AN: I honestly don't know what this is. It's all Nicole's fault. My sister - whose name is Nicole - was sending me pictures of our cat and her dog and making Sherlock references and then I texted a friend - whose name is also Nicole - and she said that she could totally see Sherlock as a gangly black and white pupppy and john being an orange cat. This plot bunny was born and refused to go away. So, just as a warning, this all pure crack and ridiculousness. It was written in about fifteen minutes. I put more thought into this author's note than I did the story.
Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, Sherlock and John would be a couple, the plots would suck, and Benedict Cumberbatch would have mysteriously - yes, Nicole, I'm looking at you as I say that - vanished off the face of the earth. As none of this has happened, it's safe to say that I'm not the owner.
Sherlock bounced gleefully towards John, his large feet and gangly legs carrying him to the fat – fluffy John always insisted - orange cat with almost no effort. John was curled up into a corner of the couch, looking very content.
Sherlock could have made the bound to the couch easily, but John had heard the dog's approach and looked up disdainfully, making it clear with a glare that if Sherlock landed on him then the dog could look forward to licking scratches for the rest of the day.
Sherlock reluctantly gave in, and instead remained on the floor, lowering his front half into a bow, and wagging his tail so hard that his entire back half shook. Didn't John want to play?
The black and white dog's tail slowly stilled and drooped when John simply tucked his head back down and returned to sleep. Gradually, his back half flopped to the ground and Sherlock simply raised his head and looked at John imploringly with big, black, puppy dog eyes.
Which, apparently, don't work on cats. Or maybe they're just rendered ineffective if the target isn't looking, which John wasn't.
Sherlock was sad. He laid his large nose on his disproportionally big front paws and sighed a little, glancing up to see if John felt any pity towards him. Nothing.
A few moments of being pitiful didn't accomplish anything except to make Sherlock bored. Very, very bored. He leapt back up to his feet. Standing on his back legs, he planted his front paws on the couch.
John didn't move, save for an ear twitch that informed Sherlock that John was still very much awake. Whether John wanted to be awake right now or not was irrelevant.
Sherlock raised one paw and tapped John with it cautiously. No response. He tapped John again, this time a little harder. This time he was rewarded with a disgruntled cat growl.
At this irrevocable proof that John was indeed awake, Sherlock bounded back from the couch and bent into a playful bow again. John still didn't move.
Sherlock yapped. Surely John wanted to play? They could go running around the flat! Or outside! Sherlock was very flexible. Didn't John want to run?
Apparently John did not want to run, because when Sherlock crept back to the couch again John lashed out and bopped him on the nose with one paw. Sherlock sat down with a bump. It hadn't hurt, John hadn't used his claws, but John didn't want to play!
Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine why the cat didn't want to run around with him. Didn't John like to run? They'd ran all day yesterday. And the day before that. And before that. They ran all the time! But now it seemed that John would rather sleep instead.
Sherlock had grown very sad and was trying to decide if it would be best to try again, or to go see if Mrs. Hudson had left anything on the kitchen counters that he might be able to get at, when the sound of footsteps coming to the front door distracted him.
Sherlock flew down the hallway, his floppy ears flapping behind him. Behind him, John lethargically stretched himself out and hopped off the couch. He padded down the hall behind Sherlock in a much calmer manner.
When John arrived in the kitchen, Sherlock and positioned himself at Mrs. Hudson's feet and was watching her expectantly. Sherlock knew how this went. Mrs. Hudson came home, John and Sherlock got food. Sherlock was determined to make sure that Mrs. Hudson didn't forget. That would be bad.
Mrs. Hudson didn't forget, and set down two food bowls a few moments later. "Sit," she instructed. Sherlock sat, going ramrod straight and not moving a muscle, except for his tale which was now effectively sweeping the floor.
She gave no such instructions to John who simply padded over and began eating. Sherlock glanced over at him. He knew that Mrs. Hudson liked Sherlock to show off how smart he was – John was usually impressed too, when he was in the mood – but he didn't like how his being smart meant that John got to eat first.
He looked over towards Mrs. Hudson, fully intending to tell her exactly what he thought about this whole ordeal, but then she told him he could eat now and he forgot all about it. He ate his food quickly because taking a long time to eat was boring, and maybe if he got done before John he could get John to run with him instead of taking a nap!
The moment John pulled his head back from the food bowl Sherlock bounded in, yapping excitedly. John looked at him exasperatedly for a few moments, but at last gave in to the enthusiastic mutt barking in his face. Maybe one of these days Sherlock would finally get tired and John would be able to have a nap in peace.