bed.
The scratchy sheet was twined around his curled and sleeping form, but by the long arch of his pale neck and bare shoulder peeking from the sheet, John could tell that the man was wearing very little-if he wore anything at all.
His hands loose at his sides, ready to defend himself, John stepped closer, drinking in the sight of the strange man in his bed.
Each little breath disturbed the black curls laying tousled on John's pillow, stark against the man's porcelain pale skin. The curly hair was long and loose, hanging past delicate ears and draping across sharp cheekbones.
When John's eyes reached the dusky lashes laying against smooth skin, he realized that he was holding his breath.
He let it go and took another step closer. The man was all angles-from his sharp cheekbones and protruding shoulder to the knee that had slipped out form under the sheets. He lay on his side, limbs akimbo, and nuzzled into John's pillow with a contented loon on his face. When a purr seemed to rumble from his chest, John gasped.
A single eyelid opened and a gray eye was shone before the lid fell shut again. A low-level purr began to thrum, igniting recognition in John.
He perched on the edge of the bed and lowered a hesitant hand to the bare shoulder. When the shoulder pushed insistently back, he pressed down and rubbed the soft skin.
“Shirley?” he murmured in disbelief.
The man stretched his lanky limbs and yawned, showing off his sharp pearly whites.
“Very close,” he rumbled, his voice surprisingly deep. “I suppose it was my eyes that gave me away?”
“That too,” John agreed, letting his hand sooth over Shirley's back.
“What was it, then?” Shirley asked, rolling so that his slitted and content gaze met John's eyes.
John smiled. “No one else would have the gall to set up camp in my bed like you,” he admitted.
“I should hope not,” Shirley growled, pushing a hand out and grasping proprietorially at John's leg.
In response, John dragged his hand up to Shirley's hair and let his fingers run through the silky strands.
“That man told me,” John said quietly, “That you were owned by no one.” He paused. “Does that mean that you own me, Shirley?”
The other man sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, and sniffed at John's neck before licking a broad stripe up to his ear. “Of course,” he murmured into John's ear, rubbing his nose against the delicate shell and causing John to shiver. “You have been for weeks.”
“Oh?” John responded skeptically despite the breathy quality to his voice.
He could feel the man grin ferociously, hot breath puffing against his skin.
“When was the last time you looked at your gun and wondered whether you should just give up?”
John didn't answer.
Shirley nipped at his ear, hands slipping around John and drawing him down to the bed.
“Call me Sherlock,” he said, fingers plucking at John's shirt buttons.
“Sh-Sherlock,” John moaned, and let himself be pulled down.
“You're moving in with me,” Sherlock pronounced.
“Oh God yes.”
FIN