Molly Hooper was a cat person. She had owned cats for as long as she could remember, maybe even longer. She loved how sleek they were, sinewy and sensuous in their movements. The seemed so self-sufficient, as if they were doing you a favor by eating the food you put down for them. And, of course, they never seemed grateful of appreciative for anything. The took everything as their due, their reward for simply being themselves. They were arrogant little gits, strolling through their domain with an air of superiority, barely bringing themselves to interact with any other sentient being in their vicinity. And yet, at times, they could be surprisingly affectionate, brushing up against a human leg, begging for attention. But, if you stooped to pet them or scratch their ears, you had to be wary of a quick nip, as they quickly grew bored with the interaction. They could be territorial, defending what they considered theirs with unmatched ferocity. And they could even be generous, at times, bringing home little gifts for their human companions. And they would always consider their humans as companions, not owners. They submitted to no one. Yes, Molly Hooper was definitely a cat person, and this was probably why she was so in love with Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock Holmes was definitely a dog person. While he didn't currently own a pet, the most cherished companion of his youth was a beautiful Irish setter named Redbeard. Sherlock loved the way a dog would look at his owner, his pack leader. Dogs provided unquestioned loyalty and unbounded affection. A canine required so little and gave so much. You could be moody, but your dog never was. You could be selfish, but they forgave you. They were committed in their affection, never wavering, ignored for the longest time, only to come bounding back to you at the merest suggestion of your interest. A dog would risk anything for you, including its life, if necessary, to defend you. Sherlock had loved Redbeard, his generosity of spirit, his devotion, his unbridled affection. Redbeard had rescued Sherlock, on more than one occasion, from the darker thoughts lurking in the recesses of his overly active mind. And when the animal had to be put down, Sherlock had held him as they drove the needle home, and cried as he took his last breath. Mycroft had told him that sentiment was a weakness, and for the longest time he had believed him. But he had loved Redbeard, and his life would have so much the poorer with that sentimental attachment. And looking back, he often wished that he had been kinder. He could have tossed the ball more often, ran in the garden more, simply stroked his head as they sat together. He would never make the same mistake again.
Molly looked out her window just in time to see Sherlock turn the corner. She threw open her door and bounded down the single flight of stairs from her flat to the front door of her building, swinging it open just in time to throw herself into his arms. He had brought her flowers, but they were currently being crushed between them as she kissed his cheeks, and neck, and everything else she could think of. Sherlock pulled the hand holding the flowers from between their bodies, and wrapped it around her waist. He moved his other hand to the back of her head, and started to run his fingers through her long hair in almost a petting motion. Molly smiled and brought her hand to his chin, ran it up his jawbone, and lost her fingers in the curly hair behind his ears in a gentle scratching motion. If you listened closely, you could almost hear him purr.
