Before we go ahead and 'read some fic', I'm going to ask you to read a short disclaimer. Hey, I know, guys – big yawn, eh? But you know what? It just might keep me from getting sued: I own nothing. Not even this disclaimer, really. Thanks for that, John Finnemore.
Note: This is for sweet Megan. Happy Birthday, dear! I hope you had a wonderful, happy day filled with cake, joy, and joyness. And I hope that dratted cold clears up right away.
This is probably the stupidest thing I've ever written, but it's one I've wanted to do for ages. Since I first introduced Jeff-the-Zoologist in another story I wrote for Megan, I decided to keep up with the tradition. I'm terribly sorry for what's about to follow. The summary (which is also dialogue in the body of the story) is a paraphrased quote from… well, you'll see.
Molly Hooper didn't even bother with a perfunctory 'Hi' when he answered his mobile. Instead, she abruptly asked, "Do you know anything about snow leopards?"
It was an odd way to begin a conversation, but he was in a rare, good mood, so Sherlock Holmes merely replied, "Next to nothing. Why?"
He couldn't describe her sigh as anything other than forlorn. "I figured as much." A pregnant pause; and then, "Do you want a snow leopard?"
Cartoonishly, Sherlock pulled the mobile away from his ear and stared at until he heard Molly calling his name, her far-away voice asking if he'd hung up. "I'm still here," he said, returning the phone to his ear. "I was just making sure my mobile wasn't shorting out. I just heard you offer me a snow leopard, but I know that can't be right."
She hesitated for a few beats. "Listen, do you think you just could come to my flat?"
He wasn't sure what was going on, but he already felt a deep sense of foreboding. Still, something about her odd behavior had him agreeing. After donning his coat and scarf, Sherlock left his flat, hailing a taxi and directing it to Molly's Southwark neighborhood. He spent the drive puzzling over the odd call.
Arriving on Merrick Square, he found her sitting on the front steps of her building, her chin resting on her closed fist and a dejected expression on her face. The fact that it was mid-October raining, and edging into night, seemed not to faze her. She didn't even brighten as she watched him approach, much to his chagrin.
"'Lo, Sherlock," she said without enthusiasm.
"What's going on?" He was growing more concerned by the moment. This was just strange. He'd never excelled at reading expressions or emotions in others, but she was broadcasting her unhappiness so clearly that it begged little interpretation.
Molly stood, halfheartedly brushing at her trousers. "We should probably go upstairs. I don't want anyone to overhear."
Frowning, Sherlock followed her up to her second floor flat. He couldn't help but notice that the minute he cleared the threshold, she closed the door quickly and dropped the deadbolt. She was ill at ease about something. Was she in danger? "Molly, what's going on?" he repeated.
She hunched her shoulders miserably, though he couldn't help but notice that she looked more cowed than sad. "You may not remember, but I have a Uni friend who's a zoologist."
"Jeff-the-Wanker?" he supplied. Oh, he remembered him. He'd had to sit through a painful forty-five minutes listening to the man in question visit with Molly at the Barts lab several months ago.
Rolling her eyes, she nodded. "That's the one. Just because he criticized Paganini doesn't mean he's a wanker, Sherlock."
"No, his inability to act like a human adult is what makes him a wanker. His complete lack of grasp of the mathematical genius in Paganini's compositions just reaffirms it."
Molly sucked in deep breath, clearly hoping for some patience. "Anyway, Jeff ran into a spot of trouble yesterday."
"Wanker," Sherlock muttered.
Ignoring him, Molly continued, "He volunteers at a big cat sanctuary in Derbyshire. Part of his work involves removing exploited animals from bad situations and relocating them to the refuge. This weekend, he got word of a snow leopard being kept by an elderly woman in Central London. No one knows where she got him or how neighbors didn't notice him living in their building until just last week." She sighed sadly. "Not only is that illegal, but the woman's health also began deteriorating and she has been unable to care for the poor thing. So Jeff rescued him."
"I have yet to see what this has to do with you," Sherlock said, growing impatient.
"Well, the thing is, he didn't actually clear it with the sanctuary beforehand. They are well out of space right now and besides, he didn't go about the rescue in any sort of official capacity. So they can't take the leopard without running into a bureaucratic nightmare."
"And now Jeff has a snow leopard running around his flat?"
Molly squirmed. "Not exactly."
Just then, Sherlock became aware of a scratching sound wafting down the hallway.
"Molly," he said carefully. "Did you shut Toby in your bedroom?"
She looked at him with mild pity. "Toby's sitting behind you on the settee back."
Turning slightly, he saw that the tabby was, in fact, dozing in a ray of sunlight that fell across the sofa. Slowly, Sherlock rose and walked down the hall. He felt like the idiot who goes to investigate a strange noise in those formulaic slasher films. He glanced behind him to see Molly chewing on her lip guiltily as she watched his retreat.
By the time he reached the end of the hall, the scratching sound had stopped. Sucking in a bracing breath, he eased the bedroom door open. He had to let his eyes adjust for a moment before he could see anything in the dim room. Nothing greeted him at the door, but then he saw something slink around the foot of the bed. Something large.
Slamming the door shut again, Sherlock whirled around and rushed back into the lounge. "Molly, you have to get out of this flat!"
She looked alarmed. "I can't, Sherlock! I have a lease!"
He sputtered. "Not permanently! There's a leopard in your bedroom!" He grabbed a mac off of the hanger by the door and hurried over to her. Sinking down onto the settee, he tried to stuff her arms through the sleeves (she wasn't helping), while he fretted. "Where's Toby's carrier? We'll go to Baker Street. I'll call the Met. No. They're useless. I'll call Mycroft!"
"Sherlock," she interrupted, "that's really not necessary. He's really quite tame."
"Oh, says the woman who barricaded the leopard in her bedroom."
Molly sighed. "I just put him in there so I could prepare you. It's a strange situation." She stood and walked down the short hallway. Before Sherlock could cry out, she reopened the door and crooned, "It's okay, Baby. Come on out."
Sherlock's entire body clenched as the white and black leopard emerged from Molly's room. He fought the urge to jump up and stand on the arm of the sofa. Not that evasion like that would work. Cats could jump.
He didn't know anything about leopard anatomy, but he did know this one was enormous. Its head reached Molly's belly, it probably weighed nine stone, and its paws were the size of large saucers. And Sherlock didn't think he was imagining the calculating gleam in its silvery eyes as it loped into the lounge. It began sniffing around, not giving Sherlock much thought. Or at least pretending not to, Sherlock thought with mounting distress. Did cats not toy with their prey? It was just waiting for him to be lulled into a false sense of security.
The leopard sauntered back over to Molly. Sherlock's eyes widened, ready to jump to her defense if it pounced, but it only rubbed its body against her legs. She extended her hand to scratch it behind the ears and Sherlock was sure he was about to have a stroke.
A deep purr filled the room, and the big cat's eyes squeezed shut as it lifted its chin for better access. Sherlock looked back at Toby again, who was still sleeping obliviously. "Some guard cat you are," he muttered at the fat tabby.
He realized his mistake far too late. He shouldn't have spoken. He'd managed to draw the leopard's attention over to where he sat. Stiffening like a hunted rabbit, he watched out of the corner of his eye it as it padded over his way. But alarmingly, it didn't stop there. It kept coming toward him until it was directly in front of him. Try as he might, he couldn't pull back far enough to evade it.
Gasping, he shuddered as a wet nose and whiskers tickled his face. The cat seemed to like whatever it smelled (it would. Sherlock should just get over it over with and legally change his name to 'Dinner'), for it came even closer and bumped its huge head under Sherlock's chin, knocking him back with its unintentional strength.
He nearly yelped when the leopard rose up on its hind legs, setting one huge paw on the cushion and the other on Sherlock's knee. When he felt something rough, wet, and warm dragging though his hair, Sherlock realized that he'd never made a Last Will and Testament. The pungent smell of cat breath that reached him was almost enough to do kill him, let alone the huge carnivore currently licking him.
Molly gave him a watery smile. "Look, Sherlock! Baby's grooming you!"
"I noticed," he said through gritted teeth. And then something struck him. "Did you just call this… this thing 'Baby'?" He tried to eye her around the leopard, since it was devoting itself to the task of bathing his curls with single-minded concentration.
Again, she looked sheepish. "It was what his former owner named him. But it certainly fits his temperament. Poor thing was probably born into some exotic pet mill. He's far too domesticated to have even a wild mother."
Deciding that he might as well move things along—if he was about to be mauled, he'd rather not prolong it—Sherlock tentatively reached forward and poked the leopard in the side, yanking his hand back immediately, lest it decide to bite his finger off.
It didn't deter the cat—Baby—at all. In fact, it only started purring again and bumping its large head against Sherlock's in between licks.
"Molly," he huffed, "this really is not to be borne. A snow leopard can't stay here. He's a predator, not a house cat."
She hunched her shoulders. "I know," she said miserably. "It's really only supposed to be temporary."
"How temporary?" Sherlock pressed.
Molly shrugged again. Before Sherlock could give her a scathing assessment of her tendency to become a menagerie for exploited, injured, and unwanted animals, Baby-the-leopard made an ungodly yowling noise.
Sherlock jumped. "What? What do you want? I have nothing for you, Baby!" He was very nearly afraid that he was pleading. With a snow leopard. In front of witnesses.
"He's probably just hungry," Molly chided. She hurried into the kitchen and clicked her tongue. Without moving away from his perch half on/half off of Sherlock's lap, Baby snapped his head around and tracked her movements to her refrigerator. When she straightened from fetching something on a lower shelf, the cat gracefully lowered itself back to the ground and trotted to the kitchen, his fluffy tail swaying behind him.
Sherlock watched as Molly set what appeared to a huge, raw steak on the ground, and then watched as Baby consumed the bloody slab of meat with gusto. It was mildly fascinating, but Sherlock was certain that the steak the cat currently ate was no smaller than a human man's thigh. What would stop Baby from snapping and going on a fresh meat rampage? Sherlock was careful about what he put in his body. He had no doubt that he'd be a prime picking for a predator: lean, muscular, hardly gamey at all. No wonder Molly had invited him over.
She didn't have to outrun Baby. She just had to outrun Sherlock.
While the leopard was distracted, Sherlock finally stood again and hurried to the door, pulling it open. "Can we please go now before he realizes that his taste for fresh meat is too great to resist?"
"Baby is not dangerous, Sherlock. I don't know how many times I have to tell you. He's old and has never attacked anyone and you should be gentle with him. Now why don't you come sit with me and we'll discuss what I should do? That's why I asked you over, you'll remember."
Grudgingly, he came back to the settee and collapsed on it, feeling sapped of energy. Fear of death-by-mauling took a lot out of a man. He rolled a little so that he could look at Molly. "What are your options?"
She frowned, thinking. "I want to be careful. There are some people who might want to put him down, so I quietly need to find some other animal rescue. Jeff already discussed it with the zoo, but they can't take animal 'donations'. Too much risk of contamination and we have no way to prove how Baby's been cared for."
"Are there any other big cat sanctuaries?" he asked.
"Not in the UK." She chewed on her lip. "I don't even know the first thing about how we'd export him somewhere else. Don't suppose your mum would be willing to turn her estate into a new refuge?"
Sherlock snorted. "She'd be quite keen, probably. It's my stepfather, Jean-Luc, who might have some objections, since he raises game hens and deer on their property. However much of a pussycat Baby might be, something tells me he'd get his hunting legs under him quickly enough with all that temptation."
Wryly, he swung his gaze over to the kitchen. The steak platter sat empty in front of the refrigerator. "Molly," he said quietly. "Where's Baby now?"
Looking behind her, she frowned. And then as one, they turned to look at the front door. Which Sherlock had not closed before sitting down again.
Molly and Shelrock both cursed colorfully as they jumped to their feet. Running down to the building's lobby, Sherlock hoped they'd find Baby prowling around, investigating things curiously. But of coruse not. The front entry had been propped open by some tenant or other for moving purposes, if the man-with-a-van parked outside was anything to go by.
Molly made a noise of distress, running out onto the sidewalk and looking frantically around. The street was blessedly empty, but that didn't mean the leopard hadn't been spooked by something and run off.
It was by some stroke of instinct—he wouldn't call it luck—that Sherlock looked across to the thick foliage that filled Merrick Square just in time to see the tip of a fluffy, white tail disappear into the dark, forest green. "There!" he shouted, pointing. "He's in the square!"
They tore across the street, ignoring the angry shout of a bicyclist who'd nearly hit them. Sherlock and Molly had to circle around the outer perimeter until they could get to an access into the garden itself. As soon as they got inside, they turning around and around, trying to spot Baby. Sherlock could only hope the huge cat hadn't already hoped the fence and headed to pastures concrete-ier.
Molly clicked her tongue over and over again, but they heard not response. The leaves in the trees didn't even rustle. Just as Sherlock was about to suggest they walk the outside perimeter again, Molly started singing.
He looked at her incredulously, worrying for her mental health. She stopped before she'd even made it six words into the lyrics. "Apparently this is what his owner used to sing to him. I have to try something. Sing with me."
Shaking his head furiously, Sherlock said, "I don't know it."
Molly rolled her eyes. "You do know this song. John listens to it on repeat. Don't try that with me, Mr. Holmes." At that, she turned back and started warbling again, "The night we met I knew I needed you so…"
She continued on determinedly. Sherlock watched her in stubborn silence for the entire first verse, but when she got to the chorus, he began singing the backup echo under his breath. "Be my, be my baby… My one and only baby…." His eyes flicked around furiously, not only trying to spot the leopard, but also making sure there was no one there to witness this moment of utter ignominy.
And then suddenly, the square echoed with that strange, unsettling yowl that Sherlock had heard for the first time only twenty minutes earlier. Molly whacked his arm in excitement, and then started singing again. They followed the sound until they came to a large tree in the corner of the square. There, perched on a high branch, was Baby. He continued to yowl as he watched them sing. As Sherlock sang an old Motown song with Molly Hooper while a snow leopard quite literally caterwauled along with them, he realized that this was the strangest night he'd ever had in his life.
When it became clear that Baby was quite content to remain up in his tree, "singing" along with them, Sherlock petered out and stepped to the side, pulling out his mobile.
...
Three quarters of an hour later, her voice hoarse from singing the same song over and over again, Molly stopped abruptly and hissed at Sherlock, "Someone's coming!"
Cutting off his own doo-wopping ("Whoa-whoa-whoa—Oh!"), Sherlock brightened considerably. "That'll just be Mycroft."
Molly stared at him. "What can Mycroft do?"
"Though I'll deny it if you ever repeat it, the more appropriate question is what can't Mycroft do?" he posited.
"Too late. I already heard," came a languid voice from behind them. Sherlock felt a sudden rush of deep affection for Baby when he stopped yowling and gave a warning growl, instead.
"Careful there, Mycroft. This cat is hyper-protective and has been known to go for the throat." He failed to mention that Baby's version of 'going for the throat' involved enthusiastic social grooming.
Mycroft's lips twisted in a sarcastic smile toward his little brother before he looked back up at the leopard and whistled a few bars of the Ronette's song. Apparently that was all that was necessary to win Baby's affection, for he began yowling again.
Fair weather friend, Sherlock thought with a scowl.
The cat safely preoccupied again, Mycroft turned back to the pair standing beneath the tree. "I have a tactical team waiting to come for the leopard. Just to tranquilize him, Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said, hearing Molly's noise of distress. "The big cat sanctuary has suddenly found room for… Baby within the bosom of its snow leopard refuge. They'll accept receipt of him tonight."
Molly clasped her hands excitedly. "That's wonderful. I'm so pleased. Thank you, Mycroft!"
The Elder Holmes shrugged beatifically. "All in a day's work."
Sherlock's eyes hurt from rolling. But then he noticed that something was still bothering Molly, if her frown was anything to go by. "What?"
Turning worried eyes on him, she said, "It's just that he's only ever been in domestic settings, not in an outdoor sanctuary. can we visit him?"
Mycroft hmmed. "I imagine, with the amount of money that Sherlock has paid them, they'd be foolish to deny you whatever you want."
Molly gasped and turned to look at an uncomfortable Sherlock.
"It was nothing," he said, denying himself the compulsion to scratch under his collar. "They want to name the leopard enclosures after me. I suggested they call it 'The Hooper Wing', instead." His eyes widened when he saw her eyes pool with tears. "It was either that or 'The Wanker Wing'," he added in a rush, trying to get back on even ground.
The dig only slightly diminished Molly's emotive response, but she and Sherlock stepped to the side as three people came striding into the park. Within minutes, Baby was sluggishly jumping from the tree and staggering around, trying to shake loose the tranquillizer dart in his shoulder. Finally, he lay down and began snoring in the wheezy way of all felines.
Molly tugged Sherlock with her over to the cat. Crouching down, she petted the unconscious Baby. Tears started dribbling down her face as she stroked a large paw. Unable to resist, Sherlock , too, reached forward and sifted his fingers through Baby's fur. It was as every bit as soft as it looked, he had to admit.
Finally, though, a clearing throat had Sherlock straightening and pulling Molly up with him. They watched as the Baby was loaded into the back of an unmarked van. The doors closed, and the three minions of Mycroft's drove away, disappearing around the closest turn.
Slowly, Molly and Sherlock trudged back up to her flat. While he was doffing his scarf, Sherlock heard a loud sniffle behind him. Turning, he blinked at Molly. "Why are you still crying? All is well for Baby."
She looked at him, her face eloquent with sadness. "I know it's stupid. I really liked him and I'm sad he's gone, even though I know he couldn't possibly stay."
Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but turned more fully to her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and drawing her to him. "There, there," he recited.
She sniffled deeply and buried her face in his neck. "I'm a big, blubbering idiot," she moaned, her voice muffled by the wool of coat collar.
Sherlock frowned. "Well, you did let your friend deposit a snow leopard at your flat before he disappeared into the sunset. So you're not a big, blubbering idiot. You're just an overly-friendly one."
"That doesn't make me feel better." She drew back enough to look up at his face.
He frowned, confused. "I thought the hug accomplished that. And I said that crying doesn't make you an idiot. Your friend, Wanker—"
"Jeff," she interrupted.
"Jeff does."
Molly returned her face into the folds of his coat. "You're supposed to rub my back, disagree when I call myself an idiot—since I know I'm not one at all—and remind me at that least I don't have diabetes."
Sherlock was growing more confused by the moment, though he did start sweeping his hand in wide circles on her back. "What would the health of your pancreas have to do with anything?"
"It was a Buffy ref—never mind. Do you want to stay here tonight?"
Sherlock caught sight of himself in the mirror by the door. His hair was matted down with dried leopard saliva. Molly's long hair was a tangled mess with leaves scattered throughout.
He surveyed the lounge. The settee bore several shreds in the material where something with suspiciously large paws had gotten rather free with its claws. The empty platter still sat on the kitchen floor with congealed blood on and around it. A few tufts of fluffy, white fur dotted the carpet. And Toby, oblivious to it all, slept on in his favored spot.
Sherlock's body shook with a sudden, inane laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. He sighed in exasperation at their life. Remembering that Molly had asked him a question, he grinned at her and nodded before bending his head to kiss her lips, dipping her back slightly in his arms when their mouths met.
Note Two: If you haven't seen Bringing Up Baby, I really feel you must. I tried to think of a way that I could get Sherlock into a marabou-trimmed dressing gown, but alas, you'll just have to watch the film and imagine Benedict Cumberbatch in Cary Grant's place. That'd be a tough choice, because Cary Grant really is my leopard's roar. Hubba hubba.