Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. So, first of all my deepest apologies – this story was supposed to come last month, for the amazing missmuffin221's birthday. Life was – well, weird, and I could barely remember which month was most of the time. So here her gift fic comes, way too late. Or at least the first part of her gift, because the story started growing, so – at least a few chapters to look forward to! Hope it'll bring you some joy anyway, Bienchen!
The Hidden Lead
Sherlock Holmes would deny being a big softie even under duress. He had an image to maintain. High-functioning sociopath consulting detective, whose only joy was a good locked room murder, preferably committed by a serial killer. Never mind that in modern medical terms, his self-diagnosis amounted to sheer balderdash. Nobody ever went looking anyway. He so loved to goad Donovan and Anderson, ensuring their slander would reach as far as possible. It might be a bit mean of him, but it was, after all, a safety measure – look what happened when Moriarty, too clever by far, figured out that there were a handful of people whom Sherlock cared for. Still, it was a difficult image to maintain. Sometimes more than others.
Honestly, the sleuth had no idea why Lestrade had even called him. The case of the girl killed in a park near her house was obvious, honestly. The so-called 'best-friend' who had been crushing on her boyfriend. How the police didn't realise, Sherlock had no idea. He refused to believe he'd been called in not because the DI had no idea how to proceed – honestly, in a week or two even the deaf and blind could have solved this, so Graham should have, too – but because John had texted Lestrade begging for anything to distract his dangerously bored flatmate.
Sherlock was on all fours examining the surrounding area, just to be extra certain, when he came nose to nose with someone. A tiny grey tabby kitten with ochre eyes and a surprisingly loud voice, which startled him for a second. It had demands, and it had them now. Next thing he saw, was a shoe coming dangerously close to both of them, so – out of sheer instinct – he jumped up, scooping the kitten up with him.
"Damn, why didn't you let me kick that? I have enough nuisances on my crime scene, I don't need more!" Anderson whined.
"I don't trust your aim," the sleuth snapped back, "and don't worry, I'll make sure you're the only dumb creature here." If instead of scaring the kitten away, he instinctively hid it in one of the deep pockets of his Belstaff, and absently started petting it with one hand, so as to change its insistent meows to purrs, well, that just happened. Besides, it was obvious that their victim usually fed this little stray – it was basically a witness! And indeed, when he came near the murderer, from the depth of his pocket came a hiss that he had to cover with a cough. The kitten didn't appreciate having the giver of treats eliminated!
He solved the case quickly, and then it was time to wonder about his passenger. He could just set it down anywhere, of course, or if he wanted to be conscientious, bring it to the closest animal shelter. But the kitten had settled so contentedly, and he'd heard somewhere that purrs promoted healing – not just in cats, but in their human companions, too – and with all the scrapes they got into, surely some non-addictive (okay, that might be questionable, he still hadn't stopped petting the little one) healing boost could only be good.
He wasn't sure that John or Mrs. Hudson would agree, though. Nowhere in their contract was there a mention of pets, and he knew all too well that both would object to keeping any pet. Not because of the damage from a lively little one playing and scratching (it couldn't be worse than bullets in their walls) nor for hygienic reasons (he kept body parts in the fridge and once grew mould in the bathroom), but because, like Mycroft years ago, they feared having to take care of the new pet. Obviously, the only option was to smuggle it in and – whenever it was discovered (he didn't expect he could hide it indefinitely, they might not be geniuses but they weren't Anderson) – show the evidence that he could definitely take care of it on his own.
Next errands on his schedule: figure out the kitten's sex, name it, and procure the basics. Bowls, a litter tray, sand, food, a collar – he'd chip the little one, of course, but it might take him a bit to get around to a vet appointment, with their hectic lives. After all, the kitty looked healthy, so there was no immediate emergency – with a collar, in case it escaped, at least it'd be obviously owned. Oh, and at least a toy, of course. Okay, more probably two or four…or a dozen. But if he got everything now, what would he gift the kitten when he wanted to spoil…
Oh, fuck it. Using it for the kitten irked him. And yes, people were around and whipping a kitten out of one's pocket and staring at their intimate parts, even for a second, was likely to raise some eyebrows. But since when had he cared about anyone else's opinion anyway?
So, that's exactly what he did – and the kitten turned out to be a lady. Female names, female names…What would fit her? "Lead?" he called, hesitant. Okay, Lead might not be especially feminine, but his brain had latched on to 'evidence', and from that, her colour had done the rest. If she didn't mind, it was nobody else's business.
The loud meow he received was enough to seal that. "Now be quiet again, Lead, and you might get to choose your own food." He was going shopping. Lead had him tied around her little paw already, didn't she? He sent a quick text to John, asking if they needed anything, because he'd be buying some materials for a new experiment.
The incredulous reply he received was annoying but not unexpected, and with even more excuses to brave the place, the detective walked into a Pets at Home first. Priorities were priorities, after all…and he was immediately assailed by the number of choices. That was why he hated shopping. Every brand tried to appeal to the consumer with mostly baseless claims, and while investigating the data behind all that would be awfully time-consuming and dull, ignoring them all made choices simple chance, and he hated chance. It was illogical. Thankfully he had the most expert consultant with him – he invited Lead to peek out of his pocket, and followed her directions. Her nose was as good an indication as any about which food had the least percentage of extraneous chemicals in it, surely.
Sherlock went into a normal supermarket afterwards despite Lead's thankfully now soft protests that they were all set, thank you very much, and she'd like to get home or anyway out of the fucking pocket. But, again, no matter what the kitten said, it was a necessity. For one, after what he'd gone through he wanted John's appreciation for what he'd subjected himself to – and his blogger understood him well enough surely to reward him in some way. For another, he needed to buy a lot of extra bags to hide the ones from the other shop. Otherwise all his careful plans would be ruined the moment he set foot in the flat.
Somehow, he managed not to have a meltdown - and to remember the labels (or at least the images on them) of most things they used, so he didn't have to text John wondering which type of milk they used and what the fuck the difference was from every other one, among other things. He would have sworn that he deleted such trivial details – after all, his flatmate usually took care of boring things like 'stocking the pantry'. But his obsession with John meant that he'd inadvertently stored many more images than was reasonable of him in ordinary situations like putting the shopping away.
John welcomed him with a raised eyebrow – which really was unwarranted, because he knew of the sleuth's plans, and doubting that he would do it was insulting. Just because of that one time during Moriarty's game, it didn't mean that Sherlock would never do anything of the sort when he explicitly said he would. Saying he would, now that was another question altogether.
He abandoned the one supermarket bag at John's feet and beelined for his room, mumbling about setting up his experiment. If Lead mewled right now, he was busted. Once inside, he turned on the radio and finally, let the kitten out of the bag…err, the pocket. She dashed under his bed first, unsurprisingly, while he busied himself with creating not one but two cat corners, both well out of sight of anyone just half-opening the door to check if he was inside. One had a cot and two bowls (food and water, bless semi-ensuite bathrooms for allowing him to sneak behind John's back), the other the litter. He wouldn't have liked to eat in his bathroom either after all.
Finally, he took out the one toy he bought – the equivalent of a short fishing rod with a feather dangling from it – lay on the bed, and let it dangle over the side. Sure enough, after a few seconds there was a grey blur, and if the feather had been authentic it – and its owner – would have been torn to shreds.
Sherlock giggled – which, naturally, made him think of John. No, no, he couldn't share these giggles yet, no matter how adorable she was. He needed to prove himself first. Damn, he'd never thought that keeping a secret would be this hard. He could hide clues and plans and other life-and-death matters well enough, but give him one tiny kitten's antics, and he was itching to share every purr and swipe and blink. It was completely illogical. Despite that, he couldn't subdue the urge entirely. There was nothing for it. He would need a confidante.
Molly was the obvious choice. Cat owner herself, and – Sherlock had thought, before falling prey to Lead's spell – completely obsessed with felines, she could offer useful suggestions – from 'how to cat-proof a room' to the name of the best vet in London. Simply texting her wouldn't work, though – she wouldn't believe him without proof, afraid he was mocking her hobby. Well, that was simply remedied. The detective snapped a photo of his new friend. And then another. And then – he hadn't told Lead to get on the bed, but he hadn't told her not to either, technically, and her being distracted from her toy by his shoelaces was the endearing kind of idiotic, like John arguing with the chip and pin machine.
Almost as if summoned by his own thoughts, John knocked on his door. "Sherlock? Is it all fine? Need a hand in there?"
"Of course! What would be wrong?" he snapped back.
"You never close your door," his blogger replied, still respecting it, even if his frown could clearly be felt through the wood. "And unless we are just back from a long case, you aren't much one for random naps, either."
"I'm just setting up my experiment!" the detective yelled through the door.
"In your bedroom?" John asked.
"Would you really prefer everything in the kitchen?" Sherlock retorted.
"Just don't make it unusable as a bedroom, you know," his flatmate shot back, before padding away.
Hmmm….maybe he would claim that it was and try to get himself invited into John's bedroom? No, no, stop dreaming. John had few boundaries, but he was way too fond of them. And he. Wasn't. Gay. Besides, he would have to destroy the sofa too before his blogger deemed that an acceptable plan – and by then, Sherlock would be subjected to hours of lecturing. It wasn't worth the trouble. He needed some more data about his flatmate's sexuality (because despite his declarations that lip-licking was…distracting) before he'd be able to formulate a plan.
Now, texting Molly. Even if he'd be subjected to a million photos of Toby in exchange, he needed her support. …What had she texted back? There wasn't a single word in her message. Just a long string of emoticons (apparently she didn't have a Mycroft to train that childishness out of her), half of which he had no idea existed. Cat head with hearts for eyes? Did this mean Toby was in love with Lead? They hadn't even met yet! Why couldn't Molly be logical about cats? (Hypocrite, Mycroft whispered in his mind palace.)