A/N: This is a project I'm doing with my friend Zoffoli. We decided to do a little project where we each write a story where Sherlock is a cat (of some form) and is being taken care of my different characters. This is the first one on my side. My characters are Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Moriarty, and Lestrade. Zoffoli will be writing Irene, John, and Mycroft. These are not specifically pairing stories, just about relationships between characters in general. Anyway, have fun.

Molly Hooper found a black cat out in the rain on her way home from work. She didn't normally pick up cats, but this one just looked at her like it knew her. He had the most intelligent black eyes she'd ever seen on a cat. "Hey there," she cooed. She knelt down, careful not to put her bags down on the wet pavement. The cat just stared at her impassively, though it did shift more under her umbrella. "It's a bad night to be out in the rain. How about I take you home for the night?" She asked.

The cat blinked at her. As crazy as it sounded, she felt like it understood her. She smiled, and carefully started to juggle things around to remove her scarf. Her clothes were never that fashionable, and she had very few things she had enough attachment to that she wouldn't sacrifice to give a half starved, shivering, wet cat in mid October some kind of warmth.

She swaddled the animal, not wanting to get scratched. The cat 'mrt-ed' at the indignity, but didn't try to fight her. She was able to carry it home in one arm. "My flat isn't that far away," she said, carrying the cat around the corner. A key in the door, shut umbrella and two flights of stairs later and she was home. She carefully unswaddled the cat and set him down. "Hold on, let me get you a towel," she said, shutting the door with her foot.

She tossed her bags down and took her scarf, laying it across her bathtub to dry while she got the towel. When she came back the cat was limping around the room, examining things and dripping on the carpet. "Oh no," she said quickly, going to the cat. She scooped him up and sat down, starting to dry the cat.

"You're really wet, aren't you?" she asked. She always spoke to cats like she spoke to people. It was just a habit she'd picked up from her grandmother. "Look at you, half starved and cold, and looking around even when you're hurt. You remind me of a… friend of mine," she said, carefully drying the cat's hurt paw. The cat let out very uncomfortable noises, and when she pulled her white towel away there were small drops of red.

"Oh dear," she said softly. She walked into her bathroom, still carrying the cat. She moved her scarf and set the cat down in the bathtub. He looked grumpy. She smiled and blushed a bit when she saw his eyes, they looked a bit white now in this light. "Yes, just like Sherlock," she said with a smile. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you?" she asked, sitting down on the edge of her tub for a moment. She picked up the cat's tail, checking for sex. The cat yowled and she laughed. "Okay, okay," she said, smiling at him.

"I'm going to get my first aid kit, now stay in the tub," she told him.

Sherlock Holmes had just had a pretty not good day. It was never a good day when it ended being turned into a cat. He was quite livid at how his last showdown with Moriarty had gone. How had the man even managed it? Sherlock wondered how he was ever going to get back to human, but more he wondered how he was still able to think at his normal level when his brain had to be shrunk to fit into a cat's head.

He'd escaped from Moriarty, but now he was limping home in the rain. He kept wondering if John or Mrs. Hudson would let him home. His left paw hurt. When it had been a hand only a few hours ago he'd gotten a knife right through the center. Walking was making his now-paw still bleed. Finally he had to stop, too in pain to keep on.

It was about that moment that someone knelt down in front of him. He never thought he'd been so glad to see Molly Hooper. She was a cat lover, if he remembered correctly. Even having to be swaddled like a baby, he was just happy to be picked up, warm, no longer getting wet and no longer walking.

The second Molly set him down in her apartment he started looking around. It was harder to see things as a cat. Yes, they were clearer, but the vantage point was not advantageous, not being able to see the color red wasn't helping matters. He completely forgot about his limp until Molly came back and scolded him for it. She scooped him up lovingly in a towel and started to dry him.

Sherlock wondered idly how happy Molly would be if she knew who he was. Since that disastrous Christmas exchange he'd known for sure that she'd liked him. He'd had no idea before that. The only other woman who showed an interest in him was Irene Adler, and that hadn't really worked out well for her.

He no longer cared what Molly felt when she lifted his tail. He let out a loud yowl at the indignity of it all. She just laughed and wandered off. He ended up pacing around the bathtub, bored and not thinking about his paw because he was bored.

"Jeez, you're worse than your namesake. I'd like to think that Sherlock would at least not walk around so much if he'd hurt his leg," Molly said, sitting down on the edge of the tub and scooping Sherlock up back in the towel. She had a very firm grip on him, clearly thinking that, as a cat, he would fight her when she tried to help him.

To her surprise, he didn't. To his surprise she was very effective at treatment and bandaging his paw. Once that was over she went back to drying his fur before brushing him out with a cat brush. "You know," Molly started as she began to brush Sherlock. He couldn't help it, he purred. He wasn't completely in control of his cat body, and he felt warm and very, very good from the brushing.

Molly smiled. "You know," she started again. "I used to have a cat. Mr. Mittens," she laughed at the expression Sherlock made in her arms. "I didn't name him. I got him a shelter. He'd been abused by his last owner. They were going to put him down. When I first got him he'd scratch me up all the time," she said.

Sherlock's eyes shifted to her arms. Scars, yes, though hard to see because of time and proper treatment. His cat eyes noticed better than his human ones did. "Mit, that's what I called him for short, wouldn't answer to anything else… he was older when I got him, and I'd had him for a few years," she said, her voice getting sad. Sherlock looked up at her, blinking at her. "I'm sorry, I know you don't care, but it was just recently. I still haven't gotten rid of his litter box. I mean I've emptied it!" she said suddenly before laughing at her silliness. The cat wouldn't care.

"I mean, I still have his food. You're so skinny," she said, standing up with Sherlock in her arms and carrying him out to the kitchen. She set him down at Mr. Mitten's dishes. She filled the food dish with wet cat food and filled the water dish. Sherlock ate it because she seemed to fuss when he didn't. It wasn't very good, but it was sustenance, and the water was helpful. He tried to pad out to the carpet, but again Molly scooped him up.

This time she carried him out to her couch, sitting down and holding him in her lap. "Now, now, the patient can't be stressing his wounds so quickly," she chastised. Sherlock wondered if she realized that he really understood her. He looked up at her, assessing. She surprised him when she leaned down and kissed the top of his head. She scratched the side of his neck until he was a completely purring mess and laughed at the sound. He wasn't used to her laughing so freely. It was nice.

"You know Sherlock," she said with a tittering little laugh that was clearly uncomfortable, and a blush, "I should have come up with a better name, but you're just like him. You even have his eyes, his strange and beautiful eyes," she said. "You're not likely to ever meet him, and I suppose as a cat you won't care how he looks… oh but he's so beautiful," she said with a loving smile. She slumped down in her seat and lay her head back against her chair.

"He's so exasperating though… sometimes, all the time. I've done… everything I can to get his attention. I dress up nicer, I wear lipstick. I've asked him out over and over. When I ask if he wants dinner he tells me he's not hungry. If I ask him out for coffee he says he wants black with two sugars. At least he remembers to thank me once I bring it," she said with a heavy sigh and a little chuckle.

Her petting had slowed down to merely stroking Sherlock's head, and his purring had quieted to something softer. Still, he curled up in her lap. He felt content. He blamed it on the cat part of himself. Touch wasn't supposed to make him feel so good.

"You know, sometimes I don't even think Sherlock knows I'm there. I'm just one more tool in the drawer. I might as well be another microscope for all that he notices me. At least he touches the microscopes… oh this is pathetic," she said with a heavy groan. "Christmas was just so awful. He didn't even know until then, I'm sure. He just started deducing everything. I couldn't help but think: "why, if you can see all the signs that I like someone, can't you see that I like you? Why can't you deduce this?" He looked so guilty when he figured it out… gave me a kiss too," she said with a half smile.

"And then he goes and identifies that body, that woman by her… well, not her face. John sort of told me, a bizarre encounter. What kind of woman greets a man for the first time without any clothes on? It's just improper… well it is improper… I know I'm just jealous. But I'm glad she's not dead too… Sherlock was so interested in her. He actually seemed to care about someone. I just wish it had worked out… I mean, I can't say I'm not happy that it didn't… but," she sighed heavily.

She looked down at Sherlock in her lap, who was giving her his full attention. What else was there to do? He couldn't help but feel even more guilty for the Christmas disaster. He really hadn't known. He didn't understand how he hadn't known. It was very obvious, but he'd never seen it. Molly was just there. In a way, yes, she was just another tool in the drawer. At the same time, she was important to him. Not everyone would let him into their lab, help them run experiments. John would never help him. Molly wouldn't have cared if he'd put a head in their fridge. She'd have understood.

"I know you don't care," she said. She smiled when Sherlock bumped his head against her jumper as if urging her to go on. "Okay, okay," she said, scratching under the cat's head before going back to stroking his head.

"I think sometimes if Sherlock was just happy… with anyone that I wouldn't feel so bad… I mean… Christmas was so bad… but I just couldn't wonder… why doesn't he see that people love him? I mean, I do. He's got so many faults, but I just love it when he works. I love helping him. I love it when he's happy. I know I'm pathetic. I know I'm not his type… but I just wish he had a type. Then maybe I could get over him."

She sighed heavily. "I wonder if he didn't see that I liked him because he doesn't think he's worth a woman loving him… or a man," she said before giggling. "Everyone thinks he and John are a couple. Watching John blush and get all flustered is so cute. Sherlock just doesn't get it. He never will," she said, laughing a bit.

Sherlock let out another 'mrt', mostly just because he wished he could say anything in his own defense. She made him sound like a puppy or something. The irony hit him and he ended up laying his head down on his paws. Better to let her continue her little rant anyway.

"You know the worst part of that disaster Christmas, Sherlock?" she asked, making Sherlock look back up at her. "It's that… I think… I think that… as silly as it sounds… I think that he was trying to be nice. Everyone was making jokes, even me and my terrible one. I think that disaster was him trying to engage with us and out friendly ribbing. I don't think he means to be mean. He just doesn't know how to censure himself sometimes. It doesn't hurt less because he didn't mean to be mean, but I really think he didn't," she said.

Sherlock looked up at her, barely blinking. She really got that? John had quietly tried to instruct him on how to behave at a party later, trying to not, but not exactly succeeding, chew Sherlock out. Even Mrs. Hudson gave him a look later, with how disappointed she was in him. Molly had been the one he'd hurt. He hadn't meant it to hurt her. Yes he got carried away. He realized it when he saw the gift was for him. He hadn't meant to hurt her, and she was the one who actually saw that.

"Are you feeling sleepy Sherlock?" she asked, still petting his head. He shook his head and she chuckled. "See, just like him. Smartest cat in the world," she said. She had no idea. She stood, displacing Sherlock onto the sofa. She turned on the telly. "Here, you watch this. Tell me if anything happens while I make dinner.

The rest of the evening passed in relative ease. Sherlock could not move for hours when he was thinking, and trash telly was something he could deal with, in his own weird way. Molly seemed to like shows about brides behaving badly. Mostly she laughed at them before she changed the channel to a cartoon show that Sherlock remembered seeing as a kid. He'd never heard Molly laugh like that before until that evening. She laughed so freely and easily. It wasn't a cute laugh, in fact it was very distinctive, but it wasn't unappealing.

Once the cartoon ended she scooped the no longer damp Sherlock up and took him to her room. She settled him on her bed and started to change. She clearly had no shame about stripping and jumping into the shower in front of a cat. Sherlock also never cared enough to look away. He mostly just let his thoughts wander. Her body wasn't as nice as Irene Adler's, he thought once when she walked past his vision. He couldn't say it was bad though.

He thought about if he'd be stuck as a cat for a long time, and wondered about turning back. He was deep in thought when Molly climbed into bed with her book. She read for a while, a spy novel. She read it to him after a while, just for the heck of it. He didn't read novels often, but he noted the title and decided to pick it up later on his own… if he ever got his hands back.

"Good night Sherlock," she said tiredly. She kissed the top of his head and settled in next to him. Sherlock stretched out next to her and went to sleep. It was very exhausting being turned into a cat, after all.

Molly woke in the morning, smiling a bit. She'd dreamed that Sherlock had been lying naked in her bed, pressed up against her side, her hand on his shoulder. It felt so real that it was almost like something she'd seen when half awake, but she knew it couldn't be real. Sherlock would never be in her flat, let alone in her bed.

That morning she couldn't fine the cat Sherlock anywhere, but she found one of her windows had been left open and she assumed he'd left to go back to his tom cat ways. She didn't know that Sherlock Holmes had in fact been lying naked in her bed, and he'd left the second after she'd fallen back asleep that morning. She also didn't realize that he'd gone out the front door, not the window, and that he'd stolen some of her landlord's clothes to go home in.

She simply made coffee and got ready for the day to go to work.

Sherlock Holmes didn't visit the lab again for many days, not until he had another case and had to go back. It was a bit awkward to go back to see a woman in who's bed he'd woken up naked without her knowing he'd been there. Even he recognized the awkwardness of the situation. He got over it quickly and simply went back to work. His hand was still sore. John had dragged him to the hospital to get stitches once he'd gotten home.

"What happened to your hand?" Molly asked, dragging Sherlock out of his thoughts. He looked down at his injured left, flexing it a bit.

"Knife fight, don't worry, this is the worst of it," he said. She would worry wouldn't she? She did that kind of thing.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, looking back at his microscope.

Molly smiled a tiny bit and went back to her own work.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, suddenly feeling more distracted by her than anything else. He was having a hard time not remembering her wandering around her room wearing only a towel around her head.

"Yes?" she asked, and he suddenly felt really guilty again. She'd hate it that he saw that. She'd hate it if she knew how open she'd been about him, and how much she'd poured out to him. He didn't even feel annoyed about her pulling his tail up earlier. He felt guilty.

"Thank you," he said.

"F-for what?" she asked. He normally didn't thank her for anything but coffee.

"Helping me," he said.

"Did John put you up to this?" she asked suddenly and he felt that guilt all over again. Was he really not anything but awful to her?

"No, though it does seem like something he'd do. I wonder why he hasn't?" he asked no one. He noticed the pained half-smile Molly gave him. "No, I was just thinking is all," he said.

"Oh, okay," she said. She looked even more confused but didn't push it any, which was good. He wasn't going to tell her anymore. She didn't need to know that he knew. But he did know. He cast a glance over at her when he knew she was distracted. The only other woman who'd been in love with him lived to regret it. He knew Molly already regretted it sometimes. He didn't want to make it any worse.

The rest of his time in the lab went as usual.