When Kitty Cats Attack
Prompt: Heaven
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
"Sherlock, I feel like rubbish and I have a fever," Molly Hooper said softly into her phone, dragging herself through her flat and locking the front door. "This case is a seven at least, so I suggest staying away until I feel better." Her body ached and she honestly felt like she was going to drop her phone and fall over.
Sherlock was quiet for a moment before murmuring, "Take a bin or bucket with you to bed."
"Already have one ready."
Sherlock was quiet again, and Molly could actually hear him thinking and deducing. She carefully made her way back to her bedroom, her phone pressed tightly against her ear and Toby nuzzling her ankles as she moved.
"I will be over in the morning to check on you. It's what partner's do, correct?"
"Yes, Sherlock," Molly said with a tired giggle, carefully sitting down on the edge of her bed. After a brief second, she pulled off her pajamas until she was down to her white vest. Then she crawled beneath her blankets and settled into bed, her cat nestling himself at the end of the bed. She closed her eyes tiredly.
"Did you fall asleep?"
"Hmm…" Molly hummed, unable to open her eyes.
"Goodnight Molly." She was certain she heard a bit of a laugh in Sherlock's voice.
"Night, Sherlock."
When Molly woke up, she at first thought she was startled awake by her fever breaking. She was drenched in sweat and her duvet and sheet were pushed down by her ankles.
Then she opened her eyes and saw someone looming over her. She wanted to roll her eyes and shift over in the bed to give Sherlock room, when she realized her Sherlock was a lot taller than this bloke, even though he was leaning over her in bed. She blinked her eyes rapidly as the fog cleared from her brain and she tried to focus her eyes in the dark without her glasses or contacts.
Fuzzy outline. Dressed in all black or dark colors. Mask over his face or a severe disfigurement.
A robber!
Molly opened her mouth to scream, but a hand shot out and covered most of her face, causing her to swallow her scream and flinch away.
Molly felt her heart pounding in her chest as she stared wide eyed at the man above her. The nausea that she had been fighting most of the day returned full force. She weakly tried scratching at the hand over her face. And then things became a bit comical, if Molly was going to be honest; a shadow flashed across the room and in the dark, Molly saw her sweet precious cat flying through the air, his claws on display.
Toby, unafraid, latched onto the intruders face and yowled, clawed, and bit until the man stumbled backwards and threw the cat from him.
Miraculously, the man tried to run from the room and abandon whatever he was doing, but got confused as to the exit. Instead of heading to the hallway, he ran right into her closet.
Molly scrambled from her bed, ran to her closet and slammed the door and locked it. She was suddenly thankful that Sherlock had the deadbolt installed on her closet door to practice picking locks, because now the man couldn't escape.
She snatched her phone from her bed and immediately dialed 999, slipped on her dressing gown and dashed from her flat with Toby hot on her heels. She didn't want to take any chances of being in her flat in case the robber somehow managed to break out of her closet. She saw that her door had been jimmied open as she left her flat and went straight to her landlord's door downstairs and knocked on it, knowing he was a light sleeper. As a former military man, Molly felt that this was the safest place she could go other than 221 Baker Street.
John Watson placed a mug of tea in front of Sherlock and moved to the sofa so he could finish watching his crap telly in peace; Sherlock had been alternately complaining about his thirst and boredom for nearly two hours.
John only glanced at Sherlock when he heard his phone ring.
"Ahh, Sally. To what do I owe the pleasure?" John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's obvious annoyance with the person on the other line. He lifted his own cuppa to his lips, but hesitated when he heard Sherlock's sudden intake of breath and then, "Where is she?" He turned his head to his flatmate, altogether ignoring the telly and observed quietly. "Less than five minutes? I'll be downstairs at the door."
When Sherlock hung up and slid his mobile into his dressing gown, John took the opportunity to say, "Everything okay?"
Sherlock shook his head once before getting up from his seat, his tea forgotten. "Get your medical kit. I think Molly has been hurt."
John wasted no time discarding his tea onto the side table and launching to his bedroom, intent on gathering his medical bag and recently restocked first aid kit. When he returned, he was surprised to see Molly on his sofa, arms wrapped around her knees. Sherlock was off to the side, talking to Sally Donovan. Ignoring the officer and his flatmate, John moved to sit across from Molly on the small coffee table. "Hey there," he said congenially. "Sherlock said you might be hurt…?"
Molly lifted up her robe to show John her sockless feet. One was perfectly fine.
The other was covered in blood.
"Jammed it into my landlord's sideboard. I had no idea it looked so bad." She clasped a hand over mouth and turned away. John arched an eyebrow; for a woman who cut up dead bodies for a living, she was remarkably squeamish. And then he remembered that she was battling the flu.
He pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. "You've got a fever. Have you taken anything recently?"
"Six hours!" she squeaked between her fingers. He could see her hands begin to tremble.
"Since you took medicine?" John asked, standing up. Molly nodded her head.
John trotted into the kitchen and began searching for something for her to get sick in that didn't smell or look wretched from Sherlock's experiments. He found a large rectangular basin in good shape beneath the sink and he returned to the sofa and gave Molly the basin.
She immediately got sick.
With Molly safely nestled, bandaged up, and medicated in Sherlock's bedroom, the two men worked to clean up the messes created within the lounge. Sherlock took responsibility for Molly's basin as John cleaned up antiseptic wipes, plaster wrappers, and bloodied napkins.
When all was clean and Sherlock returned the sparkling clean basin to Molly, John made a new cuppa for himself and Sherlock and sat down in his chair. "Mind telling me what's going on now?" he asked, nursing his hot drink.
"No," Sherlock deadpanned, clearing his throat before leaning forward and calling sweetly, "Toby! Here kitty, kitty!" he scowled as he did it.
John turned in his seat to see a gray and white tabby slinking towards the chair, wary of his surroundings. He recalled that Molly had a cat named Toby, but he never had the pleasure of meeting the aforementioned creature.
After hesitating by the sofa, sniffing the air and furniture, the cat finally made his way to Sherlock and jumped into his lap, curling on himself and purring while nudging his hand affectionately.
"Now," Sherlock said, scratching the cat behind the ears. "I will tell you." He cleared his throat again and said, "Someone broke into Molly's flat. The man who did it had a warrant for varying degrees of burglary, theft, or assault. Evidently DI Dimmock has been looking for this bloke unsuccessfully for several months." He glanced away from John and looked at Toby. "Thankfully Toby reacted uncharacteristically and attacked the man, nearly gouging his eyes out and leaving a lot of damage to his face." Sherlock picked up one of Toby's paws and squeezed it lightly, looking at the extracted claws. "Toby has never hurt anyone before, but did so to protect Molly." He patted the cat on the head and said, "Good kitty."
Molly felt like death warmed over as she dragged herself from Sherlock's bedroom, clad in an oversized jumper he never wore. At least my fever broke. The flat was quiet as she padded through to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She was pleased to see a small note and two tablets on a clean space on the counter.
'Ran to the shops.
Sherlock insisted on coming along.
Two paracetamol should help you feel
a bit better. Eat some toast since it's
all we have. Do NOT use the butter
in the red bowl.
-JW'
Molly busied herself by making two pieces of toast and slathering it with honey. Then she drank half a glass of milk, took the medicine, and then slowly made her way to the sofa, where she all but threw herself on it and covered up with the blanket that was folded over the back. As soon as she was comfortable, she felt a tap on her nose, and she opened her eyes to squint at her beloved Toby. He immediately head butted her and meowed softly. Molly wiggled her fingers at him and murmured, "Here Toby."
The cat wasted no time jumping onto the couch and making himself comfortable on her hip.
Molly was only dozing when she heard the door downstairs open and the sound of two familiar sets of feet walking up the steps.
"Feeling alright?" Sherlock asked, once he spotted Molly on the couch, the small throw blanket pulled up to her chin. He ignored the shopping and walked to Molly, sitting down in the same spot John had been in the night before. He leaned towards her and felt her forehead with the back of his hand.
"I feel completely terrible," Molly said, looking at Sherlock blearily. "But no fever and I kept down toast and honey."
"Good." Sherlock reached into his Belstaff and pulled out her glasses case. "I could not locate your contact cleaning solution, but I do have your glasses."
"Don't have any."
"Always miss something," Sherlock said dismissively, waving his hand about. He placed her case beside him on the table and smoothed a bit of her hair down that was sticking up. Molly leaned into his touch and sighed softly. "I got Toby a present."
"You did?" Molly asked, her interest piqued. She opened her eyes again and glanced from her sleeping cat to Sherlock. "Why?"
"Because he did a good job protecting you, and don't you reward animals for a job well done?" Sherlock jumped from the table and went into the kitchen. John grumbled at him to help put away the shopping, but he just ignored him and instead tore through the bags until he found what he was looking for.
Shoving it into this pocket, Sherlock sauntered back into the lounge, shoved the table out of the way so the middle of the floor was free, and then dropped a large gray plush mouse onto the floor. "Toby!"
Toby cracked an eye open and stared at Sherlock, before Sherlock nudged the toy with his foot and the cat immediately launched from Molly and pounced on the toy.
It only took a few seconds for Toby to begin rolling around the floor, rubbing against the toy and purring contentedly. Molly laughed at her cat's antics and Sherlock moved to the couch, easily plopping Molly's feet into his lap. "Oh! He's in heaven, Sherlock!" Molly looked down at the end of the couch and caught Sherlock's eye, grinning. Then she returned her attention to the cat.
Sherlock had never seen a cat on catnip before, and was startled when Toby's pupils began to dilate until he could hardly see his irises. And then he gasped when he began aggressively mauling the mouse. "He's trying to get the catnip," Molly said, giggling.
"This could be an experiment!" Sherlock said, leaning forward and observing the cat.
There was silence for a few moments, and then both Sherlock and Molly were startled by a snort. They both turned to look at John as he covered his eyes with his hand and shook his head slowly. "Only you, Sherlock Holmes, would deem a cat on catnip a worthy experiment. You have eleven thumbs sitting in a bowl of acid and yet—"
Sherlock suddenly launched from the couch, knocking Molly off of it in the process. She landed hard on her front and groaned as Sherlock cried, "My thumbs!"
Fin.
A/N: This story was hard for me to write. I initially wrote a two-shot (which I will now be harboring on my computer forever) that was terribly sad because the prompt is Heaven after all. But then I couldn't bring myself to post, so I spent three days pulling this out of my brain. Ooops!
Anyway, thank you for reading, commenting, and/or leaving Kudos!
-Janet