This is yet another story of mine that is a response to a writing prompt from the Watson's Woes LJ community, which called for something with Watson and a cat. I hope you enjoy it. :)


February. Mary had always said that February made her heart ache, that it was when Winter became an infamous name to her. February was when the two of them would sit in front of a blazing fire, and she would lay her head on his chest and cry for reasons that she couldn't explain. February was also when the veil would finally lift from her eyes as she saw the first of the crocuses, and the darkness would melt into the joyful Springtime of her soul.

Once. Now February was just another month in Baker Street. February was when he hid alone in his room and cried for reasons that he could explain, but that his fellow boarder could never begin to understand. Days were filled with sentences, spoken or unspoken, that he couldn't finish for fear of cracking his mask of normalcy. Every thought, when traced far enough, somehow led back to her.

There was one evening when Holmes, in a good humor, decided to play a waltz on his violin instead of one of his unpredictable improvisations. Watson sat in his chair with his eyes closed, letting the familiar music drift over the borders of his brain, feeling an irrepressible longing to be gliding across the floor with her hands in his, with her eyes shining as they looked up at him. But it wasn't any of that he wanted, not in itself. It was her! All he wanted was to have her soul somewhere nearby so that he could love it and feel some flicker of love in reply! He would have done absolutely anything to see her smile again. Holmes would have cited that as proof that love was a folly that clouded logic, of course — but Watson didn't care at all. That was a mere machine's opinion of love, for a machine could not love, and therefore could never hope to understand it.

Those were the days when he felt trapped in Baker Street, when he wished for anything to break him out of this surreal bachelor existence. Which explained why, when Mrs. Hudson announced one morning that there was an old neighbor downstairs for him, he felt he couldn't get down that flight of stairs fast enough.

Mrs. Burnshaw stood on the doorstep and smiled her eternal grandmotherly smile at him, a basket clutched under her arm containing a bundle that wriggled ominously. Watson invited her in, but she laughed and shook her head.

"I can't stay, I'm afraid," she said. "I've only got a moment to spare. My husband and I are in town on an errand, and I just thought I'd stop in to say hello — and to give you something." She switched her basket to her other arm. "Your dear wife was always so fond of cats. Ginger, your old kitty, had kittens a little while back.... and well, I was wondering if you might like one, if you and your fellow lodger wouldn't mind a little extra company."

While she was saying this, she removed the blanket that covered the contents of the basket to reveal two little bundles of fluff, one colored the same brown as her mother, and the other gray with four delicate white paws. The brown one was asleep and seemed to take no notice of the fact that the blanket was gone, while the other one yawned and proceeded to stare up at Watson with the most adorable pair of eyes he had seen in a long time.

A cat! That was one of the things he had missed about his old life back in Kensington — the companions to curl up in your lap if you sat still too long. Something to love; something that would return affection in its own way. There was no denying that his heart leapt at the thought of taking one of the fluffballs inside.

But Holmes....

Watson glanced up at the window of the sitting room, where he knew Holmes was reclining in his armchair, thinking over his latest case. If he simply brought a kitten in, Holmes would pounce upon him and demand that he return the "horrid thing" to its former owner before the good lady had even walked out of sight.

Oh, nevermind what Holmes thought! This rash action would assuredly have consequences, but enough was enough, and he was going to keep one of those kittens, even if he had to do it in secret!

He scooped up the gray one, which let out a soft meow and then nestled into his arms.

"Thank you very much, Mrs. Burnshaw. I'm sure Holmes wouldn't mind."

The old lady beamed and then said farewell, stepping into her cab without any further ceremony and disappearing down the street.