"Do not name it," Sherlock ordered. "You know how attachment is formed once you name anything."
Molly rolled her eyes, though she kept on cuddling the tiny, mewling kitten. "I won't, don't worry. We'll just keep her until we can find her a home. It's December, and she's a kitten, trust me, someone will want her."
"Mm. And what of her siblings?" Sherlock looked into the large cardboard box that housed four other mewing kittens clumsily tumbling about over the soft blanket Molly had placed inside.
"We'll find homes for all of them. Anyway, what was I supposed to do? Leave them on the stoop in this weather?" she gestured with her free hand to the window, sleet pounding on the glass.
"No of course not," Sherlock answered, a bite to his voice. "One would think you would have brought them to a shelter!"
"In December? All the shelters are full! Believe me, I know."
"Hmm, yes, you would," Sherlock answered.
"Hey."
He looked up, already knowing he'd overstepped. He didn't need to study the tone of her voice to know that. "I apologize," he said quickly, and meant it. "Of course you have been looking. I haven't forgotten what Toby meant to you."
"Okay then," Molly nodded, and kissed his cheek.
"We aren't keeping any of these, though," Sherlock called over his shoulder.
Molly huffed, but did not respond. She cuddled the little grey kitten just once more, smoothing her soft fur before placing her in the box.
That night, Molly was called in to Barts, leaving Sherlock alone with the box of kittens. For the most part, they were quiet, their bellies full of milk and whatever Molly had given them. The only one that seemed bent on staying awake was the grey kitten. At the sound of wee claws on cardboard, scritch-scratching up and down the sides, Sherlock got up and made his way to the kitchen. There, he was surprised to see, the little grey kitten had made her way up the side of the box, and balanced somewhat inelegantly on the edge.
"Hey!" he barked, just as the kitten took a flying leap, landing flat on her belly. She shook her head, quickly bending to lick her feet as if she'd meant to land in such a fashion. "Cat, get back in the box," Sherlock ordered. The kitten paid him no mind, trotting off to see what mischief she could get into.
Sherlock caught up to it in a few short strides, scooped her up, and placed her in the box. "You stay there," he ordered, then went back to the sofa. Twenty minutes later, she was out again, scampering across the living room rug, chasing some ball of fluff. "Cat!"
Several times he was disturbed from his mind palace by the grey kitten getting out of the box in the kitchen. Though he did find it very difficult to suppress a grin when the kitten got hold of Billy the skull. He'd had the distinct feeling of being watched, and looking over to the coffee table where he'd placed Billy, found two little yellow eyes peering at him from the left eye-socket of the skull, one tiny paw reaching out through the nose hole. He reached forward, brushing the tip of his finger over the kitten's soft paws. He blinked, quickly withdrawing his hand, and picking up the kitten.
"You're going to get into trouble, cat," he muttered, placing her in the box and quickly turning away. They did not need a cat at Baker Street.
The rest of the night was spent chasing down the grey kitten and placing her back in the box. Around three in the morning, he felt wee claws on his scalp and awoke with a start, wincing. He tipped his head up, trying to see, and feeling over his head, he felt the downy fur of the kitten, happily kneading her tiny paws into his curls. "Cat!"
"What did you say?" Molly, having just let herself in, heard her husband give a cry of frustration.
"This- cat!" he pried the grey kitten from his head, careful not to harm it. "Here, take this abominable creature before she gores me."
"Oh stop being dramatic!" Molly laughed as he unceremoniously dumped the kitten into her arms.
"She's been a mischief-maker all evening," Sherlock huffed.
"She just wants to play!" Molly replied. "Why didn't you just get a bit of string for her? That would have tired her out soon enough."
Sherlock stared at her, thinking back on the long hours he'd spent up and down from the living room to the kitchen. "I'm going to bed."
"I'll join you."
As he turned, he felt Molly swat his bottom, and did not bother to suppress a grin. Well at least the night would be worth it.
Some time later…
Fast asleep, Molly in his arms, Sherlock did not hear tiny claws on the cardboard box, nor a soft 'thump' of little paws landing lightly on the kitchen floor.
Arching her tiny back against the open doorway, the grey kitten, mewed softly, looking for the people that had been giving her such nice attention. She studied the bed with a critical eye, then, wriggling her bottom, gave a flying leap, claws out, managing to get a good grip on the blankets. She clambered up, managing to climb up the bedspread and onto the top. There, Molly and Sherlock lay cuddled up together, and that seemed quite nice to the kitten, so she made her way over, purring noisily, her wee claws kneading every other step.
When Molly's alarm went off the following morning, she turned in her husband's arms, then covered her mouth, suppressing a giggle. In Sherlock's bed-head curls, the grey kitten was stretched out, peaceful and purring. Carefully, so as not to rouse him, Molly picked up the kitten, quickly bringing her back to the box in the kitchen.
"Cat, you're going to get us both booted out into the cold!" Molly whispered. "You stay there; I'll get you all something to eat."
Later that day, once Molly had sent out a few pictures of the kittens, all their friends suddenly descended upon Baker Street. Mike Stamford was the first, coming off the night shift. His tired eyes lit up, seeing a pudgy, fuzzy orange striped kitten. He didn't stay long, only time for Molly to take a picture for her Instagram of Mike and the newly dubbed 'Oscar'.
"There, you see, one down, four to go," Molly said. "This won't be long at all."
"Hm." Sherlock murmured. The grey kitten was still struggling to get out of the box, looked up at Sherlock as if to say 'says you'.
"Sure you don't want to keep this one?" Greg asked, the black and white kitten tucked into his coat, his little head poking out of the collar.
"No, he fits with you, Greg," Molly smiled.
Greg looked rather chuffed as the kitten stretched his head up, wee nose smelling the air before burrowing down into the warmth of Lestrade's coat. "Anyway, what do you want for this 'un?"
"Nothing," Sherlock replied. "Just take him," he paused. "And the rest of his clan."
"Nah. One's enough for me. Molly was right," Greg smiled. "I could do with a pet. Thought I was a dog person, but cats are easier, might be nice, having this little fella waiting for me when I get home."
"Hmm."
The Watson's came by with Charlotte and baby William. Charlotte picked up cat after cat, holding the remaining three in her arms.
"No, baby," Mary laughed. "Just one, remember what your dad said."
"We have to take these two," Charlotte implored. "They're brother and sister."
"They're all brother and sister," John replied. "And don't hold them like that, they'll scratch you. Besides, Gladstone will be upset enough us bringing home a kitten. Let's not traumatize him with two."
Reluctantly, Charlotte set down the grey kitten, taking the tabby instead.
Two kittens down, two to go, Sherlock was at least pleased that they were making headway in the kitten debacle.
It had been two weeks since everyone had adopted the kittens, but two still remained. Molly made sure they were well socialized so when they were adopted, they would be family-friendly. Sherlock said nothing of this, but he stopped yelling at the grey kitten when she escaped. Maybe he simply liked seeing her curl up on John's chair, but after thirty minutes or so, he'd always return her to the box.
"As if you'll stay in there, cat," he muttered. Sherlock even offered them to clients, who had all confusedly declined.
One day, Mycroft and Anthea stopped in.
"Trouble, brother-mine? Practicing for when you've got an actual child?" Mycroft asked, standing over the box of kittens.
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock replied, glowering.
Anthea knelt down, picking up the all-white kitten, only his tail was grey. "Oh look at this one!" she sighed happily.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Anthea…"
"Mycroft," she gave him a look and he shut his mouth, sighing heavily. "Keep it out of my office," was all he said, and Sherlock smirked.
That night…
"Oh someone took the white kitten!" Molly said, looking in the kitten box.
"Yes. Anthea decided she liked it, and my brother did not refuse."
"Poor cat, all by herself in the box," Molly said mournfully.
"Molly…"
"I know," she sighed heavily, giving one last look to the kitten before getting to her feet. "I'm going to shower."
"I ordered dinner already," Sherlock replied. "Should be here by the time you get out."
"Thank you." She kissed him gently before padding off to the bathroom, discarding her clothes as she went. Sherlock left them where they lay, knowing she'd pick them up on her way back out and deposit them in the hamper.
From the box, the grey kitten mewed sadly.
"You know by now how to get out," Sherlock called. The cat mewed again, quite helpless. With a heavy sigh, he got to his feet. In the box, amid the toys discarded sat the kitten, looking quite upset at the lack of her kin. Sighing heavily, Sherlock carefully tipped the box onto its side.
"Go on then, do what you will," he said. The kitten regarded him with her wide eyes. Sherlock looked right back at her. She was nothing like Toby. Toby was a massive cat with thick fur and sturdy legs and an angular face. This kitten was all round. She had a round, flat face, stubby legs and a stubby tail. She had an expression of constant bewilderment. Sherlock would admit he'd been rather attached to Toby, and was sorry when Molly had to put him down (kidney failure, as well as some other health problems). But that did not mean they needed another cat at Baker Street.
The bell rang, startling him from his thoughts, so he got to his feet, pulling out his wallet.
In a few moments, he returned again, kicking the door shut. The kitten was making her way out of the over-turned box, short tail waving back and forth.
"If anyone asks, you knock the box over yourself," Sherlock said to the cat, stepping over her to plate the food.
When Molly stepped out of the bathroom, she bent, scooping up her dirty clothes, tossing them in the bin by the bedroom door.
"Food here?" she called, but no one responded.
Making her way to the kitchen, she paused, smothering a grin when she caught sight of Sherlock in the kitchen, carefully opening a tin of salmon. Two plates of take-away sat covered, keeping warm. The grey kitten perched on one of his broad shoulders, purring in his ear, tail twitching back and forth as she waited for him to finish opening the tin.
"If anyone asks, you knocked the tin of salmon over, and worked it open yourself."
"Don't worry, I don't think she'll tell anyone."
He turned with a start, though careful not to jostle the kitten.
"Yes…well…" he glanced about, rather guilty. "Cats like fish. She was hungry."
"She doesn't have food in her dish."
"I am tired of hearing her gobble that dry stuff down, she makes too much noise."
Molly crossed her arms over her middle, grinning cheekily.
Sherlock did not meet her gaze, merely setting the tin of fish down, then bending low so the cat could jump down herself.
"We can always mix some wet food in with her dry," Molly replied when he straightened. "You know, until she's adopted."
"If she's adopted," Sherlock countered before he could stop himself. Seeing Molly's eyes light up, he quickly turned to the counter, taking his plate of food. "Anyway…it's likely she won't get adopted, statistics say the older a cat gets the harder it is to be adopted, which is a stupid-"
Molly kissed him, silencing him for a good few moments. When she released him at last, he was smiling as well. "Thank you," she murmured.
"Yes…well," he glanced at the kitten half-way through the can of salmon. "Cat isn't so bad…"
"We'll have to name her properly now," Molly said. "Though to be fair, you said naming her would make you form an attachment."
"The mistake was when I began addressing her," Sherlock replied around a mouthful of food. "Therefore, she will remain 'Cat'."
Molly laughed, "Okay, it's your call. But what are we going to name this kitten?"
He looked at her with some alarm and confusion, then lowered his gaze to where her hand rested on her abdomen. Without another thought he set his plate on the coffee table, scooped her up and carried her to their room, kicking the door shut behind them.
Hours Later…
When Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, Molly claiming she could not put off eating any longer, he found the kitten waiting at the door. She let out a squalling 'mew' that said she was just as hungry as well.
"Kittens need to eat every few hours," Molly called, tired, but amused.
Depositing more food into Cat's dish, Sherlock re-heated the take-away and brought it back to Molly, this time leaving the door open. After a little while, the kitten came in, purring. Clambering up the bedspread, she turned around several times and plopped herself down for a bath at Sherlock's feet.
"I think we know who she belongs to," Molly said.
Sherlock, lips greasy, eggroll stuffed into his mouth, managed a smile before leaning over and kissing her cheek. "Both of us."
"Maybe, but she liked you first," Molly replied.
Sherlock didn't answer, but his smile was telling.