Fiction: Johnny Cat. Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Title: Johnny Cat, Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
Rating: PG
Characters: John, Sherlock, and a cat named Johnny
Warnings: A couple of mildly bawdy jokes later on
Word Count: This chapter: 3,000ish. Complete Story: just over 24,000
Summary: Sherlock is left to cope on his own while John is away at a medical conference in New York. Asexual Sherlock. Hetero John. And a cat. A light and sentimental tale of two friendships.
Beta: ShouldBeOverThis. She was fabulous. All the mistakes are mine.
Author's Notes: The Wilton and La Hacienda hotels may or may not resemble the Hilton and La Quinta hotels, real places in New York City, as I've never been to either.
Johnny Cat
Chapter 2: A New Flatmate
The medical conference was to take place in the posh Wilton Hotel in downtown Manhattan. John couldn't wait to mix with medical professional, ones who published studies and gave lectures. He never would have considered making the trip-two days of travel seemed a lot for a two day conference-but he'd received an invitation and a stipend from the hosting committee which seemed keen on hearing him talk about treating sucking chest wounds under battlefield conditions.
In truth John welcomed a break from his life with his consulting detective flatmate-it was exciting but exhausting as well. Most importantly, while he was away, John's time would be his own. There would be no interruptions: no beakers exploding on the kitchen table while he was cooking dinner; no being kidnapped by thugs in the middle of his dates; and, best of all, no texts from Sherlock asking him to return home as quickly as possible because, as it often turned out, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to find a pen. Still, just the thought of Sherlock had John pulling out his phone, scanning for messages: there were none. John sighed and felt a little melancholy before he remembered he was supposed to be enjoying this solo adventure. With purpose, John pulled out his booklet of abstracts outlining the presentations he'd be hearing at the conference, adjusted his position in the surprisingly comfortable airplane seat, and began to read.
He'd gotten through the first one, a detailed description of various forms of mitral valve prolapse, when his eyes began to drift to the salaciously illustrated cover of the detective novel held by the woman seated next to him. Craning his neck, John was able to read the blurb on the back which described the book's hero as being so brilliant that he had deduced the identity of the killer from a single grape.
"Ha!" said John, quite loudly, "I know a guy who did that from orange seeds."
The woman lowered her book and glared at him. "Do you mind?"
"Sorry," said John as contritely as he could, wondering what had gotten into him.
He supposed that now the woman wouldn't be agreeable to lending him the book when she was finished, but that was alright. He would probably be able to pick up a copy in the airport, just in case the conference (which he just knew would be totally absorbing) had a brief lull in activity. John went back to reading his abstracts, but realized he must have dozed off when he felt a jolt as the wheels of the airplane touched down. He woke to a dry mouth and an impressive drool stain on his shirt.
The small buff-colored cat peaked up at Sherlock with its large eyes, dark blue and round like saucers. Sherlock had never seen this creature before. Instinctively he scooped it up, stroking its soft fur as he looked around for its owner. There was no one in sight. The cat purred softly and seemed to melt into his arms. "Well then," said Sherlock to the cat as he held it up for inspection, "you're mine for the next few days." With a look that Sherlock took as complete adoration, the cat agreed. Knowing full well that he was using the cat as a substitute for his absent companion, Sherlock immediately decided on the name John. However, when the cat began playfully batting at a button on his coat, it became apparent that Johnny, the more youthful derivative of the name, would be more suitable.
Pleased beyond measure with his find, Sherlock quickly opened the door and took his new companion inside before anything, a rightful owner, for instance, could disrupt his plans. Tucking Johnny under his coat and out of sight, just in case he ran into Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock bounded up the stairs, taking two at a time. He entered his flat, shut the door behind him, and, with a happy smirk of accomplishment spread over his face, Sherlock deftly rolled the piece of yarn, now obsolete, off his finger.
Sherlock sat the cat down on floor and took a seat on the couch to watch what it did. He'd seen cats before, of course, but he'd never had occasion to really study one up close. This particular cat was male, as demonstrated by the two large, magnificent furry balls peeking out from under its tail. Johnny seemed small for an adult cat, and Sherlock noticed that the jaunty little fellow had a small old scar below its right eye and another more recent one on its left paw, indicating it had been in at least one fight. The cat was well fed and its short coat was fairly clean, suggesting it had an owner. So, Sherlock concluded, this was a domesticated animal that, still true to its nature, escaped from time to time to have an adventure on the wild streets of London; a perfect substitute for his wayward soldier. The week was definitely looking up. Sherlock had a temporary distraction and would return the cat just before John got home.
The cat, Johnny, took off on a leisurely tour of the flat, sniffing every single piece of furniture and then rubbing up against it as it passed. Sherlock, perfectly aware of the purpose behind this activity, resisted a strong urge to kick off his shoe and rub the same areas with his own sent using his slightly aromatic socked foot; for it occurred to Sherlock that, if he did this, he would be risking an escalating war of territorial marking which, if his admittedly limited knowledge of male felines was correct, was not a war that he would want to win, especially in his own flat.
When it had completed its reconnaissance, the cat returned to Sherlock and jumping up on his lap where it proceeded to make itself comfortable. Sherlock was surprised and a little flattered that this creature had taken to the flat and himself so quickly. He knew that a cat would probably not mind the clutter, but Sherlock had been working with a particularly malodorous sulfur compound several nights ago, and he thought the creature might be put off by the faint "rotten egg" smell. Also, Sherlock was well aware that people found his personality to be both cold and abrasive. Apparently this little creature was not so easily put off; in fact, he seemed inexplicably drawn to him. Equally unexpected was that Sherlock seemed to be drawn to the cat, for, before he knew what was happening, he was stroking the little fellow from head to tail. And, stranger still, he could not help smiling as he did so.
Sherlock knew that people kept cats and other pet for comfort and companionship, but only now did he truly understand the powerful drive behind this practice. There was clearly no purpose to petting this cat, so soft and warm and alive beneath his hand. Still, he did not want to stop. Sherlock noticed that his own breathing was getting slower and more regular and that his muscles were relaxing. He wasn't even upset anymore about the case or John being away or anything. It was as if this small creature had the power to clear away the static from his mind so that all that remained was the brilliance. Sherlock briefly considered smuggling Johnny with him on crime scenes to help block out Anderson's obnoxious brainwaves, but remembering the cat-stroking villain in that painfully simplistic spy movie he had watched with John the week before, quickly dismissed the idea.
At some point, Sherlock stopped thinking about his own reactions and began to observe Johnny. The little cat was moving in response to his hand, arching up to meet him, angling his head to better receive a rub under the chin. Why, the cat was really enjoying himself! This was all quite new to Sherlock, this exchange of physical contact for mutual pleasure. It's not that Sherlock didn't enjoy touching people or things-it's just that he always did so as a means to an end, never for the sheer pleasure of the experience. Now, thanks to Johnny, he was beginning to gain some insight as to the benefits of such behavior.
"Cats are wonderful", he thought. "They know what they want, they find someone who will give it to them, and they're just happy to enjoy the moment." Then, a little sadly, Sherlock concluded his train of thought, "Humans, with all their hidden agendas, are far inferior in this area."
As if intending to cheer him up, Johnny began to purr. The diminutive cat produced a surprisingly robust sound, far louder and deeper than one would expect. Sherlock thought it sounded a lot like the low, powerful rumble of Angelo's 1970 Karmann Ghia convertible when it was properly tuned. Johnny's blissful vibrations worked their way through Sherlock's thigh muscles as the pleasant rumble ebbed and flowed soothingly in his ears. Before he knew it, Sherlock found he'd achieved new level of relaxation and contentment; that was until the cat began its new activity of kneading Sherlock's crotch with its sharp claws. With a small cry of surprise (and pain) Sherlock leapt to his feet.
Sherlock could only suppose that Johnny must have forgotten how to retract his claws, for he hung there, dangling from Sherlock's trousers, with a look on his face that said, "A little help?" Sherlock, well accustomed to helping out a diminutive friend in a bind, was happy to assist. He sat back down and began carefully detaching the ensnared creature's claws so as not to snag his trousers. Sherlock then set the grateful cat down on John's favorite armchair.
"Not good, Johnny," Sherlock said sternly, wagging a finger and trying to imitate the expression of disapproval John had given him so often. He knew he wasn't supposed to feel smug or superior (John never did) but he did all the same. It was a nice reversal to be teaching his flatmate about appropriate behavior instead of the other way around. The cat showed no signs of understanding, but happily settled into the new chair where it turned its claws on the less sensitive Union Jack pillow.
Satisfied with this arrangement, Sherlock picked up his laptop and returned to his couch. The cat finished its attack on the pillow and curled up to sleep. It snored softly. Sherlock found the noise to be somehow familiar and very pleasant, not unlike John's snore after a big dinner and a few hours of telly. Taking a seat on the couch, Sherlock began composing his memo to Lestrade outlining the basic guidelines for interpreting floor scrapes and indentations at crime scenes. He'd have plenty of time to finish before Johnny woke and wanted dinner.
John, wide awake after his long sleep, took a cab from the airport to his hotel, a modest place called La Hacienda. He would have preferred to stay at the conference site, but the cost of a room at the Wilton was far beyond his means. His room was small and the air conditioner was quite loud, but John was not that fussy-a bed and a place to wash up were about all he required.
He was hungry, having eaten nothing on his flight, and decided he wanted some Chinese. He hailed a cab and asked it to take him to China Town.
"Any place in particular?" asked the cabbie.
"No," said John, "Just drop me off in the middle." He wanted to inspect a few door handles before making his choice.
The food at restaurant he'd selected was, indeed, very good. John ordered three main dishes, his usual amount, but was surprised at only being able to eat half of it. Looking at the empty chair across from him, John remembered that he usually dined with Sherlock who, out of pride, would never admit to any mortal weakness, especially not his enormous just-finished-a-case appetite or his lust for sticky sweet spareribs. As a result, whenever they ate out, Sherlock always under-ordered and ended up poaching most of his dinner from John's plate. Looking down at the remaining Kung Pao Chicken, Szechuan Beef, and Mu Shu Pork, John frowned grimly as he considered the waste-there was no refrigerator at the hotel in which to store the leftovers. Valiantly he tucked in the few more forkfuls his waistband would allow before setting down his fork with a heavy sigh of defeat.
John spent the next hour soothing his over-stuffed belly with a couple pots of tea while he observed the other diners. It was a fabulous show. At one table there was a heated argument between three very effeminate men, complete with thrown drinks. At another table, a man kept leaving the restaurant every fifteen minutes at which time his date would switch their water glasses. Finally, at the bar there was a large group of what looked to be sixty-year-old biker babes sporting leather jackets emblazed with the name "Silver Beavers" who, on the surface, seemed to be swapping muffin recipes when they weren't throwing back shots of tequila. Several times John almost reached for his phone to text Sherlock, who he knew would be able to give a full account of each oddity. But, determined to protect his personal time, even if it killed him to do so, John resisted.
Still bloated from his meal, John caught a cab back to the hotel where he spent most of the evening watching really bad telly-not the same without Sherlock whose snorts and eye rolls made that sort of tripe somehow much more enjoyable. It grew late, but as he was still wide awake from all that tea, John decided to go over his lecture notes one last time. His PowerPoint slides with their neat rows of bullet points and purposefully over-simplified illustrations paraded before his eyes in familiar succession. After five minutes he was out like a light.
As Sherlock had predicted, Johnny woke up hungry. He mewed plaintively in a sweet high tenor (so different from that deep guttural engine of a purr) and began making pass after pass, rubbing himself against Sherlock's legs.
"A funny little brain and no opposable thumbs-how on earth do you manage?"
For once, Sherlock was going to have to be the domestic caretaker. Surprisingly, he didn't mind. Having no interest in going to the market, Sherlock rooted through the kitchen to find something a cat would eat. He found a tin of sardines, one of many in John's supply of "emergency rations", and some milk. These Sherlock set out on the table where he could better observe Johnny eat. The cat liked his dinner very much. In fact, he tucked into those sardines with such relish that Sherlock found that he too had a craving for them and helped himself to two of the remaining fish on Johnny's plate. Johnny seemed quite happy to share and switched to lapping up the milk. The cat's tongue moved so quickly, Sherlock couldn't quite see how it worked. He decided to try it himself and scooted Johnny away so he could access the saucer. The result was unsatisfactory. Milk splashed everywhere and he consumed very little. But the experiment had dictated tonight's activity; researching cat tongues online. A better understanding of the biomechanics involved was sure to lead to a better result tomorrow. Tonight he would have to settle for using a glass.
In a few hours, Johnny was off touring the flat again. Sherlock, curious, followed him, only to find the cat relieving himself in the corner behind an end table. He vaguely knew about litter boxes, but decided he'd rather not bother with one as his rooming with Johnny was temporary. Pity there was no park or open space nearby; Regents Park, with all the dogs and heavy foot traffic, simply would not do.
After giving the matter a few moments thought, Sherlock came up with a solution that appealed to him. Whenever Johnny started talking a walk around the flat, he would pick him up and take him outside tucked inside his coat. Then, when the coast was clear, Sherlock would lift Johnny into one of large flower pots that graced many of the entrances of the nearby hotels and restaurants. Of course, since cat feces and urine were an excellent source of nutrients for plants, everyone would benefit from this admittedly unorthodox arrangement.
Johnny gave Sherlock the "signal" later that evening, and off they went. Sherlock set Johnny down in what he decided was a prime location, a great big pot of pelargonia in front of a posh Indonesian restaurant three blocks from his flat. Smart fellow that he was, Johnny twigged to the plan right away and immediately began excavating a small trench in the soft soil. Sherlock stood guard and tried to act nonchalant, as if he were simply waiting for his dinner companion to arrive. Although the job lacked glamour of a traditional stakeout, Sherlock found it to be thrilling none the less, especially when the maître d' became suspicious and started to walk towards them brandishing a thickly bound menu. Johnny had finished his business but was still enjoying himself, frolicking amongst the plants and chewing on leaves, when Sherlock, aware of the danger, deftly scooped him up, put him under his coat, and raced for home. He could feel the little cat's heart beat fast against his chest, and when they were safe behind the front door at Baker Street, Sherlock, full of joy and affection, peeked in at the soft bundle tucked inside his coat and whispered, "Now that, Johnny, truly was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."
The next morning Sherlock was taking Johnny on another "stakeout" when he spotted a young teenage girl and her mother posting fliers. He looked and, sure enough, there was Johnny's picture. Careful to keep Johnny tucked away inside his coat, Sherlock followed the pair until they reached their flat located just around the corner from his own. It took him no time to spot the open upstairs window, cracked just wide enough for a small, bold cat to escape down the adjacent fire escape. That would be where Sherlock would return him, in time.
Chapter 3: Something Must Have Rubbed Off
Chapter 1: On His Own