221B Paw Stories - Chapter 2: ... and Two for Tea
A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz and Salsify. All my thanks!
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221B PAW STORIES
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Chapter 2
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… and Two for Tea
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When John woke up that morning, the first thing he did was sigh in relief as he could feel perfectly human limbs forming his body. He'd taken up the habit of checking it first thing in the morning, because he was terrified it would happen again.
Last time had been dreadful. He'd been sick and Sherlock had made fun of him, treating him like a pet and not like the man he was - because he was a man even when for some unfathomable reason he turned into a bloody cat! A manul, John. It's a manul. I mean, you're a manul. Sherlock had broken into giggles while John had glared.
The petting had been nice, though, and so had the cuddles. John would never admit this out loud and he knew Sherlock wouldn't either. He'd hoped the detective would have been all flustered about his finding out that Sherlock had been the purring tiger John had tamed. But when he had come back from the clinic that day, Sherlock had acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Last time John had checked, turning into a tiger wasn't one of his flatmate's habits. But then he himself had turned into a manul again. What if it were to become a habit? They'd have to talk about it. They'd have to discuss the fondling and the cuddling too...
He shook his head and jumped out of bed swiftly, stretching his back. Every time he woke up after his transformations, he felt stiff, his back aching. It was so easy to consider it all as a dream, having never woken up with his friend by his side, and he wondered if Sherlock felt the same way. Except that it wasn't a dream: he checked the calendar and a day had indeed passed. John smirked as he pictured Sherlock waking up while he was cuddling him on a bed. Obviously the detective would make a run for it. John was just surprised he hadn't screamed or jumped the first time, effectively waking him up.
As he walked down the stairs a thought hit him. When Sherlock had awakened those three times there had been a transformation... had they both been in human form? He froze on the last step. He recalled well enough that when he had woken up, he'd been lying stark naked on the mattress. He groaned as he pushed the door to their living-room open.
… and froze on the spot. Sprawled on the couch as if he were in his natural element, a tiger was gazing at him lazily with a look of boredom.
"What. The. Hell. are you doing here, Sherlock?"
The tiger growled in response and broke their eye contact, apparently finding it very dull and preferring instead to focus on one of his paws as though it were the most admirable thing in the world. Well, perhaps it was, John amended, when it was actually your hand you were supposed to be looking at, and all you could see and feel was... a paw.
He rubbed his temples as he considered the situation. He was expected at the clinic this morning, but as things were, leaving Sherlock alone in 221B in tiger form really wasn't an option. Especially if the idiot was so oblivious as to be laying slumped on the couch in the living-room where anyone who burst in unannounced (and that happened a lot) could see him.
"You're completely clueless, aren't you?"
That wasn't something Sherlock liked to hear - in fact, it wasn't even something he was used to hearing - and it caught his attention. He looked back at John, frowning, and his pout instilled a fluttering feeling in the doctor's chest. Adorable, he thought, and he had the urge to see the tiger vulnerable and purring under his hand. He shook his head, trying to get a grip. What was wrong with him? The normal reaction to seeing a tiger getting pissed was 'I should run. Now.', not 'Oh God, I want to tame him.'
Him? Him? Of course, John thought. The tiger. A tiger. In general. A tiger in general. He blushed, avoiding Sherlock's gaze that had been fixed on him, probably analysing his every expression, trying to deduce him. John prayed he wasn't succeeding.
"You can't stay here, Sherlock. Anyone could come in and see you. What am I supposed to say to explain the presence of a tiger in our flat, huh?"
Sherlock shrugged, his scoff clearly conveying that he couldn't care less. Really, John. What else am I supposed to do? I'm stuck in the flat already and I'm bored. BORED. Do you really expect me to stay in my room?
"Yes, I do," John retorted as he went to the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. This was all so unfair. He couldn't tease Sherlock with food, because the detective wouldn't mind not eating for a day - he probably wouldn't even notice. He couldn't make fun of his ridiculous appearance, because he wasn't ridiculous. He glared as Sherlock came to the kitchen and put his head on the table next to John, looking up at him smugly. Inferiority complex, is it?
"Shut up. Why in the world does this keep happening to us anyway?"
Sherlock shrugged. Would it change anything if they knew? It was tedious, but life was tedious. Except this wasn't very logical. He'd examined John's hair (his manul hair, of course) the last time there had been a transformation, but had found nothing peculiar. It was just like any other manul's hair on earth. Except that this manul was host to a human being - in this case, John.
It didn't make any sense at all. There was no pattern for the transformations, no possible way to explain them. So Sherlock had done the only sensible thing: he'd giving up racking his brain about it. He had looked, but there was nothing whatsoever in his mind palace that could help him shed any light on the situation. If he ever managed to explain it, it would be through the input of new data, and so there was nothing he could do for now.
Hence the boredom. He didn't even have a case to occupy his mind, and he knew John was going to the clinic today. It would be a very, very long day.
John was thinking exactly the same thing as he sat down to the table and started eating his toast.
"Okay, so rule number 1: no roaring."
Sherlock pouted haughtily.
"Oh, don't give me that look. You know you roared a lot last time, and I absolutely do not want to have to deal with Mrs. Hudson's comments in the morning - not to mention the neighbours' sidelong glances."
The tiger rolled his eyes and John was all the more annoyed.
"Do you even know what I'm talking about?"
I don't even know the neighbours, conveyed the bored face. John sighed.
"Whatever. Just don't roar. Actually, don't make a noise."
Then he added as an afterthought, a smirk playing on his lips:
"Purring is fine."
If a tiger could have blushed, John was sure Sherlock's cheeks would've burned at the comment, and he realized he'd never seen his friend blush in human form. Not even with Irene Adler. He'd have to try and mention it one day, to see his reaction. Maybe Sherlock could really read his thoughts, for he frowned comically.
"Rule number 2: you are confined to your room for the day. No discussion."
This time his flatmate's reaction was much more dramatic. His eyes widened and he stepped back in disbelief before sending him a death glare. John glared back. They had a staring contest for a few seconds before Sherlock changed his strategy and went for the puppy eyes.
"Do you really think you can coax me with that pleading look when it doesn't work on me even when you're in human form?" John asked.
Oh yes, I do, thought Sherlock, but he was clever enough not to betray any self-confidence or insolence, and enhanced his imploring stance by sitting back like an obedient cat, swinging his tail and putting a paw on John's thigh.
"Ever the comedian," John said, averting his eyes, "even as a tiger you're good at acting. We should put you up for a talent show or something."
Sherlock had the sense to be a little patient with the doctor - it wasn't that hard, because he knew that he'd get what he wanted eventually. John was melting before his very eyes, and he wouldn't last much longer. Sherlock put a little more weight in his paw and accentuated the supplicating gleam in his eyes.
"Oh, all right. But you can't go into the living-room - no, that's definite. I don't want to have to find some crazy excuse for your presence if anyone were to come up."
But we hear people coming up, John!
"Ah, here we go with your real face. Snide and haughty."
But the doctor's tone was fond, and he was about to cup the tiger's cheeks when Sherlock nuzzled his hand insistently. John blinked.
"You want tea? Sherlock, you know how sick I got last time!"
That's because you drank at least four pots, John.
"That's a no."
Sherlock made a long face, and went to sit sulkily on a kitchen chair, resting his head on his front paws, half-sprawled on the table.
"Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm not having a sick tiger in the bathroom."
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Two hours later, they were both still seated at the kitchen table, John checking his emails and Sherlock drinking tea. Of course, Mr. Genius had managed to hold the cup between his two big paws so that he wouldn't have to bend and lap from a bowl. John was sending him half-amused, half-annoyed glances every now and then.
I'm having tea with a tiger, he thought dazedly.
Sherlock frowned, and his glare seemed to say: You're having tea with me, John.
The doctor shrugged.
"Yeah, and for now, you're a tiger. Wait, how come can I read your thoughts?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
Because we know each other. And maybe because you're not too stupid.
John blinked, then tilted his head to the side.
"Wait, what was that?"
… or maybe you are.
They ended up staring at each other, observing. John noticed that the tiger had especially prominent cheekbones, even though his face didn't look thin with all that fluffy white fur. The tiger's coat was truly beautiful, he mused. It was silky and the colours were bright and finely defined with black lines striping his whole body strikingly. His limpid eyes were rimmed with black, making them all the more luminous. And the whiskers... John blushed and averted his gaze. What was it with paws and whiskers anyway? Did they make everyone dotty about felines?
Sherlock smirked slightly as John looked away. He could read him like an open book - anyone would've been able to quite easily, really; John was just so obvious. Well, not all the time, he admitted. Sometimes Sherlock just couldn't make sense out of his reactions, couldn't predict what he'd do or say, and those were truly the best moments. John had the ability to surprise him, and that was something the consulting detective wasn't used to. Sometimes corpses, victims, criminals surprised him, and that was why the Work was so thrilling - he had to solve the case, make sense out all of those disparate elements, link the dots to get the final picture. Through his deductions and his logic, he could shed light on anything.
But John resisted logic. Every time Sherlock tried to put him into one category or another, adding traits to his portrait, John did something that messed the whole picture up. Every time Sherlock thought he'd seized him for good, he'd do something unexpected, and the detective had to reform his views all over again. Maybe it was because John was fundamentally illogical - not to say paradoxical. He liked "mundane" and was ordinary in so many ways, yet he craved danger and would drop everything to rush to Sherlock's side. He was fond of his routine, but needed the 'adventure' Sherlock could provide. He was just so contradictory that it made, all in all, for a very interesting flatmate. A priceless friend, too, a little voice murmured in the back of his mind.
They were both so intensely focused on the other that they didn't hear the staircase steps creak until the very last moment. John's eyes widened in panic and he jumped on his feet, ushering Sherlock into the corridor towards his room, hissing: "Bathroom!" at the very moment Lestrade burst into their living-room. John turned and smiled at him.
"Hello, Greg. What brings you here so early in the morning?"
Lestrade blinked.
"Were you just talking to someone?"
"What? Oh no, I was reading the news online, and you know, sometimes there are such unbelievable reports."
"...Right. Well, I was coming to talk to Sherlock about a case, but... he's out?"
His tone was disbelieving. John was usually the one out, working or buying the groceries, or just taking a walk away from his maddening flatmate because he needed some air. But Sherlock was always there when he wasn't working on a case. He wasn't one to go out on a stroll, or to museums, theatres or whatnot.
"So he's got a case already?"
John had learned a few things, living with Sherlock. Not becoming flustered and knowing when to lie, for instance.
"Oh yeah, I think he's got something on. He didn't tell me much, though, and just stormed out early this morning. You know how he is."
"That, I do. Can I just leave you the file? If he's got a case to play with already, he probably won't answer my calls. But if it comes from you, he might just take a look at it."
John laughed wholeheartedly.
"I think you overestimate me greatly, inspector."
Lestrade shrugged, a smile playing on his lips as he put the file on the kitchen table and turned to leave.
"And I think you underestimate your influence on him a lot, John."
Lestrade tipped his head in parting as he turned back towards the door. John stood there dumbly for a second, not sure how he should react to that. But since the D.I. was gone anyway, he just shrugged it off. When he turned back to the kitchen, Sherlock was already looming over the file, a Cheshire cat-like grin splitting his face. A kid on Christmas, John thought. He snatched the file away from him swiftly, and glared. Sherlock glared back.
"See? I told you this was risky!"
As if 'risky' weren't one of your favourite situations, John. The tiger snorted.
"You are not reading this here. If you want this file, you're going to your room, and not leaving it until you transform back. Am I clear?"
Sherlock's eyes widened and he considered for a second jumping on his flatmate, snatching the file back and just ignore the protests and commands. What could John do anyway? He was a tiger, not some house cat one could easily manhandle. Of course, John had his gun. But Sherlock was confident he wouldn't use it on him now that he knew he wasn't just any tiger. However when he saw the determined look on the ex-soldier's face, he gave up and padded off to his room with a scoff. Fine. Let him have his little "I'm-the-captain-here" fun, he thought. It wasn't like John could really act all domineering and order him around when he wasn't in tiger form. And he'd stayed home for Sherlock, after all. He hadn't gone to the clinic.
John followed him to his room with a satisfied smirk, and spread out on the bed the documents Lestrade had brought for him. Sherlock would have liked John to stay with him and study the case, read some things out loud maybe, but he concluded that his friend would more likely be returning to the living-room to gloat that he had confined Sherlock Holmes in his room. He snorted. Idiot.
He complied nonetheless and started reading the file sulkily as John closed the door on him.
As he sat back at the kitchen table, John had the decency to recognize that he was enjoying this far too much.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Three hours passed and Sherlock had long solved the case. It wasn't very difficult, really. From the file alone he'd already got an idea, and he only needed to confirm it - which he would've done already, if he'd been in human form.
Young florist Brenda Tregennis had been found dead in her flat above her flower shop that morning, fully clothed, sitting in the entrance, staring at her own reflected face in the large mirror on her wall with an expression of terror. She'd been found by her brother Mortimer who was supposed to pick her up in the morning to see off a mutual friend, Leon Sterndale, in Plymouth. Sterndale had of course cancelled his trip and was staying for the burial. He was a traveller and a botanist, specialised in exotic species. He'd met Brenda at uni and intended to propose to her upon his return from South America in a few months. Well, that wouldn't happen, Sherlock thought idly. The brother, Mortimer, was never fond of his sister, according to Sterndale's testimony. Mortimer had tried to convince Sterndale, a week before his sister's death, not to propose to her. They were both at a pub drinking at the time; Sterndale was quite drunk but had gathered that the man's bitterness was based upon his own bankruptcy at a time when his sister's flower shop was thriving. Such a trivial reason, Sherlock thought. But aren't they always?
Now, the Met was out of their depths - and this time it was all the more ridiculous since they had all the necessary elements to solve the case. The victim had been found in the entrance to her flat. She was still wearing her shoes and coat, so she must have died upon entering her home. The cause was a complete mystery - to the police anyway. Sherlock however had learned at a very young age not to trust shoes, and concluded that the fact that the victim had been staring at her own reflection in the mirror was completely irrelevant. What was relevant was that she had been sitting, obviously trying to take her shoes off, and had died before she could manage to, her back to the wall, her eyes on the mirror. But young adults rarely sit down to take off their shoes. So she must have been feeling dizzy already - or perhaps she had known, even before dying, what was killing her.
All Sherlock needed to check to confirm his theory was the victim's shoes. No trace of poison had been found on the body, but not all poisons leave traces. The shoes, however, might still hold the evidence. Now, the only one who could have introduced some novel foreign poison was Sterndale - but he had intended to propose to her. The brother, however, had motive. So how did he get his hands on the poison? That was easy to deduce. Sterndale had said in his statement that they had gone drinking and that Mortimer was quite drunk when he told Sterndale not to marry Brenda. But if they had been drinking together, it was very likely that Sterndale too was drunk at the time. Consequently it wasn't improbable that he'd started blabbering about his passion - plants, and his latest discoveries.
The last element which confirmed Sherlock in his deduction was that Lucy Porter, Brenda Tregennis's assistant at the flower shop, had given a quite long and very boring statement, in which she described her boss and friend as the sweetest and kindest person on earth, so simple, not vain at all, etc. If Sherlock hadn't been bored to death and stuck in his own room, he wouldn't even have bothered reading her statement. One detail, however, struck him - one tiny detail that made all the difference: Brenda Tregennis's flower shop had a very home-like feeling to it, said Lucy. She even wore slippers inside the shop; she wore her shoes only when she arrived in the morning and when she closed the boutique at night to go home.
It had taken Sherlock less than an hour to read the documents and deduce that Mortimer Tregennis had used Leon Sterndale's poison to murder his own sister. Since his deduction, Sherlock had been pacing the room, feeling like it had turned suddenly into the worst possible cage.
He had thought that John would've at least paid him a visit after an hour or so, but no, he was probably too busy with his silly blog and whatever other hopelessly mindless entertainment he had at hand. Sherlock wondered absent-mindedly what title he'd give to that case. The Poisoned Shoe, perhaps? Probably something even sillier.
Sherlock was so annoyed after two hours of pacing that when he heard Mrs Hudson's voice along with John's from their living room, he just couldn't resist getting his little revenge on his flatmate. Opening the door without too much difficulty - the handle wasn't that high, for a tiger - he walked leisurely down the corridor and burst in on the pair, a lazy expression on his face.
Mrs. Hudson, who was facing the kitchen, was the first to see him, and she stopped in mid-sentence, freezing on the spot, a look of horror dawning on her face. Sherlock could imagine John blinking, twice even, before he caught up. By that time though, she'd screamed.
"Oh dear God what's a tiger doing roaming around in your flat!?"
John turned, and, seeing the falsely innocent look on Sherlock's face, exploded.
"Sherlock, for God's sake!"
Now Mrs. Hudson was staring at him as if he'd gone mad and was more frightening even than the very large feline presently pacing in their kitchen.
"Sherlock?"
"Um... yeah... Sherlock's new pet. He just brought it and vanished, leaving it with me here... I can't believe he just left it for me to deal with."
"He got a tiger? As a pet?"
"Right..."
"Oh, I see!"
"What? What do you see?" John asked, obviously lost, and certainly not seeing anything.
"He probably got jealous!"
"Jealous?"
"Well, you know, you take care of that weird stray cat that looks like a giant feather duster, so maybe he just felt the need to find a bigger cat to take care of."
"That's preposterous!" exclaimed John, clearly vexed. A giant feather duster? He became even more irritated when he saw Sherlock giggle like the twat he was before sitting on a kitchen chair to finish his tea.
Mrs. Hudson's eyes went wide.
"Dear me, he's quite tamed it, hasn't he?"
"Yes, well, it's still a tiger," John retorted moodily, ignoring the triumphant grin on the bloody cat's face.
"Well, as long as it doesn't bite... Still, I wish you'd tell him I don't quite approve, dear. Eccentricity has its limits."
"Sure, Mrs. Hudson. I'll tell him."
The good woman left, thinking of what Sherlock's childhood must have been like if he and his brother always reacted so disproportionately - one getting a tiger, when the other got a cat...
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Once their landlady had left, John turned to Sherlock, furious.
"I told you to stay in your room! Was it really so hard to listen for once?"
Yes. said the tiger's sullen face as he drank his cup of cold tea pitifully.
"How are we going to explain it if the tiger's not there next time she comes, but then you transform again and she sees it once more? You can't just listen to me, can you?"
Oh. So that's what this is about. I wish you could hear yourself speak, John. The logical link between your sentences is more than dubious.
"And will you please stop looking at me like I'm an idiot? It's insulting enough when you're a man, but when you're a tiger?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. It's not an insult, John! Everyone is.
"You... oh, just go back to your room."
What? She's seen me now, and Lestrade isn't coming back! Oh I've solved the case by the way...
"Sherlock, just go back to your room! Don't make me repeat myself."
You just did.
"I'm serious Sherlock. Go. Back. To. Your. Room."
The peremptory tone wasn't to Sherlock's liking at all. He'd had enough bossing around for the day, and he'd been obedient enough till now. He'd waited three hours, like a punished kid sent to stand in the corner, in his own bedroom. Wasn't that demonstration enough of his good will?
Obviously not, he mused, as John marched up to him, determination in his eyes, his stance firm.
"Sherlock, if I have to carry you to that room myself, I will."
You're joking, right?
But his eyes were dead serious. Sherlock snapped, and snarled. John ignored him completely and circling the tiger's body with his arms, lifted it from the chair and began to manhandle him towards the corridor as if he were merely a very big, unwanted cat.
Sherlock was so bewildered he didn't react at first, but when he did, he couldn't hold back. Hissing, he struggled and scratched John's arm in the process - but the ex-soldier refused to let go of him and they ended up grappling on the kitchen floor, fighting tooth and claw. This should have been a good way to release the stress and tension that had built between them during the day as they'd gradually grown more annoyed with each other. But Sherlock wasn't used to being a tiger and had little idea of his strength. He managed to roll their two bodies so he could loom over John, growling threateningly, snarling into his face, his sharp-toothed jaw frighteningly close to John's jugular. John abruptly stopped struggling. He didn't make a move to defend himself. He only looked Sherlock in the eye, calm and firm. Stoical.
"Are you really planning to kill me, Sherlock?"
The tiger's eyes widened and he snapped back to reality. He flinched, whimpering and stepping back, hanging his head. He hadn't realized. He just wanted to play. With just one look and those few trusting words, John had managed to subdue him completely.
Sherlock moved back to his room without a murmur, not even daring to catch his friend's gaze, and quietly closed the door behind him.
As he stood back up, thoughtful, it dawned on John that Sherlock hadn't meant to hurt him at all: in that instant, the doctor realized that the first time Sherlock had transformed, he had not attacked him, although he could have easily overpowered him.
John looked at the closed door.
He would rather have been shot than attack me.
«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
Sherlock remained obediently in his room for the rest of the day, frightened of what he might do to John - or John to him. Overly dispirited, he was lying meekly on his bed, and just wished for the day to end, so he could fall asleep and put it all behind him.
When he heard John turn off the TV, relief washed over him with the knowledge his torment would probably end soon. Closing his eyes, he tried to will sleep to come. He was so intent on numbing his awareness that he didn't hear John walk down the corridor. He only felt John's presence when he was already pushing the door silently open, peeking into the room.
Just to check on him before I go to bed, John told himself. Nothing more.
When he saw the sleeping figure though, he couldn't resist and walked up to him, sitting quietly on the bed besides him. Sherlock's breathing was regular, but the expression of pain and submission hadn't left his face, which was slightly frowning. John smiled fondly, and unwittingly started petting him, trying to soothe away the frown. Sherlock, who was only faking sleep, felt the warmth spread from the doctor's hands to his body. Those hands weren't smooth, but rather rough and manly. The petting itself was much like John himself, affectionate yet firm, generous and resolute. Sherlock felt all his tension melt in the caresses. We're idiots. Next time we should do that from the start. It didn't cross his mind that the pent-up frustration might be of another nature entirely.
A wave of tenderness washed over John, who could feel the huge silky body relax under his touch, and on impulse he leant and kissed the furrowed brow. Sherlock's eyes snapped open in surprise and John started, flustered. Sherlock didn't give him time to get away and jumped into his friend's lap, snuggling up against him, giving him a spontaneous and completely irrational hug.
He almost immediately realized what he was doing, and how it could be interpreted. Panicked, he jumped back and crouched on the floor, whimpering what he hoped sounded like an apology. John had been nonplussed by the sudden burst of affection on Sherlock's part, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he hadn't jumped back out of shame, but because he was scared of having upset John. He was deeply moved by the unexpected gesture.
"Oh, Sherlock... Come here."
Uncertain at first, Sherlock finally crawled back onto the bed, attentive to giving John enough space. He was confounded when his friend closed the distance between them, gathering him into a cosseting embrace.
And so they didn't break the pattern but ended up cuddling, Sherlock nuzzling John's hair, John pressing his head against Sherlock's heart, relishing the soft fur and the priceless pulse.
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«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»
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tbc
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