John walked at a quick pace, trying his hardest to get home. John had received a text that read "I need you, -SH." and whether or not this was an immediate need or not, John wanted to get back. He was out running errands and he was at his last stop for milk when he got the text. He placed the milk back into the large refrigerator at the market, and headed out the store.
John rounded the corner of Baker St. and saw the door. He began to half jog to it, the items he held in a large brown paper bag, jumped up and down with him. When he reached it, he let himself in.
He ran up the stairs, skipping every other step, and when he finally got up to the living area he heard a meow.
"John," Sherlock said with his deep voice.
"Is that a cat?" John said surprised.
Sherlock stood up from his chair, and put on a face that said of course. Then he said, "Obviously."
"Why is there a cat in our living area?" John asked as he placed the bag down on their kitchen table along with all the other items that didn't belong on a kitchen table.
"It followed me," Sherlock said as he walked over to the bag.
John looked at Sherlock, as he walked around the room, paying no attention to what was going on around him. John turned his attention to the cat that was sitting on the floor it was next to his chair.
It was a small kitten, about 6 months old with one side of its face brown, the other black, and its mouth white. It trotted toward John, lifting its paws off the ground more then was needed, and meowed.
John looked at it with a bewildered face. He watched as it stopped at his feet, and sat, anxiously waiting for attention from him. John knelt down and placed his hand on top of the cats head. It leaned into his hand, purring. It stood back up and walked forward, pushing all its weight into John's hand. John pet the cat then turned back toward Sherlock, his hand still on the cat.
"It's actually quite adorable, not like that hairless cat," John said with a smile. He stopped petting it and stood up. He walked toward Sherlock with the kitten trailing behind him, meowing for attention.
"Yes, it would seem," Sherlock said as he opened the refrigerator. He took out a can of tomatoes and presented it to John, "Would it eat this?"
John looked at him with disgust and curiosity. Did he really not know what kittens ate? John shook his head, then turned his attention back to the cat that continued to meow. He knelt down and scooped it up. He cradled it in his arms bouncing up and down as he tried to comfort it. He looked at it caringly and used his free hand to pet the top of its head, every now and then, scratching between its ears.
Sherlock watched as John cooed at the small animal. He was amazed at how taken in John had been by the kitten. He could have sworn John didn't like cats. But the longer he watched John and the cat, the more he realized that John had taken a liking toward it. He decided that instead of getting rid of it, he would let John keep it.
"So what do cats eat?" Sherlock said. He walked over to his stiff black chair, and sat.
"Well, it's a kitten so it probably drinks…" John stopped, realizing what he needed was the only item he hadn't bought.
"Milk," Sherlock and John said simultaneously.