John was making his usual route to the store when he saw an unusual object lying on the side of the road. It reminded him of one of Mrs. Hudson's crochet pillows. He asked the cab driver to stop there.
It's only around the block to the store, anyways, he thought.
He bent down to inspect the strange thing closer. It was a grey kitten. The little guy looked like he'd been in a fight and as it was, he was barely breathing. His fur was matted with blood and a part of his ear was missing. His tail was barely attached to his frail frame.
He hurried back to the cab, not bothering to hail a cab. Luckily, his flat mate, Sherlock, had gone out on a case, something about a missing jewel and terrorist.
He opened up the old oak chest, in which he kept his spare medical supplies in. He gently set the cat down on the tray that usually held his tools. He examined the tiny cat once more. He reached for the surgical needle and thread.
He chuckled, "You look like Sherlock when he hasn't slept in a week." Unfortunately, this did happen quite often and it drove John mad. He disinfected the kitten's cut and sewed his tail back on. He was thankful that the kitten had been unconscious while he was sewing him up. He didn't work with animals very often but the few times he had ended horribly.
The kitten stirred and John put down a saucer of milk for when he woke up. He finally woke up and yawned, pawing at the tray. He was quite stiff and didn't move around a lot but he managed to waddle over to the saucer of milk John put out and fell back asleep afterwards.
As John sat done with a book, he realized that he never went to the store. He sighed, rubbing his knees, and was about to go back out when Sherlock burst through the door.