Sherlock: Aristocats style 3
Sherlock/Aristocats crossover
Summary: Snanderson tries to kill Sherlock when he realises that Madame Hudson is leaving everything to him in her will. Luckily, John Watson is there to help him get home. Cat!Sherlock, Cat!Watson, slash but they're cats so nothing... uncomfortable, so don't worry.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Chapter 3
As he woke slowly, he began to realise that something was wrong.
The first thing that he noticed was a groggy, cloudy feeling in his head. It was hard to think straight, that was instantly worrying. As he began to take in more of his surroundings, he realised that he was cold. He wasn't in his basket anymore. Blearily opening his eyes and looking down he realised that he was lain on something green. He could smell, what was that? Grass?
He was outside? How had that happened? The last thing he remembered was suddenly feeling very tired not long after his meal, and going to bed in his basket by the fire. Of course! How had he not thought of it! He knew that Snanderson had done something to his food and he hadn't thought of a sedative?
Like poison, he supposed he just hadn't thought that Snanderson would DARE. Apparently he had been wrong, he thought to himself grimly.
Still feeling a little groggy, he got to his feet slowly, stretching luxuriously, his tail flicking up sharply. Never mind, he thought, it wouldn't be that difficult to get home after all. He knew Paris like the back of his paw.
Except, he thought, as he climbed out of the small dell and looked around himself, he wasn't IN Paris. He had no idea where he was. There was a road, but he didn't even know which way he had to go. He had been completely unconscious the whole way here, he hadn't been able to deduce or take in anything about the journey. How far away was he? Which direction was Paris? He wasn't sure.
Going a bit further, he noticed tire tracks that matched Snanderson's Ford motorbike by the side of the cobbled road. Mud tracked back onto the stones. There were no signs of the motorbike at the other side of the bridge. It would seem Snanderson had run into some trouble. Good, thought Sherlock. The man was an anathema to him. Just looking at him made him feel stupid, but he wasn't going to let him win. He would get home and he would rub it in his stupid face.
He set off in what he now knew to be the direction of Paris at a trot, and heard a voice behind him.
"Where are you going?"
Turning round he saw a light brown cat. Much lighter than his own dark fur, slightly shorter also. The other cat was definitely male, and slightly smaller than Sherlock himself, emphasized more by the shorter fur.
He was scruffy. Not like Sherlock himself who, even now was pristine. He looked like a stray, that much was obvious. He certainly hadn't been taken care of very well at any point. His tail was bent at the end like someone heavy had stood on it, he limped slightly on one of his back legs, and there was a bit missing from his left ear; scratches and bite marks marred several parts of his skinny frame.
"Paris, where else?" He answered, turning round and continuing, not seeing any need to waste any more time talking to this stranger.
"Your walking there?" The other cat had caught up with him and was trotting alongside him, matching his pace.
"Yess!" Sherlock hissed, wanting this cat to leave him alone, he sped up. Sherlock never socialized if he could help it, not even with Madame Hudson. Certainly not with such an obviously average cat like this one here.
"It's a long way." The brown cat said simply.
Sherlock slowed down slightly. Still not bothering to look at the other however, he asked suspiciously, "Why? How far is it?"
"Well it's at least ten miles, I can't say for sure, I've only been there once or twice, but I know an easier way to get there if you want." The offer was left hanging in the air for Sherlock to pick up, which he, reluctantly, did.
"How?" He had stopped now, looking to the other just in time to catch the satisfied look in his eyes.
"A magic carpet of course, and it's going to stop for passengers, right, here!" he said winking, marking a cross on the floor with his claw.
"..." Sherlock replied; which is hard to pronounce let me tell you. He gave him a long look. Maybe this cat was more than he seemed. He hadn't seemed dumb enough, or mad enough to believe in magic carpets, nor mean enough to make fun of Sherlock; but... never mind. He started walking again.
The other cat matched him again: "OK, so it's not really a magic carpet but it'll get you there a lot quicker than walking, and not everyone you'll meet on this road is a helpful as me."
Sherlock turned round to look at him again, getting annoyed now. "Is that what this is? You take one look at me and think I can't look after myself, so you do the charitable thing and help me? I don't need help, especially not from YOU, who clearly cannot look after himself. You, who obviously have never had a real home, constantly getting into fights DESPITE trying not to, and isn't close to anyone in the world. Oh, and you have a limp in your back leg from when you trapped it in a mouse trap, which is psychosomatic by the way, the wound healed at least a year ago."
"Wow. How did you guess all of that? You never even met me before today,"
"I didn't guess, I simply observed." Sherlock scowled with his eyes narrowed-
"That was..."
-everyone was so DULL, well that would get rid of him. Once people found out about his... talents they usually wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. People didn't like to be reminded of their own personal inadequacies.
"-amazing."
His eyes widened at this, "That's... not what people usually say."
Now it was the brown cat's turn to look surprised. "Why? What do they usually say?"
"Piss off."
The brown cat laughed at this, and Sherlock found himself reluctantly returning the smile. Maybe he wasn't so dull after all.
After a moment he asked, "So what IS this magic carpet then?"
"Haha! Just you wait and see! I think I can hear it coming, get ready! I'm John Watson by the way."
"Sherlock Holmes."
John led him over to a small tree and began to climb, jumping nimbly from branch to branch with Sherlock not far behind. About three seconds after they reached the top he saw it coming over the top of the hill towards them.
"That's a milk truck." He said flatly.
"Yes, yes it is."
"That's your magic carpet?"
"Yep. Get ready to jump!"
Before Sherlock could say anything else the truck was upon them and John jumped onto the ledge at the back, where the truck had fallen open.
Sherlock had no choice but to jump after him, nearly missing the narrow ledge as it sped past.
Before they knew it, they were laughing again.
Meanwhile across town...
Sarah the horse was worried. Sherlock was still not back. After all, it was not unusual for him to be gone for several days, but after she had seen Snanderson dumping something in his sidecar and coming back... *cough* worse for wear *cough* but still with that smug, victorious look on his face she had been suspicious. She was sure he had done something to him.
Madame had not slept a wink she knew.
Snanderson chose this moment to walk into the stable. "Morning Sarah, my pretty steed! Can you keep a secret? 'Course you can!" He laughed to himself here, "I've some news, straight from the horses mouth, if you'll pardon the expression of course," she glared as he brought out a rolled up newspaper and began to unfurl it so that she could see. "Look Sarah, I've made the headlines! "Mysterious cat napper abducts cat!" Aren't you proud of me?"
So it was him! She thought, as Snanderson kept congratulating himself on a job 'well done'. She didn't pay him any attention until his voice suddenly turned panicked and he started yelling something about, "My HAT, my UMBRELLA!" and pranced his way from the stables.
Back on the milk float...
Sherlock sat on the back of the truck, watching the scenery fly by, mentally cataloging everything, trying to work out how far away they currently were from Paris by the states of the buildings and apparent wealth of the people they passed.
Shouldn't be too long, he thought.
He heard a loud rumbling behind him, and he turned to see John staring at him, quickly looking away. How long has he been watching me? Sherlock thought. Odd, he was usually the one who did all the watching, not the other way around...
"If your hungry you should eat," he told him, pulling the sheet from a large and inexplicably open tank of cream that stood near where he sat.
"Y-yeah," he sheepishly walked over, before giving Sherlock a long look, almost confused. "I guess I hadn't realised I was that hungry."
"Sacre bleu!" was all their warning however, before the truck braked sharply, sending John, who had been too busy looking at Sherlock to balance properly, careening into the front of the vehicle into the cab, where he managed to cling onto the back of the drivers head, knocking off his flat cap and pushing his glasses askew in the process.
The man screamed and John leapt back, leaving scratches all over the old man's face, before running after Sherlock, who had already abandoned the back of the truck and was sprinting towards the long grass, the driver hurling projectiles and abuse at them all the way.
They made it into a small cabin by the side of the train tracks as the milkman drove off.
"What an horrible, horrible human." muttered Sherlock.
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," John replied from beside him.
Sherlock snickered appreciatively at this comment. Yes, perhaps this John fellow was not so bad at all.
"Why did the milkman have a wrench anyway?"
Idiot. "Isn't it obvious John?"
John just gave him a funny look that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what it was actually supposed to mean. "Come on we'd best get moving."
"Let's follow the train track," Sherlock suggested. They followed it for a few hundred meters before they came to a deep valley with a river at the bottom, and continued to follow the train tracks across a bridge. They had got no further than halfway across however, when they felt the bridge begin to rumble beneath their feet, trembling. Then they heard the whistle.
"It's a train! Down underneath!" yelled John, and Sherlock didn't even bother to give him a dirty look for his obvious remark, simply leaping down onto the rafters below, or tried to at least. Due to the shaking of the bridge, he missed the rafter by inches, scrabbling wildly at it with his claws, but failing to gain purchase.
"Sherlock!" He heard the yell as he tumbled down to the river below, landing with a painful splash.
He had never tried to swim before, and, not being a very instinctual cat, soon felt himself being dragged under by the strong current.
Before he went completely under though, he felt sharp teeth biting the skin on the back of his neck and felt himself being dragged through the water. He was lifted up onto... a log! A log that was floating in the water. Panting lightly for air he turned to see John, beside him on the log.
"How are you even still alive?" John spluttered, looking at him with incredulity.
"You assume it was an accident." Sherlock bluffed. "Since it looked like we were going to have to walk the whole way I thought the river would be a good way to go. We're upstream from Paris and this will take hours off our Journey." He finished matter of factly.
One look at John's patronizing face told him he didn't believe him in the slightest.
You know the goose music? Yeah I need you to imagine it now. If you don't it won't be as fun.
Ready? Good, let's go.
Two geese were waddling down the dirt path by the side of the stream, (A/N: Seriously, they're GEESE. Going DOWNSTREAM. Did they FORGET how to swim?) waddling downstream, one was wearing a pink bonnet, the other a blue one.
As they waddled, Pink-hat turned happily to Blue-hat and said: "What beautiful countryside Molly! So much like our own dear England!"
Blue-hat replied, "Indeed yes!"
Pink-hat: "Oh I say look over there!"
Molly: "How unusual!"
What they had seen was in fact two cats, floating downstream on a log.
Molly: "Are they trying to learn how to swim?"
Pink-hat: "Well they're going about it all the wrong way, Sir! Sir!"
"Piss Off!" Yelled the light brown cat. The Black haired cat just glared at them, before the log hit a rock and spun them round, swinging them off the log and into the water, where, tired, they both proceeded to drown a little bit.
Pink-hat giggled excitedly at this but 'Molly' chastised him. "Don't you think we should help them?"
"Oh fine!"
Together they entered the water and swam smoothly to where the cats had just gone under and dipped their heads under the water. They surfaced at the same time before yelling "Deeper!" In a gay tone, and sticking the hinds in the air once more. This time though, they each surfaced with a cat, which they dragged over to the shallow water, allowing them to pull themselves back onto dry land.
"Th- thank you," spluttered the light brown cat to Molly. The Black cat still said nothing.
"Of course my dear! But first, introductions! We British like to keep things proper!" She pointed to herself first and then her pink hat'd companion. "Now, I am Molly Hooper, and this is my 'sister' Jim, Jim Moriarty."
"Eh?" Replied the lighter cat eloquently.
"I'm Sherlock and this is John. We're trying to get to Paris."
"Oh! That's where we're going!" giggled Jim gayly. "You must join us!"
"Splendid!" said Sherlock, smiling.
"Lovely!" cried Molly, "You two bring up the rear! Now march!"
"Think 'Goose'" Jim told them happily, and Sherlock trotted after them, John not far behind, not looking very happy with the arrangement. He didn't like that 'Jim' fellow much. "And when we get to Paris you simply must come with us to meet Aunt Harry!"
"Oh kill me now..." John muttered under his breath, trying to ignore Jim flaming Moriarty's arse swinging gaily on front of his face.
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Summary: Snanderson tries to kill Sherlock when he realises that Madame Hudson is leaving everything to him in her will. Luckily, John Watson is there to help him get home. Cat!Sherlock, Cat!Watson, slash but they're cats so nothing... uncomfortable, so don't worry.
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Chapter 3
As he woke slowly, he began to realise that something was wrong.
The first thing that he noticed was a groggy, cloudy feeling in his head. It was hard to think straight, that was instantly worrying. As he began to take in more of his surroundings, he realised that he was cold. He wasn't in his basket anymore. Blearily opening his eyes and looking down he realised that he was lain on something green. He could smell, what was that? Grass?
He was outside? How had that happened? The last thing he remembered was suddenly feeling very tired not long after his meal, and going to bed in his basket by the fire. Of course! How had he not thought of it! He knew that Snanderson had done something to his food and he hadn't thought of a sedative?
Like poison, he supposed he just hadn't thought that Snanderson would DARE. Apparently he had been wrong, he thought to himself grimly.
Still feeling a little groggy, he got to his feet slowly, stretching luxuriously, his tail flicking up sharply. Never mind, he thought, it wouldn't be that difficult to get home after all. He knew Paris like the back of his paw.
Except, he thought, as he climbed out of the small dell and looked around himself, he wasn't IN Paris. He had no idea where he was. There was a road, but he didn't even know which way he had to go. He had been completely unconscious the whole way here, he hadn't been able to deduce or take in anything about the journey. How far away was he? Which direction was Paris? He wasn't sure.
Going a bit further, he noticed tire tracks that matched Snanderson's Ford motorbike by the side of the cobbled road. Mud tracked back onto the stones. There were no signs of the motorbike at the other side of the bridge. It would seem Snanderson had run into some trouble. Good, thought Sherlock. The man was an anathema to him. Just looking at him made him feel stupid, but he wasn't going to let him win. He would get home and he would rub it in his stupid face.
He set off in what he now knew to be the direction of Paris at a trot, and heard a voice behind him.
"Where are you going?"
Turning round he saw a light brown cat. Much lighter than his own dark fur, slightly shorter also. The other cat was definitely male, and slightly smaller than Sherlock himself, emphasized more by the shorter fur.
He was scruffy. Not like Sherlock himself who, even now was pristine. He looked like a stray, that much was obvious. He certainly hadn't been taken care of very well at any point. His tail was bent at the end like someone heavy had stood on it, he limped slightly on one of his back legs, and there was a bit missing from his left ear; scratches and bite marks marred several parts of his skinny frame.
"Paris, where else?" He answered, turning round and continuing, not seeing any need to waste any more time talking to this stranger.
"Your walking there?" The other cat had caught up with him and was trotting alongside him, matching his pace.
"Yess!" Sherlock hissed, wanting this cat to leave him alone, he sped up. Sherlock never socialized if he could help it, not even with Madame Hudson. Certainly not with such an obviously average cat like this one here.
"It's a long way." The brown cat said simply.
Sherlock slowed down slightly. Still not bothering to look at the other however, he asked suspiciously, "Why? How far is it?"
"Well it's at least ten miles, I can't say for sure, I've only been there once or twice, but I know an easier way to get there if you want." The offer was left hanging in the air for Sherlock to pick up, which he, reluctantly, did.
"How?" He had stopped now, looking to the other just in time to catch the satisfied look in his eyes.
"A magic carpet of course, and it's going to stop for passengers, right, here!" he said winking, marking a cross on the floor with his claw.
"..." Sherlock replied; which is hard to pronounce let me tell you. He gave him a long look. Maybe this cat was more than he seemed. He hadn't seemed dumb enough, or mad enough to believe in magic carpets, nor mean enough to make fun of Sherlock; but... never mind. He started walking again.
The other cat matched him again: "OK, so it's not really a magic carpet but it'll get you there a lot quicker than walking, and not everyone you'll meet on this road is a helpful as me."
Sherlock turned round to look at him again, getting annoyed now. "Is that what this is? You take one look at me and think I can't look after myself, so you do the charitable thing and help me? I don't need help, especially not from YOU, who clearly cannot look after himself. You, who obviously have never had a real home, constantly getting into fights DESPITE trying not to, and isn't close to anyone in the world. Oh, and you have a limp in your back leg from when you trapped it in a mouse trap, which is psychosomatic by the way, the wound healed at least a year ago."
"Wow. How did you guess all of that? You never even met me before today,"
"I didn't guess, I simply observed." Sherlock scowled with his eyes narrowed-
"That was..."
-everyone was so DULL, well that would get rid of him. Once people found out about his... talents they usually wanted to get rid of him as soon as possible. People didn't like to be reminded of their own personal inadequacies.
"-amazing."
His eyes widened at this, "That's... not what people usually say."
Now it was the brown cat's turn to look surprised. "Why? What do they usually say?"
"Piss off."
The brown cat laughed at this, and Sherlock found himself reluctantly returning the smile. Maybe he wasn't so dull after all.
After a moment he asked, "So what IS this magic carpet then?"
"Haha! Just you wait and see! I think I can hear it coming, get ready! I'm John Watson by the way."
"Sherlock Holmes."
John led him over to a small tree and began to climb, jumping nimbly from branch to branch with Sherlock not far behind. About three seconds after they reached the top he saw it coming over the top of the hill towards them.
"That's a milk truck." He said flatly.
"Yes, yes it is."
"That's your magic carpet?"
"Yep. Get ready to jump!"
Before Sherlock could say anything else the truck was upon them and John jumped onto the ledge at the back, where the truck had fallen open.
Sherlock had no choice but to jump after him, nearly missing the narrow ledge as it sped past.
Before they knew it, they were laughing again.
Meanwhile across town...
Sarah the horse was worried. Sherlock was still not back. After all, it was not unusual for him to be gone for several days, but after she had seen Snanderson dumping something in his sidecar and coming back... *cough* worse for wear *cough* but still with that smug, victorious look on his face she had been suspicious. She was sure he had done something to him.
Madame had not slept a wink she knew.
Snanderson chose this moment to walk into the stable. "Morning Sarah, my pretty steed! Can you keep a secret? 'Course you can!" He laughed to himself here, "I've some news, straight from the horses mouth, if you'll pardon the expression of course," she glared as he brought out a rolled up newspaper and began to unfurl it so that she could see. "Look Sarah, I've made the headlines! "Mysterious cat napper abducts cat!" Aren't you proud of me?"
So it was him! She thought, as Snanderson kept congratulating himself on a job 'well done'. She didn't pay him any attention until his voice suddenly turned panicked and he started yelling something about, "My HAT, my UMBRELLA!" and pranced his way from the stables.
Back on the milk float...
Sherlock sat on the back of the truck, watching the scenery fly by, mentally cataloging everything, trying to work out how far away they currently were from Paris by the states of the buildings and apparent wealth of the people they passed.
Shouldn't be too long, he thought.
He heard a loud rumbling behind him, and he turned to see John staring at him, quickly looking away. How long has he been watching me? Sherlock thought. Odd, he was usually the one who did all the watching, not the other way around...
"If your hungry you should eat," he told him, pulling the sheet from a large and inexplicably open tank of cream that stood near where he sat.
"Y-yeah," he sheepishly walked over, before giving Sherlock a long look, almost confused. "I guess I hadn't realised I was that hungry."
"Sacre bleu!" was all their warning however, before the truck braked sharply, sending John, who had been too busy looking at Sherlock to balance properly, careening into the front of the vehicle into the cab, where he managed to cling onto the back of the drivers head, knocking off his flat cap and pushing his glasses askew in the process.
The man screamed and John leapt back, leaving scratches all over the old man's face, before running after Sherlock, who had already abandoned the back of the truck and was sprinting towards the long grass, the driver hurling projectiles and abuse at them all the way.
They made it into a small cabin by the side of the train tracks as the milkman drove off.
"What an horrible, horrible human." muttered Sherlock.
"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie," John replied from beside him.
Sherlock snickered appreciatively at this comment. Yes, perhaps this John fellow was not so bad at all.
"Why did the milkman have a wrench anyway?"
Idiot. "Isn't it obvious John?"
John just gave him a funny look that Sherlock wasn't quite sure what it was actually supposed to mean. "Come on we'd best get moving."
"Let's follow the train track," Sherlock suggested. They followed it for a few hundred meters before they came to a deep valley with a river at the bottom, and continued to follow the train tracks across a bridge. They had got no further than halfway across however, when they felt the bridge begin to rumble beneath their feet, trembling. Then they heard the whistle.
"It's a train! Down underneath!" yelled John, and Sherlock didn't even bother to give him a dirty look for his obvious remark, simply leaping down onto the rafters below, or tried to at least. Due to the shaking of the bridge, he missed the rafter by inches, scrabbling wildly at it with his claws, but failing to gain purchase.
"Sherlock!" He heard the yell as he tumbled down to the river below, landing with a painful splash.
He had never tried to swim before, and, not being a very instinctual cat, soon felt himself being dragged under by the strong current.
Before he went completely under though, he felt sharp teeth biting the skin on the back of his neck and felt himself being dragged through the water. He was lifted up onto... a log! A log that was floating in the water. Panting lightly for air he turned to see John, beside him on the log.
"How are you even still alive?" John spluttered, looking at him with incredulity.
"You assume it was an accident." Sherlock bluffed. "Since it looked like we were going to have to walk the whole way I thought the river would be a good way to go. We're upstream from Paris and this will take hours off our Journey." He finished matter of factly.
One look at John's patronizing face told him he didn't believe him in the slightest.
You know the goose music? Yeah I need you to imagine it now. If you don't it won't be as fun.
Ready? Good, let's go.
Two geese were waddling down the dirt path by the side of the stream, (A/N: Seriously, they're GEESE. Going DOWNSTREAM. Did they FORGET how to swim?) waddling downstream, one was wearing a pink bonnet, the other a blue one.
As they waddled, Pink-hat turned happily to Blue-hat and said: "What beautiful countryside Molly! So much like our own dear England!"
Blue-hat replied, "Indeed yes!"
Pink-hat: "Oh I say look over there!"
Molly: "How unusual!"
What they had seen was in fact two cats, floating downstream on a log.
Molly: "Are they trying to learn how to swim?"
Pink-hat: "Well they're going about it all the wrong way, Sir! Sir!"
"Piss Off!" Yelled the light brown cat. The Black haired cat just glared at them, before the log hit a rock and spun them round, swinging them off the log and into the water, where, tired, they both proceeded to drown a little bit.
Pink-hat giggled excitedly at this but 'Molly' chastised him. "Don't you think we should help them?"
"Oh fine!"
Together they entered the water and swam smoothly to where the cats had just gone under and dipped their heads under the water. They surfaced at the same time before yelling "Deeper!" In a gay tone, and sticking the hinds in the air once more. This time though, they each surfaced with a cat, which they dragged over to the shallow water, allowing them to pull themselves back onto dry land.
"Th- thank you," spluttered the light brown cat to Molly. The Black cat still said nothing.
"Of course my dear! But first, introductions! We British like to keep things proper!" She pointed to herself first and then her pink hat'd companion. "Now, I am Molly Hooper, and this is my 'sister' Jim, Jim Moriarty."
"Eh?" Replied the lighter cat eloquently.
"I'm Sherlock and this is John. We're trying to get to Paris."
"Oh! That's where we're going!" giggled Jim gayly. "You must join us!"
"Splendid!" said Sherlock, smiling.
"Lovely!" cried Molly, "You two bring up the rear! Now march!"
"Think 'Goose'" Jim told them happily, and Sherlock trotted after them, John not far behind, not looking very happy with the arrangement. He didn't like that 'Jim' fellow much. "And when we get to Paris you simply must come with us to meet Aunt Harry!"
"Oh kill me now..." John muttered under his breath, trying to ignore Jim flaming Moriarty's arse swinging gaily on front of his face.
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