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tweedandtinsel2011-10-23 09:41 am
oxfordtweed) wrote in tweedandtinsel2011-10-23 09:41 am
What Going Mad Feels Like
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Character/s: Holmes, Watson
Word Count: 3000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John attempts to come to terms with the fact that his flatmate is magic. That, or he’s going mad. He’s not actually sure which one he’d prefer.
Notes: Follow-up to Of Stray Cats and Collars with Bells On. Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
errantcomment for helping me kick this into shape. There was going to be more of this, but it wasn’t working out, so it’ll be in the next one, because apparently this is a series now.
Read on AO3
What Going Mad Feels Like
John Watson had always considered himself the sort of man who could go along with anything; a point that had been well-demonstrated when he moved in with Sherlock Holmes, well known madman and snappy dresser, after knowing him less than a day. Only a few hours after that, he’d found himself shooting a cabbie from across a small alley. Granted, the cabbie was even more of a madman than John’s new flatmate (and not nearly as snappily dressed), but these things are all relative, as John quickly learned.
There were certain things John came to accept after he started living with Sherlock Holmes. Severed heads in the fridge and fingers in the margarine were annoying, but still not the worst that he’d been asked to endure.
No, the oddest idea he’d been asked to endure was the one about the consulting detective and the cat. He’d never actually seen the physical transformation from man to feline, but everything else had been quite damning. He’d never seen the cat and Sherlock together. If it was just an ordinary cat, John wasn’t sure Sherlock would put up with it, and wouldn’t it require feeding and things (he was fairly certain that a stray wouldn’t be quite so cocky as to steal from his plate)? And then there was the rather disconcerting way it would take up the entire sofa with a small stack of scientific magazines and journals and read them, lazily waving its tail (any doubt that it was just staring was crushed the day John spotted it carefully and deliberately lick a paw before turning the page). John’s scepticism on the matter was almost embarrassingly rather short-lived and although he still didn’t quite believe it, he did live with the cat.
John was reading the paper by the fire when the cat sauntered into the room and flopped down onto the hearth with a great sigh. John ignored it. The cat leapt from the hearth to John’s lap and stuck its head between the paper and John’s face.
“You can’t be that bored,” John said, shoving the cat off him. “Do you want me to dangle some string?”
The cat miaowed indignantly as it got to its feet and left the room. John didn’t see the cat or Sherlock again for three weeks.
At first, John thought that he was being punished – forced to endure the silent treatment because Sherlock or the cat or whatever he was had decided to sulk. But usually, he’d see one or the other after two or three days of radio silence. When neither came home, John began to worry. He began by phoning shelters and animal hospitals in the area, and eventually started checking on Joe Bloggs cases, even going as far as to phoning Lestrade in the hope that Sherlock had just been called onto a case (despite the fact that Sherlock’s coat and mobile were both still in the flat). Eventually, he became desperate enough to contact Mycroft; drumming his fingers through the preliminaries with his PA and realising as the smug bastard explained the situation, that he’d been made privy to something that no-one else had been told.
While Mycroft didn’t give up any information regarding Sherlock’s ability or power or whatever it was, he didn’t seem at all surprised to hear about it. Naturally. Something else John had learnt was that Mycroft was never surprised. Even when Sherlock did that thing to his briefcase.
I’m sure you’ve noticed, Doctor Watson, that Sherlock is not the easiest man in London to track,” Mycroft drawled with a certain level of disdain to his voice. “You could imagine, then, the difficulty that comes with keeping an eye on a singular underfed tomcat in this city.”
Suddenly, John understood why Sherlock seemed to hate the man so much.
After yet another round of phoning animal shelters, John was startled to hear Sherlock’s bedroom door open. He turned sharply around to see Sherlock shuffle wearily into the sitting room as he pulled his dressing gown tightly around him, his hair simultaneously matted and sticking up in all directions. He looked like a man who knew sleep existed, just not how to make it happen. Knowing him, that was exactly the case.
“Where the hell have you been?” John demanded.
“Tea,” was all Sherlock grunted, gingerly lowering himself into his chair by the fire.
John wanted to shout at him. He wanted to shake him and make it clear just how worried he’d been the last three weeks.
John put the kettle on.
As he handed Sherlock a steaming cup of tea, he noticed three of the fingers on Sherlock’s right hand were bleeding around his nails. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t seem to care.
“Let me see,” John said gently, taking Sherlock’s hand to inspect the damage.
Sherlock let him, staring blankly at a patch of floor as John carefully looked over the injuries. One of his nails had nearly been pulled clean off, while the other two showed signs of the same sort of stress.
“What the hell happened?” John asked, making an effort to keep his voice down. Any anger he’d felt toward Sherlock had instantly vanished as John’s doctor mode took over.
“Six-year-old girl,” Sherlock responded, letting his mouth quirk slightly. “Took me home and hid me from her parents in her room the whole time.”
“Jesus,” John said. He got up quickly to fetch a damp flannel from the kitchen, using it to clear off some of the blood on Sherlock’s fingers. “Why didn’t you… you know?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, even now. Even though he knew exactly what it was he should say.
“Oh, I could have,” Sherlock said. “And risked her parents finding a naked man in their daughter’s bedroom.”
John winced. “Right.”
“They finally found me a few days ago,” Sherlock explained. “She hadn’t counted on them coming to fetch all the missing bowls from the kitchen. I’d expected them to throw me back out onto the street. You weren’t the first to react like that, you know.”
John looked away, not exactly proud of the way he’d treated his friend before learning the truth. “I take it they didn’t?”
“I only got away because they tried to take me to the vet today,” Sherlock said. He sipped his tea and looked over at John. “I may be willing to reconsider the idea about the collar.”
“They probably thought you were a stray,” John pointed out.
Sherlock did an admirable job at not sighing dramatically. “I’d gathered as much,” he said as he watched John try to clean up the mess on his hand without disturbing any of the injuries. “I shouldn’t have changed form. I’m afraid it rather made everything worse.”
“Whose face did you remove?” John asked, trying to sound casual.
“No-one’s,” Sherlock said indignantly. “The girl’s father may require quite a few stitches in his arm, though.”
John dutifully did not roll his eyes as he tugged on the hem of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Come on,” he said. “Let me check the rest of you. Does it hurt anywhere else?”
Sherlock shifted away slightly as he tugged his dressing gown even tighter around himself. “I’m fine. Just a bit of bruising. I’ve had worse.”
John shook his head lightly, surprised that this was still an issue. “I’ve been acting as your doctor for over a year, now,” he reminded Sherlock. “Not to mention, you regularly make a habit of wandering around without a damn thing on.”
“It’s different then,” Sherlock pointed out. “They don’t exactly make trousers for four-legged animals.”
“Exactly,” said John. “I’ve seen your bollocks. You’ve all but shoved your arse in my face.”
Sherlock’s ears turned red as he looked away, chewing nervously on his lip. “I didn’t realise you made a habit of looking,” he bit back sharply.
“Only when you start walking on the table while I’m reading the paper,” John pointed out.
Sherlock shut his mouth.
“Right. Well, I’ll at least see to that. Don’t move,” he said. He tried not to laugh as he fetched his medical kit from the bathroom.
John walked into the flat, finding Sherlock on the sofa with both their laptops and his own netbook within arm’s reach, doing something that seemed to not only to involve all three computers but an intricate network of newspapers and string. John ignored whatever Sherlock was up to, stepped over the string, and pulled a small package from the carrier bag in his hand.
“Got something for you,” he said, tossing the package at Sherlock. “It’s your colour, I think.”
Sherlock opened the small paper bag and frowned at the rhinestone-encrusted pink nylon collar. “You have got to be joking,” he said flatly.
John smiled. “Yep,” he confessed. “Here.”
He put the carrier bag down on the table for Sherlock to dig through. It contained a second collar, this one solid dark blue with a single tag on, reading Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker St NW1. Beneath it was John’s mobile number.
“You put my name on?” Sherlock asked, confused.
“I never wanted a cat in the first place,” John said as he sat down in his chair. “Besides, I’m not into that bondage stuff, or whatever it is.” He shook his head and grimaced.
“You realise I won’t be able to put it on,” Sherlock pointed out as he put the collar down on the table.
John considered this for a moment. “Leave it out here. If I’m in, I’ll do it. Otherwise, I’ll tell Mrs Hudson to keep an eye out.”
Sherlock shot him a nervous glance.
“I’ll tell her that you brought a cat home, and that it keeps getting out of its collar,” John clarified. “I’m not that stupid. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’d have me sectioned if I told her the truth. Still not entirely sure I shouldn’t be locked up anyway, to be honest.”
Sherlock shot John one more cautious glance before returning his attention to the ad hoc internet café and spider’s web he had on the sofa.
“Right,” he said quietly after a few moments. “That’s, uhm… OK.”
John knew that putting a collar on Sherlock would come in handy in keeping people from taking him as a stray, but he hadn’t expected it to come in handy quite so soon after buying it. Getting phone calls for Sherlock was nothing new; Sherlock had turned John into an unwitting secretary months ago by putting his phone number up on that damned website. So it was with a resigned voice that he answered and immediately fed the caller the practised lie that Sherlock was in Europe for a case and would return her call when he returned to London.
“Oh. Well, I have his cat,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “I found him in my wheelie bin.”
“You what?”
John wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he took down the woman’s address and grabbed a McVitie’s cardboard box from under the desk. He hoped it was large enough to hold a lanky cat in, but just for good measure, used a biro to punch a few holes into the side. On his way out of the house, he grabbed Sherlock’s wallet from the kitchen. The furry bastard got himself into trouble; he could pay for the cab.
He got to the address, and, telling the cabbie to wait, went up to the front door. A blonde woman answered almost immediately and John gave her one of his more charming smiles.
“Hi. John Watson. You rang about the cat?” he said. “Black, with a bit missing from its ear? Apparently spawned from hell itself?”
“June,” she said, smiling at him and stepping aside to let him in. “They came round for the bins yesterday morning, so I’ve no idea how long he was in there. I think he’s all right though. But you’ll probably be able to tell better than I can.”
She led him through the house to a closed door.
“He’s in there,” she said. “He was out like a light when I found him—I almost took him to the vet. But I brought him inside and he woke up and started tearing through the place. It was only luck I was able to get him in where he couldn’t break anything, really. Then he kept yowling up until about ten minutes ago.” She saw John’s face and added. “Probably just wants to go home, the poor wee thing.”
“Oh, he’s always like that,” John assured her, trying to keep his tone casual even though there was nothing casual about rescuing his daft flatmate from another impossible situation. “He’s just a big drama queen. I do wonder if maybe he might calm down if we got him fixed.”
Another loud yowl came from behind the door. With an apologetic smile, John opened the door and peered in carefully, hoping to avoid the blind fury of what was certainly a very bored and annoyed cat. He found it in the bath, staring up at him through narrowed eyes.
John crouched next to the bath, vaguely aware that a cat-owner probably would try to pet the cat to reassure it, and hesitantly reached out. He was rewarded with a growl and a paw full of needles.
“You be nice, or I’m turning on the shower and leaving you here,” John threatened, staring back at the cat in a way that he hoped would show that he meant business.
Not breaking eye contact, the cat backed into the bottom of the bath in what John took to be a gesture of surrender. Confident now that he would keep his face, he reached into the bath and picked the cat up, cradling it awkwardly in his arms.
“Thank you, again,” he told June as he tried to work out how to hold what was apparently a furbag full of liquid. He gripped around the lean stomach, and hind claws reached up, digging painfully into his arm as the cat struggled and twisted in his grip.
“This is not being nice,” he told the cat sharply. “If you make me bleed you’re going back in the tub.”
June smiled at him and gently rearranged the cat in John’s arms. “You should hold him like this. He needs to feel supported, without his feet dangling,” she said, placing John’s hand squarely on the cat’s rump. The cat’s ears brushed his chin as he clasped the creature close to his chest.
No. Not a cat. Sherlock. Who was a cat. Apparently. Because this was the turn John’s life had taken and now he was standing in a strange house, practically cuddling his squirming, furry flatmate. Who could turn into a cat.
Only he wasn’t a cat. At least, John had never seen him do certain cat-like things, like lick himself or chase bits of string. Although maybe he did that in the privacy of his own room. John didn’t particularly want to think about it.
No one had told him that, upon being discharged from the army, he would end up being told to support his flatmate’s bottom.
He wondered briefly if this might be what going mad felt like.
“You seem to know a lot more about these things than I do,” he said. “Do you want a cat?”
He was answered not by his host but by very sharp teeth digging into his hand. He very nearly dropped the cat as he bit back a swear.
“That’s it,” he told it. “Into the box with you, you bloody psychopath.” John plonked the cat into the box he’d brought along and closed the lid, holding it shut against any escape attempts. The box rattled and John picked it up, wishing he’d brought tape and hoping that the cat wouldn’t actually attempt to burst out like some sort of demonic jack-in-the-box.
“Your first cat?” June asked. “You seem a bit... new at all this.”
Again, John gave her his most disarming smile. “He’s my flatmate’s,” he explained. “I was against the idea, but he seems to have a soft spot for unlovable hellspawn.”
An offended clawed paw shot out from the lid, catching John on the side of the hand.
“You little fucker,” he spat as he nearly dropped the box. “I should throw you in the Thames and let you swim home.”
“Uhm,” June said awkwardly, stepping back to put some room between her and John. “You probably want to be getting him home, then.”
John smiled, trying for normal and failing, and nodded. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Yeah. Thanks again.”
He tried to shake her hand but she refused, keeping her arms wrapped protectively round her chest. Finding no other way out of the awkwardness of standing in a stranger’s bathroom with a box full of pissed-off cat in his arms, John nodded slightly and saw himself out, hoping that the cab driver wouldn’t notice the growling coming from the cardboard box.
John waited until he was inside the flat before putting the box down and opening the lid. Before he could even reach inside, the cat darted out, making a black streak through the flat to Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Wait, you need to—” The door slammed. “Twit,” John said, giving up halfway through. “Fine. Choke yourself. See if I care.”
He tossed the box under the desk as Sherlock stomped through the kitchen, tying his dressing gown tightly around himself. John pretended failed to ignore the coughing and marks on Sherlock’s abused neck.
“Told you to wait,” he said mildly.
“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” Sherlock said hoarsely as he threw himself onto the sofa.
“Yep. I do,” John agreed. “I told you I didn’t want a pet. You’re just lucky I’m a responsible pet owner and got one that snaps off, instead of buckles.” Sherlock ignored him.
“Thank you, John. I appreciate your foresight,” John said to himself. He sat down by the fire and looked over at his sulking flatmate, who studiously ignored him. “I’ve been meaning to ask, actually. How come, when you’re, you know, like that, your face is so fat? You look like you’re trying to swallow a grapefruit.”
A cushion sailed past his head.
“I mean, you don’t even like grapefruit—”
A second cushion hit him in the face.
Character/s: Holmes, Watson
Word Count: 3000
Rating: PG-13
Summary: John attempts to come to terms with the fact that his flatmate is magic. That, or he’s going mad. He’s not actually sure which one he’d prefer.
Notes: Follow-up to Of Stray Cats and Collars with Bells On. Thanks to
errantcomment for helping me kick this into shape. There was going to be more of this, but it wasn’t working out, so it’ll be in the next one, because apparently this is a series now.Read on AO3
What Going Mad Feels Like
John Watson had always considered himself the sort of man who could go along with anything; a point that had been well-demonstrated when he moved in with Sherlock Holmes, well known madman and snappy dresser, after knowing him less than a day. Only a few hours after that, he’d found himself shooting a cabbie from across a small alley. Granted, the cabbie was even more of a madman than John’s new flatmate (and not nearly as snappily dressed), but these things are all relative, as John quickly learned.
There were certain things John came to accept after he started living with Sherlock Holmes. Severed heads in the fridge and fingers in the margarine were annoying, but still not the worst that he’d been asked to endure.
No, the oddest idea he’d been asked to endure was the one about the consulting detective and the cat. He’d never actually seen the physical transformation from man to feline, but everything else had been quite damning. He’d never seen the cat and Sherlock together. If it was just an ordinary cat, John wasn’t sure Sherlock would put up with it, and wouldn’t it require feeding and things (he was fairly certain that a stray wouldn’t be quite so cocky as to steal from his plate)? And then there was the rather disconcerting way it would take up the entire sofa with a small stack of scientific magazines and journals and read them, lazily waving its tail (any doubt that it was just staring was crushed the day John spotted it carefully and deliberately lick a paw before turning the page). John’s scepticism on the matter was almost embarrassingly rather short-lived and although he still didn’t quite believe it, he did live with the cat.
John was reading the paper by the fire when the cat sauntered into the room and flopped down onto the hearth with a great sigh. John ignored it. The cat leapt from the hearth to John’s lap and stuck its head between the paper and John’s face.
“You can’t be that bored,” John said, shoving the cat off him. “Do you want me to dangle some string?”
The cat miaowed indignantly as it got to its feet and left the room. John didn’t see the cat or Sherlock again for three weeks.
At first, John thought that he was being punished – forced to endure the silent treatment because Sherlock or the cat or whatever he was had decided to sulk. But usually, he’d see one or the other after two or three days of radio silence. When neither came home, John began to worry. He began by phoning shelters and animal hospitals in the area, and eventually started checking on Joe Bloggs cases, even going as far as to phoning Lestrade in the hope that Sherlock had just been called onto a case (despite the fact that Sherlock’s coat and mobile were both still in the flat). Eventually, he became desperate enough to contact Mycroft; drumming his fingers through the preliminaries with his PA and realising as the smug bastard explained the situation, that he’d been made privy to something that no-one else had been told.
While Mycroft didn’t give up any information regarding Sherlock’s ability or power or whatever it was, he didn’t seem at all surprised to hear about it. Naturally. Something else John had learnt was that Mycroft was never surprised. Even when Sherlock did that thing to his briefcase.
I’m sure you’ve noticed, Doctor Watson, that Sherlock is not the easiest man in London to track,” Mycroft drawled with a certain level of disdain to his voice. “You could imagine, then, the difficulty that comes with keeping an eye on a singular underfed tomcat in this city.”
Suddenly, John understood why Sherlock seemed to hate the man so much.
After yet another round of phoning animal shelters, John was startled to hear Sherlock’s bedroom door open. He turned sharply around to see Sherlock shuffle wearily into the sitting room as he pulled his dressing gown tightly around him, his hair simultaneously matted and sticking up in all directions. He looked like a man who knew sleep existed, just not how to make it happen. Knowing him, that was exactly the case.
“Where the hell have you been?” John demanded.
“Tea,” was all Sherlock grunted, gingerly lowering himself into his chair by the fire.
John wanted to shout at him. He wanted to shake him and make it clear just how worried he’d been the last three weeks.
John put the kettle on.
As he handed Sherlock a steaming cup of tea, he noticed three of the fingers on Sherlock’s right hand were bleeding around his nails. If Sherlock noticed, he didn’t seem to care.
“Let me see,” John said gently, taking Sherlock’s hand to inspect the damage.
Sherlock let him, staring blankly at a patch of floor as John carefully looked over the injuries. One of his nails had nearly been pulled clean off, while the other two showed signs of the same sort of stress.
“What the hell happened?” John asked, making an effort to keep his voice down. Any anger he’d felt toward Sherlock had instantly vanished as John’s doctor mode took over.
“Six-year-old girl,” Sherlock responded, letting his mouth quirk slightly. “Took me home and hid me from her parents in her room the whole time.”
“Jesus,” John said. He got up quickly to fetch a damp flannel from the kitchen, using it to clear off some of the blood on Sherlock’s fingers. “Why didn’t you… you know?” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, even now. Even though he knew exactly what it was he should say.
“Oh, I could have,” Sherlock said. “And risked her parents finding a naked man in their daughter’s bedroom.”
John winced. “Right.”
“They finally found me a few days ago,” Sherlock explained. “She hadn’t counted on them coming to fetch all the missing bowls from the kitchen. I’d expected them to throw me back out onto the street. You weren’t the first to react like that, you know.”
John looked away, not exactly proud of the way he’d treated his friend before learning the truth. “I take it they didn’t?”
“I only got away because they tried to take me to the vet today,” Sherlock said. He sipped his tea and looked over at John. “I may be willing to reconsider the idea about the collar.”
“They probably thought you were a stray,” John pointed out.
Sherlock did an admirable job at not sighing dramatically. “I’d gathered as much,” he said as he watched John try to clean up the mess on his hand without disturbing any of the injuries. “I shouldn’t have changed form. I’m afraid it rather made everything worse.”
“Whose face did you remove?” John asked, trying to sound casual.
“No-one’s,” Sherlock said indignantly. “The girl’s father may require quite a few stitches in his arm, though.”
John dutifully did not roll his eyes as he tugged on the hem of Sherlock’s dressing gown. “Come on,” he said. “Let me check the rest of you. Does it hurt anywhere else?”
Sherlock shifted away slightly as he tugged his dressing gown even tighter around himself. “I’m fine. Just a bit of bruising. I’ve had worse.”
John shook his head lightly, surprised that this was still an issue. “I’ve been acting as your doctor for over a year, now,” he reminded Sherlock. “Not to mention, you regularly make a habit of wandering around without a damn thing on.”
“It’s different then,” Sherlock pointed out. “They don’t exactly make trousers for four-legged animals.”
“Exactly,” said John. “I’ve seen your bollocks. You’ve all but shoved your arse in my face.”
Sherlock’s ears turned red as he looked away, chewing nervously on his lip. “I didn’t realise you made a habit of looking,” he bit back sharply.
“Only when you start walking on the table while I’m reading the paper,” John pointed out.
Sherlock shut his mouth.
“Right. Well, I’ll at least see to that. Don’t move,” he said. He tried not to laugh as he fetched his medical kit from the bathroom.
John walked into the flat, finding Sherlock on the sofa with both their laptops and his own netbook within arm’s reach, doing something that seemed to not only to involve all three computers but an intricate network of newspapers and string. John ignored whatever Sherlock was up to, stepped over the string, and pulled a small package from the carrier bag in his hand.
“Got something for you,” he said, tossing the package at Sherlock. “It’s your colour, I think.”
Sherlock opened the small paper bag and frowned at the rhinestone-encrusted pink nylon collar. “You have got to be joking,” he said flatly.
John smiled. “Yep,” he confessed. “Here.”
He put the carrier bag down on the table for Sherlock to dig through. It contained a second collar, this one solid dark blue with a single tag on, reading Sherlock Holmes, 221b Baker St NW1. Beneath it was John’s mobile number.
“You put my name on?” Sherlock asked, confused.
“I never wanted a cat in the first place,” John said as he sat down in his chair. “Besides, I’m not into that bondage stuff, or whatever it is.” He shook his head and grimaced.
“You realise I won’t be able to put it on,” Sherlock pointed out as he put the collar down on the table.
John considered this for a moment. “Leave it out here. If I’m in, I’ll do it. Otherwise, I’ll tell Mrs Hudson to keep an eye out.”
Sherlock shot him a nervous glance.
“I’ll tell her that you brought a cat home, and that it keeps getting out of its collar,” John clarified. “I’m not that stupid. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’d have me sectioned if I told her the truth. Still not entirely sure I shouldn’t be locked up anyway, to be honest.”
Sherlock shot John one more cautious glance before returning his attention to the ad hoc internet café and spider’s web he had on the sofa.
“Right,” he said quietly after a few moments. “That’s, uhm… OK.”
John knew that putting a collar on Sherlock would come in handy in keeping people from taking him as a stray, but he hadn’t expected it to come in handy quite so soon after buying it. Getting phone calls for Sherlock was nothing new; Sherlock had turned John into an unwitting secretary months ago by putting his phone number up on that damned website. So it was with a resigned voice that he answered and immediately fed the caller the practised lie that Sherlock was in Europe for a case and would return her call when he returned to London.
“Oh. Well, I have his cat,” said the woman on the other end of the line. “I found him in my wheelie bin.”
“You what?”
John wasn’t sure he wanted to know, but he took down the woman’s address and grabbed a McVitie’s cardboard box from under the desk. He hoped it was large enough to hold a lanky cat in, but just for good measure, used a biro to punch a few holes into the side. On his way out of the house, he grabbed Sherlock’s wallet from the kitchen. The furry bastard got himself into trouble; he could pay for the cab.
He got to the address, and, telling the cabbie to wait, went up to the front door. A blonde woman answered almost immediately and John gave her one of his more charming smiles.
“Hi. John Watson. You rang about the cat?” he said. “Black, with a bit missing from its ear? Apparently spawned from hell itself?”
“June,” she said, smiling at him and stepping aside to let him in. “They came round for the bins yesterday morning, so I’ve no idea how long he was in there. I think he’s all right though. But you’ll probably be able to tell better than I can.”
She led him through the house to a closed door.
“He’s in there,” she said. “He was out like a light when I found him—I almost took him to the vet. But I brought him inside and he woke up and started tearing through the place. It was only luck I was able to get him in where he couldn’t break anything, really. Then he kept yowling up until about ten minutes ago.” She saw John’s face and added. “Probably just wants to go home, the poor wee thing.”
“Oh, he’s always like that,” John assured her, trying to keep his tone casual even though there was nothing casual about rescuing his daft flatmate from another impossible situation. “He’s just a big drama queen. I do wonder if maybe he might calm down if we got him fixed.”
Another loud yowl came from behind the door. With an apologetic smile, John opened the door and peered in carefully, hoping to avoid the blind fury of what was certainly a very bored and annoyed cat. He found it in the bath, staring up at him through narrowed eyes.
John crouched next to the bath, vaguely aware that a cat-owner probably would try to pet the cat to reassure it, and hesitantly reached out. He was rewarded with a growl and a paw full of needles.
“You be nice, or I’m turning on the shower and leaving you here,” John threatened, staring back at the cat in a way that he hoped would show that he meant business.
Not breaking eye contact, the cat backed into the bottom of the bath in what John took to be a gesture of surrender. Confident now that he would keep his face, he reached into the bath and picked the cat up, cradling it awkwardly in his arms.
“Thank you, again,” he told June as he tried to work out how to hold what was apparently a furbag full of liquid. He gripped around the lean stomach, and hind claws reached up, digging painfully into his arm as the cat struggled and twisted in his grip.
“This is not being nice,” he told the cat sharply. “If you make me bleed you’re going back in the tub.”
June smiled at him and gently rearranged the cat in John’s arms. “You should hold him like this. He needs to feel supported, without his feet dangling,” she said, placing John’s hand squarely on the cat’s rump. The cat’s ears brushed his chin as he clasped the creature close to his chest.
No. Not a cat. Sherlock. Who was a cat. Apparently. Because this was the turn John’s life had taken and now he was standing in a strange house, practically cuddling his squirming, furry flatmate. Who could turn into a cat.
Only he wasn’t a cat. At least, John had never seen him do certain cat-like things, like lick himself or chase bits of string. Although maybe he did that in the privacy of his own room. John didn’t particularly want to think about it.
No one had told him that, upon being discharged from the army, he would end up being told to support his flatmate’s bottom.
He wondered briefly if this might be what going mad felt like.
“You seem to know a lot more about these things than I do,” he said. “Do you want a cat?”
He was answered not by his host but by very sharp teeth digging into his hand. He very nearly dropped the cat as he bit back a swear.
“That’s it,” he told it. “Into the box with you, you bloody psychopath.” John plonked the cat into the box he’d brought along and closed the lid, holding it shut against any escape attempts. The box rattled and John picked it up, wishing he’d brought tape and hoping that the cat wouldn’t actually attempt to burst out like some sort of demonic jack-in-the-box.
“Your first cat?” June asked. “You seem a bit... new at all this.”
Again, John gave her his most disarming smile. “He’s my flatmate’s,” he explained. “I was against the idea, but he seems to have a soft spot for unlovable hellspawn.”
An offended clawed paw shot out from the lid, catching John on the side of the hand.
“You little fucker,” he spat as he nearly dropped the box. “I should throw you in the Thames and let you swim home.”
“Uhm,” June said awkwardly, stepping back to put some room between her and John. “You probably want to be getting him home, then.”
John smiled, trying for normal and failing, and nodded. He knew a dismissal when he heard one. “Yeah. Thanks again.”
He tried to shake her hand but she refused, keeping her arms wrapped protectively round her chest. Finding no other way out of the awkwardness of standing in a stranger’s bathroom with a box full of pissed-off cat in his arms, John nodded slightly and saw himself out, hoping that the cab driver wouldn’t notice the growling coming from the cardboard box.
John waited until he was inside the flat before putting the box down and opening the lid. Before he could even reach inside, the cat darted out, making a black streak through the flat to Sherlock’s bedroom.
“Wait, you need to—” The door slammed. “Twit,” John said, giving up halfway through. “Fine. Choke yourself. See if I care.”
He tossed the box under the desk as Sherlock stomped through the kitchen, tying his dressing gown tightly around himself. John pretended failed to ignore the coughing and marks on Sherlock’s abused neck.
“Told you to wait,” he said mildly.
“Oh, you think you’re so funny,” Sherlock said hoarsely as he threw himself onto the sofa.
“Yep. I do,” John agreed. “I told you I didn’t want a pet. You’re just lucky I’m a responsible pet owner and got one that snaps off, instead of buckles.” Sherlock ignored him.
“Thank you, John. I appreciate your foresight,” John said to himself. He sat down by the fire and looked over at his sulking flatmate, who studiously ignored him. “I’ve been meaning to ask, actually. How come, when you’re, you know, like that, your face is so fat? You look like you’re trying to swallow a grapefruit.”
A cushion sailed past his head.
“I mean, you don’t even like grapefruit—”
A second cushion hit him in the face.