My second Sherlock fiction. I wrote this in a dark car on my way back from Vegas Thanksgiving week of 2011. Around the same time as "Cookies".

Dr. John Watson sat in a blue chair at a Dairy Queen. Yes. Somehow, the multi-million dollar company had decided to expand to the UK and now John sat in one. This was something rather typically atypical. Sherlock had asked him to wait. The conclusion to the case would later be explained in detail to him. John recalled what her hoped were not Sherlock's last words.

"I'm not letting you come with me on this one."

John recalled his many protests saying he was a doctor and expert marksman. He could handle himself.

Sherlock was adamant however and John couldn't get a peep out of him. Not on the case. Not on the weather. Not even on Anderson. He would only talk, if John agreed to be at the Dairy Queen.

Now, John sat alone, with a half eaten sundae at a shabby table in a Dairy Queen. Not where he wanted to be on a Saturday afternoon. He tapped his cane impatiently. He didn't need it usually but the worry brought back his limp.

For a second, he glanced at the other patrons. The John a year ago would have just seen people. The John now knew Sherlock's method. A family was chattering away together at a table. Sherlock probably would have told him where they were from. John had established they were tourists. The "I 3 London" T-shirts were practically screaming at him. "Where" was the hard part.

He skipped over to the next table which seated a cuddling couple. A pair of teenage lovebirds were slurping on smoothies and eating chips. Not much to say. There was his table, which had a fairly good view of the Dairy Queen and the adjacent, connected arcade.

Of course there was the cashier, a pimply teen, and the juice boy or, in this case, girl, who looked to be in college. The books she stared into with exasperation were the same books he had looked into during his college days. This reinforced the idea.

The only other person in the restaurant was a baseball-capped single fellow like himself. John loathed the idea of speaking to him as it would appear that John was coming onto the bloke. He would have no idea what to say if Sherlock saw him. Many made the misinterpretation they were lovers, partners, etc. He didn't want to confirm any of the mistakes.

'I am,' John mused, 'mistaken for a homosexual often enough. I don't need any back up. I am straight. I have a girlfriend.' He let his thoughts stray back to Sherlock for a second. 'Just what am I to him?' It was natural to wonder. John had written blogs about all of the cases Sherlock had taken since "A Study in Pink." He had shared many more with Sherlock. Those he could not speak of. Customer confidentiality. John had even composed a few from old case files that Sherlock had been kind enough to 'share'. And by 'share' he meant 'dig up'.

Yet here he sat. In a Dairy Queen. While Sherlock risked his neck. He hated to think of what Mycroft would say. "Sherlock's little dog has left his side? Is he lost? His master's off risking his life. Oh, poor puppy, you must be here to ask for help. What is it, boy? Did little Timmy fall down the well? Oh, and Sherlock says it was foul play? Let's go find your master." John didn't want to know the answer. It was intolerable.

John got up and threw away the melted ice cream. Sherlock was okay. He would have called. Unless he was so badly damaged he couldn't dial. No. John would have felt it if anything happened to Sherlock. He had the same bond as… he hated to say it, a dog to its master.

John felt a clinging worry as he headed into the arcade. He brushed it off. And hour of mindless gaming would take his mind off of it. Would it be strange to see a grown man in an arcade? He surveyed the place. Empty. Then again kids these Days had iPods and PSP's. Who needed Pac Man? Oh, wait, they had an app for that.

A bright, flashing, red token dispenser caught John's eye and he took a left aiming for it. He slipped in a five pound note and collected the tokens. It was a hefty amount of change and he decided to try a classic. Claw.

Claw games have had little change over the years. Still people used a joystick to maneuver a claw and aim for a prize. Stuffed animals, candy, and more recently, iPods, were stuffed inside the machine for the taking. The chances of such a prize relied on the player's skill and lack of urgency. Even the perfect combination of timing and placement might not result in a win.

John popped a token into the slot and moved the claw over a plush cat. The fluffy black fur reminded him of Sherlock's black, curly hair. It also had a little scarf around his neck, a royal blue one. It looked very much like the one Sherlock wore. The ratty old thing was very warm as John had discovered one case. Not to mention, Sherlock had a bit of an attachment to it.

The claw positioned itself over the cat's body. John hit the red button and watched in anticipation as the claw lowered. The claw gripped the body flattening the fur a little. It was actually a bit smaller than he imagined. The body hung, suspended in the air for a fraction of a second before dropping on the pile again.

Rigged.

John popped in another coin. And tried again. The body didn't even get lifted this time.

'Third times the charm,' he muttered under his breath. He wasn't aware of the eyes watching him in the glass. The furry toy once more slipped out of his reach again.

After another coin, the stuffed cat once more lifted into the air but evaded capture. John played again and again and again and again. Sweat formed in fine beads on his forehead from the stuffy atmosphere and frustration. Still no luck. John fished in his pocket for another token and came up empty. He reluctantly left the machine in search of the change machine.

He slipped in another five quid and headed back to the claw.

He found, to his chagrin, the baseball cap wearing fellow from the Dairy Queen standing in front of the game. His tall figure towered over the joystick and after a few quick movements, the claw descended and enclosed upon the black cat. It was a death grip. The claw ascended with a whistle and moved toward the winner's box. As the claw drew up, it upset the hound next to the cat and both went tumbling into the bin. The bloke bent over and pulled the plushies out of the machine. He looked amused for a second and walked off.

A few meters away, John sighed in resignation. This was a true test of skill. Over a dozen tries had resulted in nothing but for the stranger the first had been enough. He watched the figure walk off and meandered to another game. A shooting one. One he would definitely be good at. He was about to pick up the plastic gun when his phone buzzed. A text from Sherlock.

'Missed you at the Dairy Queen. See you at Baker St.'

John stared at the message. He had just missed Sherlock. Of all the damned luck. He looked at the game wistfully. Afghanistan was just a token away. It would be a while for Sherlock to get to Baker St. from the other side of London, on foot or otherwise. His phone buzzed again.

"Come now.'

He took another look at the arcade. Sherlock was probably being demanding again. The tall bloke was also trying out one of the plastic guns. John had half the mind to challenge him. He texted Sherlock.

'What's the rush?'

No reply. John waited. It took him a second to register there was no immediate reply with a sharp comment. Then, one word appeared.

'Now.'

His heart thumped. And suddenly all his fears exploded. Sherlock, with no biting retort or sarcastic remark? Good, Gracious God Save the Queen. Was something wrong with Baker St.? Mrs. Hudson? Sherlock? He dropped his cane.

John streaked out the door bumping into the Dairy Queen man. He offered a hasty, 'Sorry.' before continuing on his run. There was no way a cab could get him to Baker St. fast enough. He sprinted as if his life depended in it. Correction, as if Sherlock's life depended on it.

A ten minutes later john arrived at Baker St. It looked intact. He fumbled with his keys before pushing the door open and quickly ascending the seventeen steps to 221b. He slammed open the door to see… Sherlock. In his chair. Toying with his fiddle. Perfectly fine. John slumped visibly in relief.

'Sherlock?'

'Yes.'

'Are you okay?'

'Yes.'

John fell onto the couch. That was his fastest 2.4 kilometer time ever. Eight minutes and forty seconds. He breathed deeply. Now if only the Para's had seen that.

'Why didn't you text me then?' he huffed.

'My battery died. It's charging.' Sherlock gestured to the phone plugged into the wall. John rolled his eyes.

'Sherlock, really?'

'Yes, really.' John sighed after finally regaining his breath.

'Here' Sherlock tossed a long metal rod across the room. John barely managed to catch it before it his face.

'My cane! Sherlock, how did you get this?' John asked incredulous. He had left it at the arcade. Sherlock had been on the other side of town. For him to get it and get here in that time, he must be a demigod. He examined the cane for any sign of its adventure. He glanced back up to see Sherlock holding a fluffy thing in his hands.

It was the black cat. Sherlock stroked the polyester fur.

'It is interesting how people are willing to spend more money trying to get the toy than it is worth.'

Sherlock reached behind his chair and produced the hound. Upon closer inspection, John noticed the golden dog wore a crème colored jumper.

"You're the…" John stared in wide eyed bemusement.

"Oh, John, your articulacy astounds me."

"Not even you mother would have recognized you," John spluttered.

"The whole plan was rather hinging on that. Too bad Mycroft was there. Mummy could always read him like a book." John took out his note pad.

"This I have to hear." Sherlock gave the notepad "the look" and started regaling John on an investigation that involved a cab, a call girl, no less than three actors, a chicken, and Mummy Holmes. John stared at his notepad. He wouldn't believe it was true, if Sherlock hadn't been the one to tell him.

And, if he hadn't seen the cab and chicken with his own eyes.

Sherlock stuffed the cat in his face, managing to not leave the chair. Long arms. "What?" John asked wiping his mouth of fake fur.

"For you." John stared at the stuffed toy. A fluffy golden retriever in a beige sweater and a cat in a scarf oh, the people on his blog…

Sherlock seemed unperturbed, stroking the dog in concentration.

"You look like an evil villain."

Sherlock glanced up at him with verdigris eyes. "Only fictional villains stroke cats. This isn't a cat." One eyebrow was raised in mild confusion.
John chuckled into the cat's fur. "Yes, I forgot that. I forgot you're not a villain either." Sherlock, clearly more befuddled by that statement, said nothing. John just got up and walked up to his bedroom.

In his room, John set the cat on the nightstand. The soft nylon fur was only slightly mussed from the adventure over the rooftops, which he guessed was a Sherlock specialty. He heard the soft hum of a violin form down below and John smiled.

"Welcome home."

I promised this would be released eventually.

I have made edits to the original to take into account BBC's touches.

The original cat had a pipe and the hound had a top hat and cane (though the top hat was torn off, if the cat's account is to be believed).

The other also had a reference to Hansel and Gretel.

I have hopes to get my cruise ship mystery done.

I think having been on a cruise will be a great help. I hadn't been on one when I wrote it. Now, I can check all the details and facts.

Thanks for reading.