Greebo, Or the Infernal Cat That Made John's Life (More) Miserable
One afternoon John had come home with a pet carrier containing a cat. A rather large, tough-looking and slightly frightened British Shorthair cat.
Sherlock had turned his head and studied the animal from his comfortable slouch on the sofa.
"Why did you bring home a cat?" He asked, starting to stretch a bit. He wasn't going to get up, and he didn't really want to give John the impression that he was going to help, but he needed to shift his position.
"Harry's pipes blew up, and she's staying with a friend who is allergic." John answered, putting down the carrier and going in the kitchen to empty a shopping bag of its cat-related contents.
Sherlock closed the book he was speed reading and sat up. "What's his name?" He asked John, whilst looking at the cat, who didn't wear a collar.
"Greebo," answered John with a hardly detectable shiver.
Sherlock stared some more at the imprisoned animal. "Odd name." He got up; the cat looked intrigued to be dignified by the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock's pride swelled in it.
John had finished putting away the cat food and filled two bowls with water and dry food respectively, then he turned towards the living room in time to see Sherlock unlocking the grate and freeing the cat. "NO!" He exclaimed, "That cat is e…" he watched speechlessly as the cat thoroughly sniffed Sherlock's hand before headbutting it. "...vil. My God, Sherlock."
The world's only consulting detective kneeled and scratched the cat behind the ears. "He seems to appreciate this." He commented, looking at John. Harry's cat started purring. Loudly.
"That cat, he's the most vicious creature I've ever encountered. I think I still have the scars from the first and only time I attempted to pet him!"
Sherlock took the cat in his arms and looked at its big, round, yellow eyes, then returned to the sofa. He sat down and the cat adjusted himself contentedly on Sherlock's lap. He didn't mind when Sherlock returned to his book, but when the man absentmindedly started to scratch him on the head he started purring again.
John was rather in shock. He was jealous. Jealous of the cat, because he obviously was getting Sherlock's attention when it was next to impossible for him without bearing a summoning from Lestrade or news of a gruesome murder. He was also jealous of Sherlock, because the cat befriended him so fast.
The following morning John woke up early, with the unpleasant sensation of something heavy on his chest. He couldn't breathe and started panicking. When he opened his eyes he saw the cat, sitting on his chest and glaring at him.
A loud meow followed.
Then a grunt, and John turned, attempting to make the cat get off his bed. He succeeded, but his victory was brief. The cat jumped back on the bed, and this time decided to test his sharp claws on John's unprotected calf.
John yowled in pain, and the cat just waited for him to finish his string of swears, looking completely unimpressed by his language. Then he started meowing insistently and John gave up. He put on some socks and followed the cat to the kitchen, and obediently opened a can of cat food for the devilish creature.
While the cat emptied his bowl happily John decided to fix himself some breakfast as well. He put on the kettle.
"Jooooohn!" Sherlock called from his bedroom, and the doctor rolled his eyes.
"WHAT?" He snapped, maybe a bit more harshly than needed, but he had an excuse.
"I need you to bring me my phone." The detective answered calmly, having ignored his rudeness as it was, on some level, one of John's early morning constants.
"Where is it?" John asked, walking across the living room and stopping short of Sherlock's bedroom door. He had never gone in the other man's room, and sometimes doubted that even the detective ever did.
Sherlock's reply was light and casual. "Oh, it must be somewhere on my bed."
John was ready to do a 180° and just go back to his breakfast, but Sherlock opened the door with one naked foot. "Please?"
The doctor sighed and walked past Sherlock, sitting at his desk beside the door, heading for the unmade bed.
"Ah, and some tea when you've found it, please," added the detective without even turning.
That afternoon Sherlock was fully dressed and completely engrossed on his laptop. He sat on his spot of the sofa, reading on the screen and furiously typing with one hand while the other moved around a thin rod with a small cluster of feather tied to it by a string.
John watched them for a while. The cat jumped, ran and tried to catch the toy, but Sherlock, even as he never looked up from his computer, never let the cat get hold of the prey for longer than 2 seconds, just enough to pique his interest back.
Then Sherlock threw the toy across the room and the cat chased it at a run, tackling it midair as Sherlock closed the laptop and jumped to his feet.
"Come on John, we're going out!" He announced and got his coat and scarf.
They came back late that night, tired from running and John was a bit sore from his fall. Sherlock had seen the obstacle in the dark alley and jumped gracefully to avoid it, but John hadn't seen it until it was too late, hence his fall and unplanned encounter with the alley's cobblestones.
"I'm going to bed." John announced to Sherlock's back once they had opened the door to 221b. Sherlock shrugged, not even bothering with a goodnight. He shed his coat and returned to his laptop and his forum.
After a short stop in the bathroom John walked up the stairs and into his room to find out that a feline hurricane had unleashed his boredom on his belongings.
"I don't believe it." He gasped, judging the severity of the damage done to his things.
The duvet cover was now full of claw and teeth holes, his pillow was grey with cat hair, his shoes were chewed and sporting several holes and rips, and the rest of his things had ended up on the floor.
The cat stared at him from his vantage position on a shelf that had once held several anatomy manuals.
"You damn cat!" he started, pointing a finger at the cat, who was still indifferent to his opinion. "Get off the shelf. Get off!"
The cat stretched leisurely and the then calmly jumped off the shelf and on John's desk, then down again on the floor. He walked with his tail held high to the door, where Sherlock stood, hands in his pockets.
Greebo, the meanest cat on the planet, according to John Watson, was now intent on rubbing himself against Sherlock's ankles.
"Were you shouting at the cat?" he inquired, the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips.
"Yes, I bloody was. Look at what it did to my room. And Mrs. Hudson's furniture!" he added, having noticed only at that moment that his bed frame had been used as a scratch toy.
Sherlock clucked his tongue at him in amused disapproval. "Maybe he was just bored because he had to spend the entire afternoon alone in the house. I know I would be." And picking up the now purring cat, the detective made his way back down the stairs, leaving a pissed off Watson to tidy up his room.
The day that Harry's plumbing had finally been fixed was the only time he had answered one of Harry's phone calls on the first ring. His sister had been startled, but secretly happy about it.
"Harry's coming to pick up the cat in the afternoon." He said after hanging up on Harry midsentence.
"Ok," came the reply from the sofa. They had solved the last case and Sherlock was back to self-indulging in his ennui. The cat in question was curled up on itself between Sherlock's feet, napping but still alert to any sudden change in his environment.
John's gaze shifted from man to cat and back.
Then he walked up to Sherlock, retrieved his laptop (it was on the floor, discarded quickly because it didn't provide enough distraction to the detective) and sat at the kitchen table.
He opened his blog and started typing.
I don't know how I missed it so far, but I've realised that the presence of Harry's cat (thanks a lot, by the way) has doubled my burden.
Greebo, that's the name of the infernal fur ball that has taken over the apartment of 221b Baker Street, is in many ways like my flatmate, Sherlock.
They both will spend entire days on the sofa doing absolutely nothing, they create chaos whenever they start touching things, they will sniff at any new or unknown substance to judge if it's good or bad for them.
They like chasing things and jumping on people, they know their territory to perfection and are very possessive of their things.
When in need of something they become petulant and demand it of me.
They bring home disgusting pieces of carcasses/corpses and leave them around for me to stumble upon and swear in disgust.
They both like being scratched behind their ears.
John smirked at the webpage, looked at Sherlock who was now stretching his long limbs and then selected all the text and hit Del.
"John?" called the detective, standing up and stretching a bit more.
"Yes?"
"Tea, please." The cat stretched and jumped off the sofa as well, meowing in a demanding tone. "And I believe Greebo wants his milk."