Chapter 1
All was quiet at 221B Baker Street. Too quiet, much too quiet for my taste, thought Sherlock Homes, as he rested in his armchair, his head resting on his paws, tail twitching in annoyance. It's been three bloody months since my last case, he griped. Stretching his legs and yawning, he proceeded to jump down from the chair, leap onto the windowsill, and look out into the street below, his ice blue eyes scanning the area for anything out of the ordinary.
Ears pinned back in thought, he began to wonder, absentmindedly, what it was like to be an ordinary person. Not obviously ordinary, as in completely human. He meant truly ordinary, as in lacking in sharp intellect, dull, stupid. Then again, he mused, they never worry about things that are beyond their scope of grasp. Perhaps to some extent, ignorance is bliss, he concluded, as he licked his paw and proceeded to groom his ear.
The door that led to the street opened and slammed shut. John, Sherlock thought, as he leapt down from the windowsill, and stretch out on the carpet, claws extended outward. A minute later, John ascended the stairs, holding a grocery bag. "Did you get the tea and milk?" Sherlock questioned. "Yes," John replied. "And the fish?"
"Yes,"
"Was it caught from the wild, or farmed?"
"Farmed,"
"Was it on the display for less than 72 hours?"
"Yes…"
"Did you ask-"
"Sherlock," John moaned as he set the grocery bag down on the counter. There were times like this when John wished he could just have a normal flat mate, like everyone else. When he wished his partner could eat regular food, who didn't practice his violin at 3 am, only to be followed by yowling with the other cats at 4 am, who didn't keep body parts in the kitchen, or who didn't get his kicks from dead bodies and serial killers. Oh well, John thought, as he entered the living room, one can't have it all.
When he got there, he found Sherlock intensively studying what appeared to be a human hand. It had sat in the freezer for over three days, and Sherlock had taken it out an hour ago to study the effects of frostbite after death. He was studying the fingertips for any telltale black marks, using his paws to flick the tips over, letting his whiskers brush the skin for any traces of cold, biting the thumb and flipping the hand over to have a look at the palm.
Suddenly, Sherlock's phone beeped. "Get that, will you?" he growled at John. He never liked to be interrupted when he was working, and today was no exception. Besides, it was always a cumbersome process for Sherlock to answer his phone. For that reason, Sherlock had gotten a Bluetooth earpiece, which would have made things easier. However, he was constantly losing it, and today was a lost day. John picked up the phone and read the text:
Egyptian ambassador has lost cat.
Suspect is man found to have been murdered 3 days prior.
Look into as soon as convenient.
-Lestraude
"Sherlock," John called, showing the phone to the detective. "Not now," Sherlock growled, tail twitching in annoyance and deep concentration. "Sherlock," John repeated, feeling annoyed himself. "I'm busy" Sherlock hissed, now feeling plain angry at his roommate for interrupting him on such an important experiment. "Just read it, dammit" John muttered, setting the phone on the desk. To get it over with, Sherlock glanced for a minute at the phone, and stopped. His ears pricked up in interest as he read the text over, slowly. "Well this is perfect. A man, murdered three days prior, is suspect of stealing a priceless animal over 72 hours after his expiration. Brilliant!" he purred, feeling more excited with each moment. He leapt over the table to a small coat hanger, wrestled on his coat, and slipped his head into his scarf. "Come along, John!" he called after the doctor. "The hunt is on!"