Sherlock Fanfiction: Red
Title: Red
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Rating: G
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~1.3K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: More about kittens. Also, cake.
A/N: I wrote a ficlet entitled Milk a few months ago. Somehow there needed to be a sequel.
On AO3.
Red
John nudged the sitting room door further open with his foot. “Here we are, milk of all varieties for the denizens of Baker Street.” He dropped a bag of cat litter by the door. There was a certain quality to the silence that met his announcement. He straightened, two carrier bags still dangling from his arms and saw the back of Mycroft’s head. The fire crackled. There was a faint scratching sound.
“Tea?” John asked as he took a step towards the kitchen.
“He’s just going,” Sherlock said.
“Thank you, John,” said Mycroft.
“Tea it is,” John said, the crinkle of his unpacking overriding all other sounds for a few minutes.
***
“Thank you,” Mycroft repeated as John placed a steaming mug on the table by his chair. “Your infestation has diminished.”
Sherlock plucked a string on the violin he was cradling and said nothing.
John set the other two mugs beside Sherlock. “Mike collected the pair he’s giving his daughters for their birthday this morning.”
A brace of dark ears appeared over the back of Sherlock’s chair. A small kitten followed, sniffed in the direction of the tea, turned about twice on Sherlock’s shoulder and began to knead.
Sherlock strummed a few notes as John returned to the kitchen.
John smiled. The kittens had hissed and hid beneath the sofa the first time they’d heard Sherlock make the violin screech. He and John had had to lift the couch away to get at them when they still hadn’t emerged a couple hours later.
He also recognised the tune. Sherlock had been practising it.
***
“Woo-hoo,” Mrs Hudson called as she reached the landing. The scent of cinnamon preceded her into the sitting room. “Out of the oven not twenty minutes ago. Perfect for your tea.” She set the cake on the coffee table with a bit of a flourish and turned towards the kitchen.
Sherlock made a string twang and regarded the ceiling.
John glanced from him to Mycroft and back to the other room. “That smells delicious, Mrs Hudson,” John called, sniffing. “I don’t recognise it. New recipe?”
“Yes,” she replied, “There’s all sorts of amazing things on the internet, you know. I simply can’t resist trying a few of them. The pictures are mouth-watering.”
John turned colour and took a sip of tea.
Sherlock snorted. The kitten snagged the fold of Sherlock’s collar, pushed his nose between the warm cloth and Sherlock’s neck.
Mrs Hudson carried in the dishes and silverware and looked at the kitten. “Gray missing his sisters?” she asked.
John relieved her of the stack of plates and set to slicing.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Grey?” he said, eyeing the dark grey kitten. “How original.”
“Oh, it’s after the book,” Mrs Hudson said, pointing towards a shelf by the fireplace. “The one Sherlock and the doctors use.”
Sherlock’s lip twisted.
Mycroft’s brows fell. John set a plate down next to Mycroft’s tea. An intoxicating fragrance rose from the dark cake dotted with pale chunks of apple. Mycroft swallowed and did not wave it away.
Sherlock smirked and plucked more of the tune.
Mrs Hudson stroked a finger down Gray’s back. “Where’s Red hiding?” she asked, looking about the room.
John handed her a plate and set another on the table next to Sherlock.
The scratching sound grew louder. Eight sharp claws extending from two white paws appeared at the bottom of Mycroft’s chair. They dug into the upholstery. Two ginger-striped forelegs followed them, a white chin and chest. One paw curled around Mycroft’s ankle. Mycroft looked past his knees. Two golden eyes looked up. Five nails tested the thickness of Mycroft’s sock. His lips pressed into a thin line. The paw withdrew, stretched as high as it could reach on the front of the chair and latched on. The rest of the kitten slid out. Paw over paw, it scaled the chair and perched on the edge of the arm. It stared at Mycroft. He sat back, reached for his tea, took a sip and set the cup down soundlessly. The kitten’s head turned as it followed the motions. Mycroft picked up his plate, took a bite of the warm cake, closed his eyes in appreciation. When he re-opened them, the cat’s eyes met his. Mycroft set the plate down, rested his hand on the arm of the chair. The cat watched. Mycroft tapped his forefinger. The cat watched.
“Red,” Mycroft said, turning to Sherlock. “Another scintillating appellation.”
Sherlock's eyes were on his violin. The melody he was picking out grew more complex.
“It’s a placeholder really,” John supplied from his seat by the desk. “Thought his new owner might want to choose his name.” John took a forkful of cake and his eyes opened wide. “This is fantastic!” He glanced at the cake on the coffee table. “Going to leave that here by any chance?”
Mrs Hudson beamed. “If you like, dear.”
John took another bite and made a humming noise. Sherlock glanced at him with a hint of a smile. John looked down at his plate.
Red stretched out a paw to bat at Mycroft’s finger on a downstroke. When the finger settled on the chair, the kitten pounced. Tail twitching, Red sat on Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft raised his little finger. Red hit it, wriggled forward until he covered all Mycroft’s knuckles.
“He likes you,” Mrs Hudson said.
“He likes the chair,” Sherlock said, “and Mycroft persists in sitting in it.”
“So, ‘Red’ is your little companion, John,” Mycroft said.
John shook his head as he swallowed. “Not at all. He hissed at me the first time I tried to pet him and we haven’t progressed far from there.”
Mycroft lifted his little finger slightly. Red bit at it.
“The two Dr Stamford took were partial to John,” Mrs Hudson explained. “They’d sleep on his chest while he was reading.”
“Red prefers to lurk under the furniture, unless that chair is free, then he’ll sleep in it,” John said.
“Or if Sherlock’s stretched out on the sofa, Red’ll curl up on his stomach,” Mrs Hudson said. She turned to glance at Gray. “Sherlock’s hair is Gray’s territory.”
Sherlock’s fingers were moving rapidly over the strings of the violin.
“That is pretty, Sherlock. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I enjoy listening to it.”
“Fusz.” Mycroft sighed. “I do recognise his Romulus and Remus, Sherlock.” He pulled his hand out from under the kitten and stood. “Fine. I’ll lift the block on your access to the CCTV footage for Baker Street,” he said. “And if you find your hit-and-run driver, what do you plan to do about it?”
Sherlock stopped playing and looked up. “It depends on what I find,” he said.
“Be so kind as to inform me, before you act on it,” Mycroft said, casting a last look at the cake before taking up his umbrella.
Red jumped down onto the warm cushion.
Sherlock plucked a few more notes. “You’ve already viewed them.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said from the doorway.
“And you didn’t act?” Sherlock asked.
“To be sure would require some legwork, which you know I don’t like,” Mycroft said with a thin smile and a tilt of the head, “and I do have more pressing matters vying for my attention.” He nodded at John. “Evening,” he said and walked into the hallway, umbrella tapping lightly on the floor of the landing.
“He was yours, years before he was mine,” Sherlock said.
The tapping and the footsteps stopped.
“Wait, wait just a minute,” Mrs Hudson said, dashing from the kitchen through the door with a packet wrapped in tinfoil. “It would be a waste,” she said.
Sherlock raised the violin to his shoulder. Gray scrambled up into his hair and Sherlock began to play the aria softly.
“Thank you,” Mycroft said in the hall.
“Who was his?” John asked Sherlock.
The front door closed.
Sherlock lifted his bow. “Our dog, Redbeard.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author: saki101
Characters/Pairings: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes
Rating: G
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~1.3K
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: More about kittens. Also, cake.
A/N: I wrote a ficlet entitled Milk a few months ago. Somehow there needed to be a sequel.
On AO3.
Red
John nudged the sitting room door further open with his foot. “Here we are, milk of all varieties for the denizens of Baker Street.” He dropped a bag of cat litter by the door. There was a certain quality to the silence that met his announcement. He straightened, two carrier bags still dangling from his arms and saw the back of Mycroft’s head. The fire crackled. There was a faint scratching sound.
“Tea?” John asked as he took a step towards the kitchen.
“He’s just going,” Sherlock said.
“Thank you, John,” said Mycroft.
“Tea it is,” John said, the crinkle of his unpacking overriding all other sounds for a few minutes.
***
“Thank you,” Mycroft repeated as John placed a steaming mug on the table by his chair. “Your infestation has diminished.”
Sherlock plucked a string on the violin he was cradling and said nothing.
John set the other two mugs beside Sherlock. “Mike collected the pair he’s giving his daughters for their birthday this morning.”
A brace of dark ears appeared over the back of Sherlock’s chair. A small kitten followed, sniffed in the direction of the tea, turned about twice on Sherlock’s shoulder and began to knead.
Sherlock strummed a few notes as John returned to the kitchen.
John smiled. The kittens had hissed and hid beneath the sofa the first time they’d heard Sherlock make the violin screech. He and John had had to lift the couch away to get at them when they still hadn’t emerged a couple hours later.
He also recognised the tune. Sherlock had been practising it.
***
“Woo-hoo,” Mrs Hudson called as she reached the landing. The scent of cinnamon preceded her into the sitting room. “Out of the oven not twenty minutes ago. Perfect for your tea.” She set the cake on the coffee table with a bit of a flourish and turned towards the kitchen.
Sherlock made a string twang and regarded the ceiling.
John glanced from him to Mycroft and back to the other room. “That smells delicious, Mrs Hudson,” John called, sniffing. “I don’t recognise it. New recipe?”
“Yes,” she replied, “There’s all sorts of amazing things on the internet, you know. I simply can’t resist trying a few of them. The pictures are mouth-watering.”
John turned colour and took a sip of tea.
Sherlock snorted. The kitten snagged the fold of Sherlock’s collar, pushed his nose between the warm cloth and Sherlock’s neck.
Mrs Hudson carried in the dishes and silverware and looked at the kitten. “Gray missing his sisters?” she asked.
John relieved her of the stack of plates and set to slicing.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Grey?” he said, eyeing the dark grey kitten. “How original.”
“Oh, it’s after the book,” Mrs Hudson said, pointing towards a shelf by the fireplace. “The one Sherlock and the doctors use.”
Sherlock’s lip twisted.
Mycroft’s brows fell. John set a plate down next to Mycroft’s tea. An intoxicating fragrance rose from the dark cake dotted with pale chunks of apple. Mycroft swallowed and did not wave it away.
Sherlock smirked and plucked more of the tune.
Mrs Hudson stroked a finger down Gray’s back. “Where’s Red hiding?” she asked, looking about the room.
John handed her a plate and set another on the table next to Sherlock.
The scratching sound grew louder. Eight sharp claws extending from two white paws appeared at the bottom of Mycroft’s chair. They dug into the upholstery. Two ginger-striped forelegs followed them, a white chin and chest. One paw curled around Mycroft’s ankle. Mycroft looked past his knees. Two golden eyes looked up. Five nails tested the thickness of Mycroft’s sock. His lips pressed into a thin line. The paw withdrew, stretched as high as it could reach on the front of the chair and latched on. The rest of the kitten slid out. Paw over paw, it scaled the chair and perched on the edge of the arm. It stared at Mycroft. He sat back, reached for his tea, took a sip and set the cup down soundlessly. The kitten’s head turned as it followed the motions. Mycroft picked up his plate, took a bite of the warm cake, closed his eyes in appreciation. When he re-opened them, the cat’s eyes met his. Mycroft set the plate down, rested his hand on the arm of the chair. The cat watched. Mycroft tapped his forefinger. The cat watched.
“Red,” Mycroft said, turning to Sherlock. “Another scintillating appellation.”
Sherlock's eyes were on his violin. The melody he was picking out grew more complex.
“It’s a placeholder really,” John supplied from his seat by the desk. “Thought his new owner might want to choose his name.” John took a forkful of cake and his eyes opened wide. “This is fantastic!” He glanced at the cake on the coffee table. “Going to leave that here by any chance?”
Mrs Hudson beamed. “If you like, dear.”
John took another bite and made a humming noise. Sherlock glanced at him with a hint of a smile. John looked down at his plate.
Red stretched out a paw to bat at Mycroft’s finger on a downstroke. When the finger settled on the chair, the kitten pounced. Tail twitching, Red sat on Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft raised his little finger. Red hit it, wriggled forward until he covered all Mycroft’s knuckles.
“He likes you,” Mrs Hudson said.
“He likes the chair,” Sherlock said, “and Mycroft persists in sitting in it.”
“So, ‘Red’ is your little companion, John,” Mycroft said.
John shook his head as he swallowed. “Not at all. He hissed at me the first time I tried to pet him and we haven’t progressed far from there.”
Mycroft lifted his little finger slightly. Red bit at it.
“The two Dr Stamford took were partial to John,” Mrs Hudson explained. “They’d sleep on his chest while he was reading.”
“Red prefers to lurk under the furniture, unless that chair is free, then he’ll sleep in it,” John said.
“Or if Sherlock’s stretched out on the sofa, Red’ll curl up on his stomach,” Mrs Hudson said. She turned to glance at Gray. “Sherlock’s hair is Gray’s territory.”
Sherlock’s fingers were moving rapidly over the strings of the violin.
“That is pretty, Sherlock. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I enjoy listening to it.”
“Fusz.” Mycroft sighed. “I do recognise his Romulus and Remus, Sherlock.” He pulled his hand out from under the kitten and stood. “Fine. I’ll lift the block on your access to the CCTV footage for Baker Street,” he said. “And if you find your hit-and-run driver, what do you plan to do about it?”
Sherlock stopped playing and looked up. “It depends on what I find,” he said.
“Be so kind as to inform me, before you act on it,” Mycroft said, casting a last look at the cake before taking up his umbrella.
Red jumped down onto the warm cushion.
Sherlock plucked a few more notes. “You’ve already viewed them.”
“Yes,” Mycroft said from the doorway.
“And you didn’t act?” Sherlock asked.
“To be sure would require some legwork, which you know I don’t like,” Mycroft said with a thin smile and a tilt of the head, “and I do have more pressing matters vying for my attention.” He nodded at John. “Evening,” he said and walked into the hallway, umbrella tapping lightly on the floor of the landing.
“He was yours, years before he was mine,” Sherlock said.
The tapping and the footsteps stopped.
“Wait, wait just a minute,” Mrs Hudson said, dashing from the kitchen through the door with a packet wrapped in tinfoil. “It would be a waste,” she said.
Sherlock raised the violin to his shoulder. Gray scrambled up into his hair and Sherlock began to play the aria softly.
“Thank you,” Mycroft said in the hall.
“Who was his?” John asked Sherlock.
The front door closed.
Sherlock lifted his bow. “Our dog, Redbeard.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~