OKAY been away for a while. This is just an idea but I don't know whether to continue, so please feel free to make any points whatsoever on it. I don't get injured easily by criticism!

Morning leaked its way in through the small gap in the curtains, dancing across the soft carpet to meet skin and covers. The white beam of sun shone daringly bright, little bits of dust swaying with a slow laziness, basking in its light.

'John wake up.'

'No.'

He grunted and clung onto his pillow as if he was on a little boat in a storm, clinging to the mast. Sherlock sighed.

'You're awake though.'

Pause. Thinking of anything to say was hard when you were half asleep.

'You should have told me to get up then, shouldn't you?'

Another sigh from Sherlock's behalf.

'Get up.'

'Never.'

Sherlock strode over from the doorway to the end of the bed and examined the feeble mass of duvet and limbs sprawled across the mattress. 'John, it's almost lunchtime.'

'Eat then.'

'I don't want to. It's almost YOUR lunchtime.'

Groan. Curse. Wriggle.

'What is your problem Sherlock? Can't a man be awake in bed in peace?'

'Not today.'

'UGH!'

'Hit a nerve have I? I suppose it's hard struggling through a mid-life crisis such as the one you're having and have had for almost a week now, but then again I am 7 years younger than you so I wouldn't know what feeling middle aged is. How long have you been pining for female company now?'

'Piss off Sherlock.'

'Not until you get up.'

'For god's sake I don't want lunch!'

'Good. That gives you more time to remove the massive animal from my chair.'

John was suddenly awake. Very awake. It was either the fact that there was (alarmingly) an animal in the flat that interested him or the fact that Sherlock was too much of a wimp to shift it himself.

'You what?'

'My chair.'

'No, the first bit.' John said, exasperated.

'You're not deaf as well as stupid are you?' Sherlock whinged and began to strum his fingers on the wooden bed end, knowing that this would agitate John to no end.

'Oh bloody hell- FINE.'

John rolled off the bed and into his dressing gown, shoved his feet into is slippers and stumbled down the corridor towards the sitting room.

What he saw was something he was not prepared for. He thought maybe a spider, which is what most people were afraid of, except Sherlock wasn't most people. His mind then flew to the opposite end of the spectrum and imagined a hyena or something ripping up his favourite cushion.

What he really saw was a tabby cat curled up in the dent Sherlock had molded into his seat.

'Oh my god, you can't be serious.' John sniggered and looked at Sherlock with amusement.

'It's a stray.' Sherlock turned his nose up at the cat and crossed his arms, striding over to the kitchen, as far away from it in the room he could get.

'Really? But- hang on how do you know?'

'It's obvious.'

'Whatever…' John approached the cat cautiously, but then paused 'If it's stray like you say it is-'

'It is.'

'-then maybe we should just… let it sleep? It's got warmth for once! How did it get in anyway?'

'I don't know but it tore up a document I was reading on-'

'We need to cat proof the house-' John began thoughtfully, but then realised Sherlock was still talking, mainly to himself. He knelt down next to the occupied chair and slowly reached out to stroke the cat. It woke. John flinched and almost drew his hand away in case he got malled by it, until he noted that it was purring softly, it's grey eyes drifting closed again.

'I never got to Professor Gladstone's section either.'

'Oh god forbid.' John scowled and continued stroking the cat.

Sherlock hated it already.