Molly entered her house to find six feet of consulting detective – very much not dead, thank you – splayed on her carpet and surrounded by about a dozen apparently random objects which included a toy-mouse, a handkerchief, a stick that looked like a little too much like half her broom, a bright purple feather and a peeled orange.
Her cat, Toby, was perched on the couch's armrest and he looked entirely bored about the whole ordeal, his tail swaying softly at his side. He was a large, oddly-colored Coon cat with bright yellow eyes and he had what seemed to be bits of orange skin tangled on his long fur. And a small mother-of-pearl comb she'd have sworn she kept under key.
She figured that, after an entire week of this, she would've been used to it.
Apparently not.
She let her purse fall on a nearby armchair and hung her coat behind the door before lowering herself to a crouch in the neutral ground between Sherlock and Toby.
"Sherlock, what on earth are you trying to do?" Living with the man for the few weeks that had passed after his fake death had promptly and definitely terminated her crush on him. Really, it was like living with a particularly spoiled 5-year-old with unlimited access to corrosive chemicals. Not really someone she wanted inside her flat.
"I'm trying to teach him how to fetch. Cats are incredibly flexible and their night-vision is much more developed than ours." The man rolled onto his back, and looked at her, bright green-gray eyes staring into hers. "Could be useful for cases" he said before rolling up and jumping to his feet.
Toby huffed noisily, obviously upset he had yet to receive his post-work cuddles. Yet, Molly ignored him and went to the kitchen. It had been a particularly long day at the morgue after a gruesome multi-car crash and she wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. And maybe a couple biscuits.
When she returned, Sherlock was sulkily staring at Toby from the opposite edge of the couch, his face now sporting four parallel red scratches. The cat had jumped to the back of the couch and sat in a way that could only be called smug, in spite of the purple feather now wedged into his fur along with the bits of orange.
Molly let out a sigh, sat on the armchair and flicked on the telly. Not ten minutes had passed when she saw a roll of patterned sellotape flying past her and she followed it as it fell, rolled on the ground and hit the wall. She turned to the couch just to see Sherlock none too gently pushing Toby towards the last projectile.
Well. At least he wasn't trying to set fire to her curtains anymore.