In the Garden of the Beast
By Zuzu Petal
Prologue
The scream cut through the early morning air; it was cold, bitter, a chill any man or beast could feel. The cat howled, startling Sherlock as he walked. The leafs were wet, nimble and no longer crisp as they had been in the beginning of the fall.
The cat was in pain, broken and wounded when he found it. It was too weak to fight him but stubborn enough still to hiss at him. Lifting only a bloody paw weakly, a fighter to the last.
Sherlock Holmes hated cats, was allergic to them and likened them to some monster from a fairytale. Janine, however, loved felines. She thought them terribly graceful and beautiful. But where his wife saw only a majestic cat he saw a murderer. When he was five his mother's cat had eaten his hamster. It's little body strewn about his bedroom, it's intestines making criss crossing red ribbons across the blue carpet.
As a boy, he had cried and kicked the mean old cat. And who had been punished? Surely not his mother's PJ (which stood for Pride and Joy), but Sherlock. He was placed, quite dejectedly, in the corner. She had wrapped her slender fingers around the back of his little soft, boy-neck and pressed his face hard into the wall where it split to make a corner. She had pressed so hard in fact that his head knocked off a nail sticking out of the wall, giving him a bloody red mark, a scar to carry for life.
And mother had made him clean up "his" mess.
"Stupid rodent," his mother had mumbled as he cleaned up the remains of his pet, Mr. Hobbs. And all the while, that fucking cat had stared at him through yellow eyes. As if it were smirking. PJ rubbed his side against Sherlock's mother's leg, purring loudly, a little bit of blood still covered his lower jaw and there was no mistaking the little tufts of brown fur that matted his tabby colored paws as belonging to the coat of Mr. Hobbs.
Sherlock never had a pet after that. The memory of losing something that had been so dear to him stayed with him forever.
Well... and Redbeard...
And now as he looked down upon the battered old grey cat, curled underneath a bush for protection in his garden, he scowled at it. And yet his heart could not completely harden.
"Damn." He said and he went and got his thick work gloves, the ones he used for clearing out brush and thorn bushes. He fastened them on tightly and slowly reached down towards the cat. It hissed, it scratched, but Sherlock remembered his father grabbing PJ once when he was a boy when the old cat was dying and needed medicine injected into it's mouth.
Firmly, Sherlock grasped the cat on the scruff. However it was difficult because the cat was so thin it felt extremely breakable under his hands.
Should break the miserable wretches neck, he thought. He was capable of it, but could not do it.
Sherlock took the cat to the shed and placed it on his work table. He had running water and found an empty dish and filled it with water and placed it next to the cat. Slowly and unsurely, as if it were poisoned or some trick, the cat stubbornly drank the water.
As it drank Sherlock set about examining the cat. His uncle had been a vet and had showed his parents how to give PJ his medicine and even taught Sherlock a thing or two.
"You must be gentle with cats, patient, they are so independent, Sherlock. They won't ever ask for help, not like a dog does." His uncle Rudi had said.
Sherlock kept the gloves on. He knew the cat wasn't rabid, he had seen a rabid animal before. He believed this cat was simply malnourished. He lifted it's injured paw which the cat quickly yanked away.
"You arsehole." Sherlock said and he could begin to feel his eyes becoming itchy from cat's dander. It was a fluffy looking cat, lots of hair and lots of dander. It's fur was matted in places and as Sherlock examined it more closely a bit of it's right ear was missing. As much as he hated cats he didn't like seeing an animal in pain. It was wrong to take pleasure in something like that.
Redbeard...
"I'm not going to name you," Sherlock said to the cat who only looked him dead in the eye as if were trying to say, "I don't give a shit".
Sherlock waited a few more minutes, refilling the water dish and returning it to the cat, before attempting to examine the paw again. This time the cat let him look at it for a little longer before pulling it away. He ran his gloved hands over it's emaciated body, feeling bones pressing hard against his gloved covered hands. When he took his hands away there was a little blood but it was light and the wound couldn't be terribly deep.
"Got into a scrape, haven't you boy?" Sherlock found himself saying. He removed a glove to rub his eye, feeling it begin to water. Then he realized he didn't know if the cat was male or female. He slowly turned the cat and examined its backside.
Not male after all. It was a she, and she had seen a lot he supposed.
"Alright, you're going to the vet." Sherlock decided and he left the cat inside the shed, making sure to leave it near the sun for warmth, although he would only realize later he had done that subconsciously. He returned to the shed with one of Janine's overnight bags. He would leave the top open a little but didn't want to risk the cat turning on him and scratching him.
The cat allowed him to place it inside the bag, an old throw blanket lining it. This wasn't exactly how Sherlock was expecting to spend his free Saturday morning off. Transporting some stray cat to and fro. He would have rather been working, but then again, his mind rarely stopped.
As he waited for the vet to tell him how the cat was doing he couldn't stop himself from thinking of names. He didn't plan on keeping it and decided not to tell Janine about it either. That's all he needed. They had been trying for a baby- well, she had been trying. And she would use this as an excuse to take care of something.
Sherlock didn't see the need for babies. He didn't want them. But it was his duty and more importantly hers. She didn't think she was a real woman if she couldn't have children. And lately, her depression had begun to spiral. She spent more time away from home at book clubs, support groups and of course getting second opinion after second opinion on why she wasn't conceiving. She was healthy, never smoked a day in her life, never had an infection or procedure that might make it difficult to have children.
Doctors told her she was the perfect specimen to conceive.
So, why wasn't she?
Sherlock had no answers, he wasn't a doctor. He was, not so secretly, heavily relieved. He didn't want children, not because he thought he wouldn't be a good father, but because he didn't want to continue his own father's line. His brother would see to that, in some way he was sure. Sherlock didn't want anymore Holmes' running around. He had his reasons...
"The feline has been approved," the vet had said when he came out, the cat in a carrying case and the overnight bag folded on top of it.
"A battered little thing. Where did you find it, Mr. Holmes?"
"In my garden." Sherlock replied and took the carrier.
"I gave it a painkiller for its paw and it's received all the important vaccines. It will be good for the shelter to know when you take her." The vet said, scribbling something down with a stylist on a pad.
"Mmm?" Sherlock grunted lightly. The vet looked from the carrier to the man, then his eyes fell briefly on Sherlock's left shoulder.
"It said on the paperwork it's a stray." The vet said. Sherlock nodded. "Well, you're not keeping it are you, sir? Technically I should write a note for euthanasia."
"Why's that?" Sherlock asked, but he already knew the answer as soon as the words stumbled out of his mouth.
How did I miss that? His mind raced.
"Cats are prohibited in your sector. I thought a man of the law would know that." The vet suddenly looked quite tense. Sherlock only shrugged, giving off that air of entitlement and knowledge, though it was faked this time it was forced.
"It's been a long morning. Have a great day." He said and turned and exited the animal hospital.
For some strange reason Sherlock could not place, he almost felt disappointed he would be leaving the cat at some shelter. He didn't want the mangy thing and he couldn't keep it anyway. He didn't know what had made him slip up. The vet was right; he was a man of the law. He knew the rules and regulations. Certain sectors didn't allow cats, dogs or any type of pet. Some did.
In this case Sherlock's did not. There were plenty of pet birds though. He sneezed heavily as he got inside his car.
"Damned cat." He mumbled as he started the engine.
The woman at the desk at the animal shelter greeted him happily and with a perky smile. Her name tag read "Sally" in cursive lettering. He placed the carrier on the counter.
"I have a feline found outside of the proper sector, stray." He said simply. She noticed his off duty regulation jacket, the emblem on his left shoulder and nodded quickly, he could almost hear her heart skip a beat.
Perhaps she thinks I'm here to spook her or give a surprise inspection, he thought bitterly.
Sherlock looked her up and down once more-
Married, happy, he's a school teacher- no, Condition Specialist. She loves honey, all over her left cuff-
The paperwork was simple and thirty minutes later he left, cat free. The mangy bugger was on her own now. Maybe a happy couple looking to be merciful to some poor animal soul would adopt her. Maybe a couple from sector's five or six. They allowed cats.
Maybe they'd put her down... he almost turned back at the thought, but only almost.
Sherlock popped an allergy pill he kept in his glove compartment for just such an occasion. Sometimes he and Janine would attend parties in sectors where they did allow cats. And as much as he hated cats he couldn't help but daydream that the one he found that morning would find a good home.
Sherlock turned onto Baker street, a house was on fire but he drove by. It was his day off. No point in helping when the boys in red were there. He had seen enough burning houses to know he was no good off duty.
Are we ever off duty? Really? He thought.
But he pushed those thoughts aside. They were unhealthy after all. And who knew for sure what the Cardinals were scheming. Perhaps they already knew he had been thinking those thoughts for a long time. But he had always been smart enough never to tell a soul.
Those are the thoughts that get one shot.