A/N: Inspired by KCS' "All God's Little Creatures".
Disclaimer: Watson and Holmes are not mine, but the kitten is.
Chapter One: The Mysterious Box
"Watson, is there any way I can convince you to stay in today and rest?"
Holmes hadn't even looked up from whatever it was he was constructing--it looked like a three dimensional diagram of our flat--and yet he still knew I was heading out to my practice.
"Short of you suddenly contracting this infernal pneumonia that's going around, I don't think so," I immediately replied.
With a slight cough that was clearly fake, Holmes asked me what the intial symptoms were.
"And have you fake being sick? Not a chance," I replied, heading down the 17 steps to the front door.
As I paid the cab driver, I noticed that there was a small, blanket-covered wooden crate on the doorstep of our flat when I returned home that evening.
I approached the crate cautiously, for its contents could be deadly. Expecting the worst, I tapped the side of the crate with my walking stick (the foul winter weather had, as usual, left my old war wound feeling quite sore).
The wet blanket covering the crate bulged upwards as my tap awakened the crate's mysterious resident.
"Watson, quit playing with that cat."
So focused was I on the crate, I didn't even realize that Holmes was behind me until he'd spoken.
"Holmes!" I cried, slipping on a patch of ice in my surprise. He caught me, but he lost his own balance in the process.
I couldn't help but laugh at the strange scene we made--Holmes had fallen backwards, pulling me on top of him.
"Mister Holmes, Doctor--why is there a kitten on the stoop!?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, opening the door to let us know what she thought of our antics to be stopped mid-rebuke by the discovery of a kitten on the stoop.
"Someone figuring that Watson would know what to do with it," Holmes replied matter-of-factly.
"I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian," I objected.
"Not everyone knows that," Holmes observed, as I got up off of him.
"Anyone who knows me well enough to leave a kitten on my doorstep knows I am not a veterinarian," I replied, picking up the crate and carrying it up the stairs to our sitting room, Holmes close behind me.
"One of the Irregulars might have left you the kitten, Watson," Holmes insisted.
"Oh?" I asked, slightly amused that Holmes was being so stubborn over the motive behind the kitten being left on our doorstep.
"I overheard Campbell asking Mrs. Hudson what a war veteran did the other day," Holmes continued, blissfully unaware that his voice had become background noise to me as I examined the kitten. At least, his voice was background noise until he suddenly swore violently, startling me so badly I almost dropped the kitten.
"What in blazes, Holmes?" I growled in annoyance.
"That kitten is only a few days old, she still needs her mother to care for her," he explained. "And for her to be here on her own with us implies that her mother was likely killed."
"How do you know how old this kitten is?" I asked, quite surprised as I had thought Holmes had no interest in any creature that was cute and adorable. The man will continue to surprise me, no matter how long its been since the day we first met.
"The family mouser had kittens, and I observed their growth patterns," he explained. I figured that there probably was more to it, but I wasn't going to force him tell me, especially when I saw his gaze soften as he eyed the weak kitten in my hands.
"Do you happen to know what we should do then?" I asked.
"She needs warmth, and something to eat," he replied, before dashing off suddenly, leaving me standing in the sitting room, holding a kitten without a clue as to what I was supposed to do.