"I'd rather die for what I believe than live a life without meaning. And, now that I'm older I'm finding out how, what it means, to start over." - "Life Cycles" by The Word Alive.
"No. Get rid of it." The snarl gracing Sherlock's face made his right laugh line twitch gently. His voice was deadpan as he refused to look at the offending ball of fur napping on his sofa.
The consulting detective discovered the monstrosity upon waking up from his celebratory end-of-the-case nap. Sherlock had been hoping to be presented with the happy face of his flatmate and the glorious smell of Dim Sum take away; but instead he was met with a sleeping cat who looked near obnoxiously relaxed against his favorite sitting pillow. How dare it.
John was sitting in his favorite chair, leaning back quite smugly as he was reading a tabloid he'd nicked from Mrs. Hudson. He casually flipped the page, reading some nonsense about the Royal Baby. The way John's eyebrows furrowed in concentration showed Sherlock that his flatmate was ignoring him. No one struggled that hard to read such drivel.
Sherlock clenched his teeth, trying not to shout. The last thing he needed was to have Mrs. Hudson walking up the stairs and asking if they were having another domestic. The woman was truly wonderful but her keen ability to make everyone's business her own wouldn't be welcome at the very moment. Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and huffed loudly, letting his jaw pop and rest. "I know you hear me, John. Your knuckles tense and you throat tightens every time I speak; I observe remember? Why is there a damned cat where I like to lay?!"
Clearing his throat, the dirty blond shifted and closed the magazine. He looked up at the taller male, making eye contact. "I like her, I found her, Mrs. Hudson thinks she is cute as a button and I know you don't have a cat allergy, so I'm keeping her."
John's words washed over the detective, but didn't stop him from glaring. "I don't like animals. They are a waste of space and dull, no matter how many bloody videos you show me of cats falling off of things."
John shrugged. He didn't rightly care what his flatmate had to say on the matter. "She is staying. Aptly, Mrs. Hudson and I decided to name her Cluedo. Since you love that game so much, maybe it's sentimentality will rub off onto her."
Sherlock pursed his lips and sat down in his worn but unmistakably comfortable green leather chair. His long torso melded into the material and he tapped his fingers against the broad of his jaw, glaring at random thing around the room, including his annoying friend. "I don't like cats. I also don't have a sentimentality towards a board game."
"Doesn't really matter what you like and what you don't now does it? She is my cat." John didn't even look up from the grocery aisle gossip to answer the rather immature detective now flopping like an out of water flounder in his chair. "And you do so like Cluedo. Don't even go there, Sherlock. You begged me for a week and even offered tea just so I would play that bloody game with you."
Sherlock huffed and there was a sharp roll of his eyes. "It is a mental practice, John. It keeps me sharp when I'm surrounded by idiots, and don't even remotely look at me with that typical hurt look. You know exactly what I mean."
There were days where it just seemed perfectly rational to Dr. John Watson to chin the world's only consulting detective. He could further deduce, the doctor chuckled despite himself, that today was going to be one of those days. "It's a child's game, Sherlock. Much like the pile of Operation, Candyland and Chess off in the corner behind your chair."
Sherlock threw the doctor a rather pointed glare before pulling his knees to his chest. His soft flannel pyjamas bottoms were just a bit short for him, showing off the creamy skin of his ankles. The detective hated wearing socks, often complaining loudly to everyone within earshot about them when he was on a case. It was almost a reason for John to become highly acquainted with duct tape when they'd first met. With a purse of his lips, Sherlock spoke lowly, almost like a child being chided. "How did you know I don't have a cat allergy? You don't have my medical history passed my living with you. Surely you couldn't of deduced that. You have no data."
John gave a strong roll of eyes, putting his tabloid down for a second time, decidedly done with it. "Not everything is deductions and data, you git. It's on your list that your mother gave Mrs. Hudson. Now, I have a cat. She is sweet, her name is cluedo and so God as my witness I will make your life a living hell if you make her into one of those experiments."
Sherlock gruffed behind his knees and looked away, his eyes scanning over the cat's small frame. She was half curled on her back, small chest lifting and descending in a peaceful sleep. The curly haired man's lips twitched before he resolved on what to say. "No, I wouldn't ever do something to hurt your pet, John."
The thick tone in his flatmate's voice made John almost apologize for even insinuating as such. No, Sherlock wasn't a monster... Of course he wouldn't. John ran his fingers over the front of his jeans and stood up. "Right. Uhm, fancy some tea then?"
John didn't really need for Sherlock to answer him; he was hard pressed to remember a time that his rather eccentric flatmate didn't at least sip on a cup of tea presented to him by John. He padded over to the stove top and prepared the kettle, enjoying the mundane routine of making tea. The doctor found comfort in small things such as this; it kept at least one foot on the ground when cases and other day to day things with one Mr. Sherlock Holmes became far too complex or out of this world to properly grasp.
When given the warm purple mug, Sherlock nodded his thanks to his friend and took a rather liberal sip of the tea. Before fully getting to enjoy it, a rather familiar chirping noise filled the comfortably silent room. John's face scrunched in a mild disgust. "Oh Damn. Again?"
"The city's evil won't pause for us to enjoy our night's tea, John." Sherlock sat the cup down and stretched as he stood, several bones popping at once.
John nodded, a rather tired but happy look on his face. No matter what he said on the matter, Sherlock would know. Sherlock would know that there was no other place the doctor would ever want to be. A small trickle of warmth blossomed in the detective's chest but he didn't speak of it. There really was something better to be doing.
Walking towards his sleeping quarters, Sherlock threw a hand up to flag John. Despite himself, there was such a happy tone in his voice. "Be ready in 5 minutes, my blogger. The game is on!"