Lestrade ended up adopting a black cat during the weekend his children came to visit. In the divorce his wife had gotten her boyfriend, the house, the cars, the kids and the dog. Lestrade was also paying child support and barely had enough for a pathetically small flat in London. He hadn't fought for more than the right to see his kids. His wife hadn't minded letting him every other weekend and alternate holidays. He'd always worked odd hours because of his job anyway.
That Saturday Jim and Lucy had found a black cat in the park. It wasn't wild, in fact it looked at Greg Lestrade like it actually knew him. It wasn't cuddle, its fur looked dirty, if previously well groomed. Lestrade imagined that the cat probably had run away from its owner, and he planned to just drop it at the pound. That had been the plan, but Lucy, having just done a project in school about pounds, begged him not to because they'd kill the cat if they couldn't find his owner and he stuck around too long. Lestrade had always, always been a sucker for his daughter's wide brown eyes.
That was how he ended up having a black cat trolling his apartment on Monday when he came home from a rather discouraging day at work. "Damn," he greeted the cat when he came. He shut the door forcefully to make it close. The frame had been warped by water and the only ways to shut it was to slam the door. When the rain was particularly bad the frame because so swollen he'd have to leave by the fire escape. Today was, thankfully, not one of those days. It was possibly the only thing that had gone right in his day.
Greg Lestrade was never happy having to drop his kids off at school on Mondays. He knew it would be two weeks before he'd see them again and he'd probably not even have time to call them. It made sense for them to stay with their mother. She had the house, lived closer to their school, would actually be there when they got home. That didn't mean that he didn't hate it. The whole thing had been so soul crushing that it was just easier to give away everything and have done with it.
"Damn!" he snapped again. He kicked off his shoes haphazardly and the cat looked up at him impassively. "You better not be running up my cable bill," he said, grabbing the remote and turning off the telly, which he was sure he hadn't turned on when he'd left that morning. The cat yawned and ignored him.
Lestrade went to his fridge and got a beer. As a general rule he didn't drink when he thought he might be called back on the job. He had a good sense about these things. Today he didn't care. He wouldn't get a call back unless someone could find Sherlock Holmes, since the man could disappear for weeks at a time, it was unlikely he'd show up unless he wanted to be found.
"Goddammit, you know?" he asked the cat plopping down on the couch next to him. "Just damn the man. He's always hounding me when I don't want him in my business and the second I want he, he's run off to jabip, not to return until he damn well pleases!" He growled a bit, taking a sip of his drink. He looked down at the cat who was staring up at him with those weird eyes that looked the eyes of the man Lestrade was so angry at.
Lestrade sighed and picked up the remote, turning the telly back on. The cat went back to watching the telly and ignoring his new flat mate. Lestrade tried not to shake his head and took another sip. He must be losing it if he was starting to think of the cat as a person.
"You're just like him you know. I bet you buggered off from your people just like he did. You'll probably wander off again the second you get tired of being here and no one by you will know where you've gone and what you've done. You almost make me want to lock up my valuables while I'm away… if I had any to lock up. Just my luck I'd have an actual cat burglar. Though, just your luck I haven't got anything to steal," he told the cat, who continued to ignore him in a most catlike fashion.
Lestrade sighed heavily and took a chug, just desperate to not think about his day. "The great Sherlock Holmes!" he grouched. Nope, no way to not think about it. "We got a case, a real doozy this time, a body of a man found hanging up by his ankles… well we assume he died hanging upside down, but the only think still hanging are the feet… clean cut too. Anderson swears it's a clean cut-"
Lestrade was interrupted by a very indignant 'mrt'.
"What? You too? Jesus, what is it with you lot and hating Anderson. The toupe's a questionable choice, but surely that isn't enough reason to hate one man," he looked down at the cat who looked back at him. "Well, maybe in Sherlock logic it is," he said. "Damn, why'd he have to run off now?"
The cat stood up and stretched, yawning loudly and hoping down from the sofa and starting to wander around.
"I'm not hiding a body in my flat," Lestrade snapped and took another big gulp. He knew he wasn't drunk, wasn't even buzzed, but he couldn't help but think of the cats as Sherlock in furry form. It would be just Lestrade's luck that day that he had the world's greatest mind trapped as a cat in his apartment, right when he needed him to solve a case.
The cat let out a loud and insistent meow. "Okay, okay, I'm coming, I'm coming. Keep your fur on," Lestrade said, getting up and going to what the cat was looking at, his brief case. He did bring more work home now. Lestrade sighed, feeling desperate as he pulled out the case files. "Here, you want to look at it?" he asked, laying it open on his table.
The cat hoped up nimbly and started looking at the file. The cat, in a very uncat fashion, pushed papers around, and pictures, spreading it all out as he paced up and down across the table, his little paws lightly crinkling the paper as he went. Finally the cat sat down in the middle of the paper and placed his paw down on a name, the man's wife's name.
"The wife?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock?" he asked. The cat looked over at him and blinked. Lestrade rubbed his eyes, not sure if he was crazy or losing it or both. He dumped the cat on the floor and gathered his papers back into his file, stuffing it back in his case. He grabbed up the case under one arm and the cat (who let out a very indignant yowl) and head out the fire escape (it had started raining). The cat didn't thrash around in his grip, but he clearly made his indignation known, loudly.
Lestrade didn't care. He hailed a cab and hoped in, sending them to Scotland Yard. "Sir, you can't bring and animal in my cab, especially lose like that," the cabbie said.
"I don't care, police," he said, holding out his ID. "Just drive!" Lestrade snapped, shutting the door. The cabbie clearly didn't know if he was crazy or what, but he started driving. Lestrade barely noticed, pulling out his cellphone.
"John, yeah, it's Greg, listen. I think I found Sherlock. Yeah, know, I'm sure. No, it's gonna sound crazy… Well, I think he's been turned into a cat. No! No, John! I'm not crazy! The damn cat knows who the murderer is for this case. Look, I know Sherlock has some contacts or something for when he goes off the deep end… a brother? He has a brother? No, nevermind. Look ,just call whoever and get them over to Scotland Yard, now!" he said before hanging up.
"Mister, you think that cat's a man?" the driver asked, wondering just who had gotten into his cab.
"Just shut up and drive!" Lestrade snapped, looking down at the wet cat, who was glaring up at him.
"A brother, really?" He asked. "Ow!" he hissed. The cat had swatted at him, drawn a bit of blood. "If you aren't him then I'm getting your claws pulled. I might do it anyway," he added, earning another glare from the cat, but he didn't get swiped at again.
Lestrade paid the man before he got out of the cab, needing his hands for the cat and the bag. Again the cat made his unhappiness known. It wasn't Lestrade's fault he couldn't carry the cat right at that moment.
"Sir?" Donovan asked, looking a little stunned to see DI Lestrade back after only have just left and carrying a cat under his arm.
"Not now, not now. Someone get me a towel," he said loudly, walking into his office. He set the cat down on the desk. "Thank you," he said, grabbing the towel when someone handed it to him. He started to vigorously dry the cat so it wouldn't drip on his desk or on his papers. When that was finished he started to spread the file out like he had before. "Yes, yes, I know, I'm an idiot," he said when he noticed the cat giving him a look. "Just do that thing again, the thing you did back at the flat," he ordered the cat.
The cat looked very annoyed, still damp, and now it's fur was all over the place. Still, he placed his paw again on the wife's name. "She did it?" he asked the cat who gave the slightest nod. "How?" he asked.
"Sir?" Donovan asked again, having just witnessed the DI conversing with a cat on a murder case.
"What? Go away, shut the door. The second John Watson gets here you let him in and no one else," he said.
Sergeant Donovan nodded, giving him a funny look before carefully shutting the door. She clearly couldn't decide if she wanted him to be continue to be her superior if he'd become fruit loops. He didn't blame her. Lestrade knew she probably thought he was insane, and he might have lost it, but somehow he was just sure this time.
"How, how did she do it?" he asked the cat who gave him a look that clearly said: 'I'm a cat, how am I supposed to tell you?' "Oh, right," Lestrade said, going looking for his work laptop. He popped it open and turned it on, tapping his foot impatiently as he waited for start up.
The cat, once the word document popped up, sat partially on the key board and started to press on the different keys.
Tghyued wesiurfdedes bghoiyhgtfriednjdr uisx azs bguytfcfhedr
"What?" Lestrade asked, suddenly realizing how hard it would be to type with paws, but the cat clearly had a purpose. It seemed to shy and focused on deleting the unwanted letters.
The wifes boyfriend is a butcher.
Now that made much more sense. "We can go with this," Lestrade said. Absentmindedly e reached out, petting the cat's head, who started to purr, but also batted the DI's hand away violently. Lestrade chuckled until there was a knock on the door and John came in.
"Hey," John said, looking down at the cat, the laptop, and Lestrade. "Is this supposed to be him?"
"It is, look what you wrote on my computer," Lestrade said.
"You sure he wrote this?" John asked, not sure he believed it, but came around to see.
"Can't you tell by all the fur in the keys?" Lestrade asked. "Sherlock, type something."
Iu cdfoinhtg gtyhgtpoed oknj coimkazsjndc
"What is this?" John asked, his brows knitting together as he looked at the words (were they words?)
"He can clear it up," Lestrade said, looking at Sherlock who looked away, clearly not interested. "You know, if they think I'm crazy, then you're going to be stuck like this."
"Hardly," came a very posh voice that Lestrade wasn't previously acquainted with.
"The cat typed something," John said, turning it around so the man could see. His gaze flicked to the screen.
"I don't type on command? Really, Sherlock, can you grow up," the man said to the cat. The cat glared at him.
"So wait, this is him, this is actually him?" John asked, also earning a glare from the cat. "Sherlock's been turned into a house cat?"
"Come along Sherlock, that is, if you would like to grow back up," the man said, turning away. The cat leapt off Lestrade's desk, following after the posh man, his tale completely erect as if to show the others what he thought of them .
About a minute later Greg Lestrade and John Watson could be seen having fallen into a fit of giggles in the DI's office.
A/N: The continuation of Sherlock Holmes' 7 Paw Stories. I still have Mrs. Hudson and Moriarty's left, and look out for Zoffoli's contributions: Mycroft, Irene and John.