"John?" Sherlock's indignant voice trailed down the stairs. John sighed and shut the front door. The rain was horrendous, his coat soaked so badly it clung to his skin. He managed to peel it off, hang it up and walked, rather uncomfortably, back up the stairs towards the flat.
"If you need something from the shops, you'll have to get it yourself." John replied, setting the Tesco bag on the countertop and flicking the switch for the kettle. He walked into the living room, where he was greeted with the sight of the consulting detective standing in the middle of the room, staring at his chair.
"What is that?" He asked, motioning towards the chair or, rather, what was on it. A little ball of curly black fur, neatly resembling Sherlock's own mop, was nestled on the cushion, curled tightly around itself. John could hear soft purring coming from that part of the room.
"It's a cat, Sherlock." John replied, picking up the kitten. It opened its mouth to yawn, exposing its sharp teeth. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"I know it's a cat John. Why is it here?" he sat opposite in John's usual chair, legs crossed, two of his fingers forming an L on which he placed his chin, staring at the other man. "Don't tell me you…" John nodded.
"I thought it might be nice, y'know?" John could see the disgust in the other mans face.
"Nice? Don't you realise I have allergies?" Sherlock rolled his eyes; John raised one eyebrow in defense, scratching behind the cats ears. The purring started up again.
"Allergies, you? Mycroft would have told me. Anyway, I'm keeping it. He needs a name as well." John murmured the last sentence as he began thinking of names. After a while, the silence became unbearable.
"If you're that set on keeping the damn thing, I get to name him, OK?" Sherlock proposed, making John jump a little.
"Sure. What will we call him?" Sherlock thought for a minute before replying.
"Hamish."
