Fluffy Surprise
For lack of a better title.
Fluffy Surprise: Sherlock keeps a litter of kittens in his room to cuddle when he's stressed. Written for a prompt on the sherlockbbc-fic kinkmeme.
Rating: G
Pairing: None
Warning: Fluff! Also unbeta'ed and unBrit-picked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
John doesn't know why he's not allowed in Sherlock's room. The door is always closed, and Sherlock is very careful to make his exits and entrances quite quickly indeed. There have been clandestine visits between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, when they think John isn't watching, and Mrs Hudson is always beaming when she leaves. John very much thinks he doesn't want to know.
After particularly stressful days, when Sherlock seems too lethargic for the violin, he disappears into his room for hours, and John is left wondering why the muffled thumps and yowls Sherlock emits seem to leave him re-energized when he finally leaves his room (closing the door behind him with a bang that surely Mrs Hudson disapproves of).
Once in awhile, when they're travelling through London, Sherlock will stop random people with a simple, "My card, call me next Tuesday," and carry on. John has looked back once or twice to see expressions of delight on the recipients' faces - surely something as simple as a consulting detective's card wouldn't give such looks of joy? - but Sherlock has always hurried on, making his already long-legged strides even longer so that John has to half-jog to keep up, and refuses to discuss the incidents, ever. Given Sherlock's propensity to boast at his deductions during cases, this silence rings odd to John, but the curiosity goes unsolved. Tuesdays are his regular day at the surgery, and on his rare Tuesday off Sherlock never gives out his card. It is a distinct mystery.
Finally John has had enough. He may not be tricky as Sherlock, but one Tuesday he does not tell his flatmate that he has the day off, and gets ready for work just as usual. He hopes that the way he stirs his tea or the way he picks up his bag (or whatever) won't be enough of a giveaway for Sherlock to notice his plans, but Sherlock is lying on the sofa with his dressing gown dragging on the ground, looking oddly worn around the edges (John knows for a fact the dressing gown is only 6 months old, as it had been a present from Mummy last Christmas, and Sherlock had been positively gleeful about it). He does not open his eyes at John's usual, "Right, I'm off, back at six," simply replying "Pick up curry on the way home, please, the shop on Cleveland and New Cavendish," and continuing his internal musing.
John goes almost all the way to work, for the benefit of any CCTVs watching, then ducks into a cafe for a pot of tea before dashing home. With any luck, whatever Sherlock is up to does not warrant Mycroft's attention and therefore John will not be tattled on, but the level of paranoia the man inspires is quite possibly insane. John stakes out on a rooftop across the street, sipping the tea he'd had poured into a takeaway cup and watching the flat intensely through his old military binoculars. Mrs Hudson is out for the day, having tea with Mrs Turner next door and then shopping, so John is not quite so afraid of seeing something he'd really want to scrub his eyeballs for (even if he's sure Sherlock could recommend a perfect eyeball-bleach).
At precisely four o'clock a small family comes to the door, and Sherlock ushers them up to the flat, a wide smile on the long face, looking disconcertingly genuine. Sherlock rarely smiles at small children, and the girl appears to be six, but the beam he gives her is practically made of sunshine. John is positively suspicious at this point.
The curtains in the flat are drawn back, and John can see Sherlock bustling about, frenetic energy usually seen on cases. Sherlock has clearly worked out something close to magical, and the grin he's wearing is indecent. The family are seated on the chairs next to the fireplace, but the little girl is as incapable of sitting still as Sherlock, bouncing next to her mum. The dad looks nervous, gaze flicking to his wife, who smiles back at him and pets her daughter's hair indulgently. Sherlock disappears for a moment - into his room, John guesses? - and then reappears.
He's holding...a kitten.
A gray mackerel-striped tabby, who looks like he's mewing in confusion, large pointed ears far too big for his head and white socks draped over Sherlock's protective arm. Gigantic innocent eyes - blue, John thinks - are wide in that furry face, and John's heart melts as the little girl dashes over in absolute glee. Sherlock kneels down and is obviously telling the girl to calm down and be careful with the kitten, and her mum stands behind her as she solemnly reaches out a hand to pet the silky-soft head. After a few moments, the kitten reaches a paw out to her, and Sherlock gently places the kitten in the little girl's arms, pride and concern on his face. Mum and dad are standing together, now, watching their daughter with joy in their faces, and Sherlock stands up, turning to grab a large bag from behind the sofa. For a few minutes he speaks to the parents, pointing to things in the bag once in awhile, then hands the bag to the dad, who tries to offer him a few notes. Sherlock waves off the money (John rolls his eyes) and turns to the little girl who has moved impatiently to the doorway, giving her what looks like a mock-stern lecture, probably on care of her new pet. She nods, all the seriousness of the very young on her face, and she cradles the kitten like it's the most precious thing in the world.
The family walks out of 221 a few minutes later, and John can hear the effusive thanks of the parents, marvelling at how Sherlock had known exactly the kitten to choose for their little girl. "It's elementary, really," Sherlock says, sunny certainty in his voice. "Be sure to register the microchip when you get home, and the receipt in the bag has the code to get the nametag engraved at PetLondon."
John does not hear the rest of the conversation, thoughts whizzing round his brain. Pieces are fitting together now very quickly indeed, all except why and why didn't he mention this to me? Stretching his aching body from its prone position, he climbs back down and goes back to his flat, intending to get answers.
There is a surprised stillness to the flat when John opens the door, then Sherlock appears at the doorway, surprise and alarm on his face. "John! You're early, I-"
"Kittens, Sherlock?" he says, cutting across whatever it was Sherlock would try to use to distract him. Sherlock blinks, then his shoulders slump just a little. "I'd rather you not blog about this, John," he replies in a serious, slightly...guilty? tone. "I don't think London's finest needs to snigger into their coffees over my hobby."
"If you insist, ok, but...why didn't you tell me? What's going on?" John has reached the top of the stairs now, and Sherlock moves to allow him entrance to the flat.
"I foster kittens, John," Sherlock says in a slightly antagonstic tone, as if daring him to say something insulting about it. John nods, waving at him in a go on sort of motion. "The homeless network finds them for me, I domesticate them, inoculate them, microchip them, have them fixed, and find them homes, families that will take care of them and not toss them out after they've outgrown their kittenhood. The people of the London streets may choose their lives, or not, but I can make sure the cats are given the best chance possible."
Pinching his mouth in thoughfully, John nods again, processing the slightly startling statement. It is both surprising and not that Sherlock would see it this way - after all, people might be able to better themselves if they try, but it's much harder for the animals. The protective set of Sherlock's arms around the kitten had been an oddly altruistic thing, though, and Sherlock does not tend toward altruism. "What do you get out of it?"
Sherlock looks surprised for a moment, then grins. "Kittens, John! I get kittens. Not cats, they're not nearly so playful or cuddly, and I can make sure that people who would like cats take the kittens before they outgrow their usefulness to me. Nothing is so soothing after a stressful day as a pile of kittens, or as diverting as a playful one."
"So, why didn't I get to know about them?" John persists. Sherlock drops his gaze, looking even guiltier than before. "I...didn't want you to become attached. It's difficult, sometimes, for people to let go of kittens that they've raised, and I wasn't certain if you could handle endlessly giving up kittens. I know I'm...unusual in that regard."
"All right, I suppose that makes sense," John sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. "So...are there any left, or was that the last of this bunch?" he asks, feeling slightly hopeful.
Smiling, Sherlock beckons. "There are still three, and when I went in to get Prospero they were highly intent on the squeaky mouse."
three months later
"I don't understand why Mrs Hudson isn't taking on this role," Mycroft says, looking uncomfortable as a black-and-white kitten batted his trouser leg. His office has suddenly developed an invasion of kittens, and John turns from setting up the litterbox to grin at him.
"Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister in Kent, and John and I must fly out in four hours for Belfast," Sherlock announces, looking bored. "Stop trying to wriggle out of it, Mycroft, it's only a week and your PA is perfectly capable of helping you out with the more energetic ones." He smirks at his brother, who is starting to look mildly horrified. "Honestly, though, chasing after kittens would probably help you lose that two kilos you've put on in the last few weeks, clearly the meetings with the Korean delegation has been interfering with your exercise programme."
John stands up, brushing his hands off, and checks his watch. "Three hours and forty-five minutes, Sherlock, we really must be going," he says, sounding not at all apologetic as he nods at Mycroft. The older Holmes had sank back into his plush chair and the black-and-white kitten had taken that as an invitation to conquer his lap, curling up in a ball and immediately starting to purr like a large engine.
"Right. Afternoon, Mycroft," Sherlock says, turning on his heel and neatly dodging the tiny marmalade blur that had bounded across the room at kitten-sonic speed. The door closes behind them on an increasingly panicked-looking Mycroft, and a few moments later his PA passes them at high speed, looking as if she is desperately attempting to not have a fit of the giggles. John grins at her as she hurries by, then looks at Sherlock. "I'm guessing the brown tortie is for her?" he guesses, and is rewarded by a twinkle in Sherlock's eye.
"You're starting to get an eye for this, John; perhaps I should get cards for you as well," he says, a note of approval in his voice. "Giving the white-fronted tabby to Molly was a stroke of genius, he was beginning to become a young cat and I genuinely couldn't figure out who would want him...although why she'd change his name from Benedictus to something as pedestrian as Toby is quite beyond me."
"Bets for Mycroft taking Cleopatra?" John asks, ignoring the name comment. It isn't their business what the names are changed to after they find a home for the kittens, and "Benedictus" really is a mouthful for an everyday cat's name. He hasn't mentioned to Sherlock that she'd kept it as Toby's particular name; Sherlock had sniffed at the book of poetry John had tried to give him as "boring," and John had tucked it onto his side of the bookshelf.
"I rather count on it," Sherlock replies, and they grin at each other as they walk out of the building to the waiting cab.
Fluffy Surprise: Sherlock keeps a litter of kittens in his room to cuddle when he's stressed. Written for a prompt on the sherlockbbc-fic kinkmeme.
Rating: G
Pairing: None
Warning: Fluff! Also unbeta'ed and unBrit-picked.
Disclaimer: I am not related in any way to the Beeb, Sherlock, Doyle, etc, all rights belong to them.
John doesn't know why he's not allowed in Sherlock's room. The door is always closed, and Sherlock is very careful to make his exits and entrances quite quickly indeed. There have been clandestine visits between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, when they think John isn't watching, and Mrs Hudson is always beaming when she leaves. John very much thinks he doesn't want to know.
After particularly stressful days, when Sherlock seems too lethargic for the violin, he disappears into his room for hours, and John is left wondering why the muffled thumps and yowls Sherlock emits seem to leave him re-energized when he finally leaves his room (closing the door behind him with a bang that surely Mrs Hudson disapproves of).
Once in awhile, when they're travelling through London, Sherlock will stop random people with a simple, "My card, call me next Tuesday," and carry on. John has looked back once or twice to see expressions of delight on the recipients' faces - surely something as simple as a consulting detective's card wouldn't give such looks of joy? - but Sherlock has always hurried on, making his already long-legged strides even longer so that John has to half-jog to keep up, and refuses to discuss the incidents, ever. Given Sherlock's propensity to boast at his deductions during cases, this silence rings odd to John, but the curiosity goes unsolved. Tuesdays are his regular day at the surgery, and on his rare Tuesday off Sherlock never gives out his card. It is a distinct mystery.
Finally John has had enough. He may not be tricky as Sherlock, but one Tuesday he does not tell his flatmate that he has the day off, and gets ready for work just as usual. He hopes that the way he stirs his tea or the way he picks up his bag (or whatever) won't be enough of a giveaway for Sherlock to notice his plans, but Sherlock is lying on the sofa with his dressing gown dragging on the ground, looking oddly worn around the edges (John knows for a fact the dressing gown is only 6 months old, as it had been a present from Mummy last Christmas, and Sherlock had been positively gleeful about it). He does not open his eyes at John's usual, "Right, I'm off, back at six," simply replying "Pick up curry on the way home, please, the shop on Cleveland and New Cavendish," and continuing his internal musing.
John goes almost all the way to work, for the benefit of any CCTVs watching, then ducks into a cafe for a pot of tea before dashing home. With any luck, whatever Sherlock is up to does not warrant Mycroft's attention and therefore John will not be tattled on, but the level of paranoia the man inspires is quite possibly insane. John stakes out on a rooftop across the street, sipping the tea he'd had poured into a takeaway cup and watching the flat intensely through his old military binoculars. Mrs Hudson is out for the day, having tea with Mrs Turner next door and then shopping, so John is not quite so afraid of seeing something he'd really want to scrub his eyeballs for (even if he's sure Sherlock could recommend a perfect eyeball-bleach).
At precisely four o'clock a small family comes to the door, and Sherlock ushers them up to the flat, a wide smile on the long face, looking disconcertingly genuine. Sherlock rarely smiles at small children, and the girl appears to be six, but the beam he gives her is practically made of sunshine. John is positively suspicious at this point.
The curtains in the flat are drawn back, and John can see Sherlock bustling about, frenetic energy usually seen on cases. Sherlock has clearly worked out something close to magical, and the grin he's wearing is indecent. The family are seated on the chairs next to the fireplace, but the little girl is as incapable of sitting still as Sherlock, bouncing next to her mum. The dad looks nervous, gaze flicking to his wife, who smiles back at him and pets her daughter's hair indulgently. Sherlock disappears for a moment - into his room, John guesses? - and then reappears.
He's holding...a kitten.
A gray mackerel-striped tabby, who looks like he's mewing in confusion, large pointed ears far too big for his head and white socks draped over Sherlock's protective arm. Gigantic innocent eyes - blue, John thinks - are wide in that furry face, and John's heart melts as the little girl dashes over in absolute glee. Sherlock kneels down and is obviously telling the girl to calm down and be careful with the kitten, and her mum stands behind her as she solemnly reaches out a hand to pet the silky-soft head. After a few moments, the kitten reaches a paw out to her, and Sherlock gently places the kitten in the little girl's arms, pride and concern on his face. Mum and dad are standing together, now, watching their daughter with joy in their faces, and Sherlock stands up, turning to grab a large bag from behind the sofa. For a few minutes he speaks to the parents, pointing to things in the bag once in awhile, then hands the bag to the dad, who tries to offer him a few notes. Sherlock waves off the money (John rolls his eyes) and turns to the little girl who has moved impatiently to the doorway, giving her what looks like a mock-stern lecture, probably on care of her new pet. She nods, all the seriousness of the very young on her face, and she cradles the kitten like it's the most precious thing in the world.
The family walks out of 221 a few minutes later, and John can hear the effusive thanks of the parents, marvelling at how Sherlock had known exactly the kitten to choose for their little girl. "It's elementary, really," Sherlock says, sunny certainty in his voice. "Be sure to register the microchip when you get home, and the receipt in the bag has the code to get the nametag engraved at PetLondon."
John does not hear the rest of the conversation, thoughts whizzing round his brain. Pieces are fitting together now very quickly indeed, all except why and why didn't he mention this to me? Stretching his aching body from its prone position, he climbs back down and goes back to his flat, intending to get answers.
There is a surprised stillness to the flat when John opens the door, then Sherlock appears at the doorway, surprise and alarm on his face. "John! You're early, I-"
"Kittens, Sherlock?" he says, cutting across whatever it was Sherlock would try to use to distract him. Sherlock blinks, then his shoulders slump just a little. "I'd rather you not blog about this, John," he replies in a serious, slightly...guilty? tone. "I don't think London's finest needs to snigger into their coffees over my hobby."
"If you insist, ok, but...why didn't you tell me? What's going on?" John has reached the top of the stairs now, and Sherlock moves to allow him entrance to the flat.
"I foster kittens, John," Sherlock says in a slightly antagonstic tone, as if daring him to say something insulting about it. John nods, waving at him in a go on sort of motion. "The homeless network finds them for me, I domesticate them, inoculate them, microchip them, have them fixed, and find them homes, families that will take care of them and not toss them out after they've outgrown their kittenhood. The people of the London streets may choose their lives, or not, but I can make sure the cats are given the best chance possible."
Pinching his mouth in thoughfully, John nods again, processing the slightly startling statement. It is both surprising and not that Sherlock would see it this way - after all, people might be able to better themselves if they try, but it's much harder for the animals. The protective set of Sherlock's arms around the kitten had been an oddly altruistic thing, though, and Sherlock does not tend toward altruism. "What do you get out of it?"
Sherlock looks surprised for a moment, then grins. "Kittens, John! I get kittens. Not cats, they're not nearly so playful or cuddly, and I can make sure that people who would like cats take the kittens before they outgrow their usefulness to me. Nothing is so soothing after a stressful day as a pile of kittens, or as diverting as a playful one."
"So, why didn't I get to know about them?" John persists. Sherlock drops his gaze, looking even guiltier than before. "I...didn't want you to become attached. It's difficult, sometimes, for people to let go of kittens that they've raised, and I wasn't certain if you could handle endlessly giving up kittens. I know I'm...unusual in that regard."
"All right, I suppose that makes sense," John sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. "So...are there any left, or was that the last of this bunch?" he asks, feeling slightly hopeful.
Smiling, Sherlock beckons. "There are still three, and when I went in to get Prospero they were highly intent on the squeaky mouse."
three months later
"I don't understand why Mrs Hudson isn't taking on this role," Mycroft says, looking uncomfortable as a black-and-white kitten batted his trouser leg. His office has suddenly developed an invasion of kittens, and John turns from setting up the litterbox to grin at him.
"Mrs Hudson is visiting her sister in Kent, and John and I must fly out in four hours for Belfast," Sherlock announces, looking bored. "Stop trying to wriggle out of it, Mycroft, it's only a week and your PA is perfectly capable of helping you out with the more energetic ones." He smirks at his brother, who is starting to look mildly horrified. "Honestly, though, chasing after kittens would probably help you lose that two kilos you've put on in the last few weeks, clearly the meetings with the Korean delegation has been interfering with your exercise programme."
John stands up, brushing his hands off, and checks his watch. "Three hours and forty-five minutes, Sherlock, we really must be going," he says, sounding not at all apologetic as he nods at Mycroft. The older Holmes had sank back into his plush chair and the black-and-white kitten had taken that as an invitation to conquer his lap, curling up in a ball and immediately starting to purr like a large engine.
"Right. Afternoon, Mycroft," Sherlock says, turning on his heel and neatly dodging the tiny marmalade blur that had bounded across the room at kitten-sonic speed. The door closes behind them on an increasingly panicked-looking Mycroft, and a few moments later his PA passes them at high speed, looking as if she is desperately attempting to not have a fit of the giggles. John grins at her as she hurries by, then looks at Sherlock. "I'm guessing the brown tortie is for her?" he guesses, and is rewarded by a twinkle in Sherlock's eye.
"You're starting to get an eye for this, John; perhaps I should get cards for you as well," he says, a note of approval in his voice. "Giving the white-fronted tabby to Molly was a stroke of genius, he was beginning to become a young cat and I genuinely couldn't figure out who would want him...although why she'd change his name from Benedictus to something as pedestrian as Toby is quite beyond me."
"Bets for Mycroft taking Cleopatra?" John asks, ignoring the name comment. It isn't their business what the names are changed to after they find a home for the kittens, and "Benedictus" really is a mouthful for an everyday cat's name. He hasn't mentioned to Sherlock that she'd kept it as Toby's particular name; Sherlock had sniffed at the book of poetry John had tried to give him as "boring," and John had tucked it onto his side of the bookshelf.
"I rather count on it," Sherlock replies, and they grin at each other as they walk out of the building to the waiting cab.