The Fluffy Moments in Life
221B Baker street was silent. You could hear the drumming of the pads of Sherlock's fingers against each other as he lay around the empty flat. This was life now that the Watson's were away. Gone. Happy. Leading the ordinary, domesticated life of a happy couple in London, England. As ordinary as an ex army doctor and ex criminal with hormonal imbalances due to pregnancy can be.
When the Watson's are away, Sherlock ... is at bay?
Heels clicked up the stairs, the only sound practically shook the flat. Six inches, the steps are quick and precise with no scuffling. The proud and haughty owner must have owned them for quite some time or else the bottoms of the designer shoes would have been slick and smooth, with no grip to the floor the owner strode on. Light steps, filled with confidence. Mary was too hefty. Janine was in Sussex. Mrs. Hudson? Please. Not since her years of exotic dancing. Donovan had no taste of any sort. Anthea was too busy stuck up Mycroft's-
The door opened and closed hurriedly as-.
The Woman. Six pounds heavier. Wait.
"I brought you a present. You're probably confused and..." Irene Adler paused as she rounded the corner to look at the consulting detectives face. "There's the face." She finished with a knowing smirk. Hardly any person alive had had the pleasure of seeing that puzzled expression on Sherlock's face. And yet she had seen it seventeen times.
"Your boyfriend has other matters to attend to now. So I decided to bring you another accomplice."
Sherlock's fingers stopping drumming and halted their rhythmic beat and the detective sat up, half interested in what this woman was going on about. Six pounds.
Where is the six pounds now?
He took in a deep inhale and his eyes widened in realization. No.
"Woman." He exhaled her title in annoyance. "Do you know the one thing I am allergic to?" He asked, his baritone voice even lower now that he had caught on.
"Cats." She said knowingly with a mischievous grin as she pulled a black cat out of the ridiculously sized back she had kept at her side.
Now that it was it was too late, he noticed the fine black hair adorning her choice of attire, a red sleek dress that rose just above her knees, recently bought, no. Given or else she wouldn't have been so careless as to leave cat hair and drip tea on the hem of the dress.
A tedious tickle made his pale nose wrinkle up and twitch. Irene found the act the equivalent to the fondness that some people had to watching small children shove their faces into foods. Adorable and hard to look away from.
"I-.." He began, as he stood and clutched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Ipreferdogs." He said in one short breath before he sneezed.
"Yes I know. Red... something.. Redbeard. Oh yes, did you come up with that yourself?" She questioned fondly as she settled herself down in Sherlock's chair, letting the cat down from her embrace and on its way to explore its new territory. The detective glared. The woman grinned.
"I paid a visit to your mother and father." She explained her knowledge. "You really should call her more. The poor woman worries about you so."
"Mm, yes. Reminds me of someone else." He muttered as he rubbed his irritated nose before flopping back onto the sofa. "Oh for Gods sake! It's everywhere now! Do you know how long it took to rid that .." He paused, knowing his admittance and crucial mistake in his rant. "Fur." He spat, "Mycroft always had a love for anything that irritated me."
Irene looked at him quizzically with a perfect eyebrow raised along with a corner of her lips. "Yes of course." She murmured before raising her voice further to carry on talking. "His name is James. James Moriarty." She smirked, "I couldn't resist. He's sleek, proud, and the rest of which his namesake came from you will find out soon enough. And you two have a lot more in common than you know."
The detective said nothing. He simply stared at her. Was he supposed to thank her? For a tedious nuisance such as this? Never. "Take it back." He ordered.
"Oh, not the subliminal type are we? I can fix that." She flirted with a glint in her cobalt eyes. But I'm afraid I can't." She pouted then raised her petite hands in surrender as a smile rose to her face. "No takesies backsies."
He huffed like a child and crossed his lanky arms.
Two weeks later:
The Woman slunk back into 221B two weeks after she had first arrived with Sherlock's gift. She heard deep breathing and a soft snore as she slid off her heels to avoid the noise the shoes gave off as she went to investigate the sounds of heavy sleeping.
There sprawled on the couch was the detective, dozing languidly with Moriarty covering the mans eyes and nose and half his mouth, the feline was also dozing. As she gazed down at the sight she took in the bright red scratch marks all over Sherlock's exposed forearms and ankles. As well as the dwindling twines of fabric that hang off of his clothes.
She had come baring a small bottle of allergy pills and a carton of milk, both of which she sat beside the sofa where the pair lay. Irene had a sinking feeling that Sherlock would be awaking any moment now as she turned her back and walking towards the door to exit the flat once more.
As she gathered her shoes, the black cat had successfully spread its full, silky body completely over the younger Holmes' face. Resulting in muffled panic from Sherlock who discovered he could no longer breathe; further disturbing the little king Moriarty's sleep. The cat didn't take too well to his bed moving so he sunk his claws into the detectives face to silence the movements.
Irene hurried down the stairs as she caught the bellowing, " MORIARTY!" That had erupted from Sherlock in a deep shout of excruciating pain. He would take a gunshot wound any day over the slow digging of a felines hooked claws to his battered skin.
It seems that James Moriarty may kill Sherlock Holmes after all.