Translator's note: This story was posted in 2012 by Karasik on a Russian fanfic site, translated for the WWAdvent on LiveJournal in December 2016 by myself, and posted with the author's permission.
(Link to the original work: www dot snapetales dot com slash index dot php question mark fic_id=23569)
John was snoring lightly in the warm and cozy flat on 221B Baker St. He was not dreaming of Afghanistan, but of the shores of Cyprus (or maybe Crete?): azure waves and golden sand, and himself, John, reclining on a chaise longue, basking in the mild warmth of the sun's rays. In general, the very epitome of a relaxing and refreshing dream. But it didn't last long: suddenly, he heard strange sounds, almost like rustling. John-in-the-dream started glancing around nervously, getting ready for the worst. And he was right-from all the bushes around the beach, grey creatures of unknown species came out, they were about his knee-height with huge, shimmering white teeth, just like teeth shown in chewing gum ads, and mean-looking small red eyes.
There were more and more of them coming onto the beach; they filled up all of the available space. That is when the doctor suddenly woke up, drenched in cold sweat and subconsciously realizing that he didn't actually dream the strange sounds. For variety's sake, at least this time he was not woken up by late-night violin scraping. Although that had taken place as well, concluded John, listening closely. But the strange rustling was more audible, and was heard in the immediate vicinity of the bed, and it was doubtful that Holmes had anything at all to do with this strange sound. Or at least John very much hoped that was the case.
Still sleepy, he lowered his bare feet to the floor and stumbled downstairs with the goal of asking Sherlock to end this night concert (although he wasn't too hopeful that Sherlock would take into consideration his flatmate's need for sleep at night, but it was a matter of principle to tell him).
John swung open the door to the living room, where, at any time of day at night, Sherlock either sprawled on his favorite sofa or sat curled up on his favorite armchair. But this time the scene which appeared before his eyes was far more...phantasmagorical. Sherlock was playing his violin in the middle of the night. But that had been old news, for a long time now. He always did this during the night, whenever he was bored or whenever he was trying to solve some problem, which meant practically always.
But this time, Sherlock was not alone. That is, not quite alone. John, his mouth hanging open, stood watching in amazement how his peculiar (but certainly not to that extent!) flatmate with abandon was using the musical instrument as it was supposed to be used, but now he had...listeners. Right in front of the sofa, at the legs of the coffee table, a pair of grey, one could even say cute, rodents was nestled. The little mice seemed to be nodding their heads in time to the music and almost to dance to it. Watson was reminded of the snake charmer he once happened to see in the street market in Afghanistan. A wizened, blackened with the sun old man played a pipe, and out of his sack, as if accompanying his playing, a swaying cobra's head slowly emerged. But Sherlock!
"What on earth is this?" John was no longer able to hold his emotions in check.
"What do you mean?" the still-imperturbable detective stopped playing, "I always play at this time of night, you should've gotten used to it by now."
"First of all, I haven't got used to it," John huffed indignantly. "And I won't, don't even dare hope I will!" he hastened to add, in reply to Holmes' skeptical look. "And second, what I meant was, what's that?" John pointed his finger at the small grey furry lumps near the coffee table.
"Oh, my talent has gathered admirers," smiled Sherlock. "One cannot blame living beings for being attracted by the fine arts. I must say that they have good taste," Holmes nodded to his "listeners", who seemed to nod in return and ran off about their own affairs, realizing that the concert was finished.
"Oh no, this isn't going to go on!" muttered John. "Seems like we'll have to call...the exterminators!"
"Why don't we get it sorted ourselves?"
"Oh, I've no doubt that of course, you're capable of poisoning all the mice in the 100-mile radius from here by whatever you're keeping in the kitchen jar marked "Salt" or in the kitchen jar marked "Pepper", but I would not like to join the murdered innocents as a result", Watson declared categorically.
"Ah, no, no," Sherlock shook his head. "I've no intention of poisoning anyone at all. I need listeners! I can think better that way. Since you refuse to listen to my violin-playing," he aimed an accusing look at his flatmate. "And with them...I will make an arrangement!" Sherlock smiled. "I promise, they won't disturb you any more."
"Hmm," John considered making an objection, but in the end decided to let it go and instead to enjoy seeing the end of his fantastic dream and to leave Sherlock to it. After all, it can't be that difficult to get rid of mice. Even a bored genius could manage that much.
The next night, everything was quiet, there were no signs of life from the mice, at least in John's room. Apparently, the detective did, after all, manage to sign some kind of treaty with the mice about their non-interference with John's sleep. In the morning, John walked into the room and declared,
"I never thought that you would manage it."
"Our new neighbours didn't bother you tonight?" Sherlock raised a mocking eyebrow.
"No, not at all."
"Of course not," he nodded at the cages proudly standing on the windowsill. "I decided to keep pets."
"Oh no, no, anything but that!" John stared in astonishment at his two acquaintances from yesterday, who seemed to be doing well and were running in their exercise wheel.
"Why on earth not?" Sherlock shrugged. "I have to experiment on someone, don't I? Well, of course, unless you'd rather take the place of being the experimental subject," he stared at Watson hungrily. "Besides, they like Bach."
John waved his hand dismissively and turned towards the kitchen. After all, Sherlock did get rid of the mice, and John did not relish the idea of being a guinea pig. Let poor mice be the experimental subjects rather than himself. Although the doctor did have a sneaking suspicion that at such a rate, the poor little creatures wouldn't last too long.
When John returned to the living room, Holmes was animatedly discussing something with his new friends, and John even got a bit worried about losing his role as Sherlock's conversation partner altogether. After all, at first he became a substitute for the skull, and now, it seemed, he was going to be substituted for as well.
Having waited till Sherlock ran out of the house to see to something, John nicked the cage and, carefully descending down the stairs into the street, let out Sherlock's grey friends into the neighbouring alley. He was certain that Holmes would not remember the mice when he returned. And that's exactly what happened. The detective was deep into expounding on the current case, now addressing himself directly to John, which made John rather pleased. After all, the thought that he was nearly traded for two mute creatures rather injured his pride.
But...the next morning, the cages were back in their place, and their residents-in theirs. John clutched at his head: in his understanding, the rodents were equally injurious to the improvement of Sherlock's and John's social standing, as the deerstalker in Sherlock's understanding. And just as he sometimes did, when he had difficulty regarding Sherlock, John could not stop himself from ringing up Mycroft.
The British Government didn't make him wait too long. After some time, Mycroft appeared at their door,
a smug "I-know-it-all-much-better-than-you-do" smile upon his face-apparently, it must be a family feature. In his arms he held a bundle.
"Reliable sources have reported that you've developed problems with...unwanted tenants. Here, this will help you, Dr Watson."
Doubtfully, John accepted the suspicious bundle, meanwhile remembering "Beware of Trojans bearing gifts", and, thanking Mycroft, closed the door behind the "sworn enemy" of his friend.
The bundle stirred, and, startled, John dropped it, which caused an offended "Meow!" to sound from out of the sack, and a cute white kitten with curious grey eyes climbed out into the world. The kitten looked at the doctor appealingly, and Watson, with a resigned sigh, walked in the direction of the fridge, to get some milk.
This night, he was not awakened by the sounds of the violin, which seemed unusual to John, and he woke up this time because of...the reigning quiet. Tiptoeing down the stairs, he peeked into the living room.
John could not hold back a smile when he saw the following scene: on the sofa, a peacefully sleeping Sherlock was stretched out, one arm under his head, the other resting on the white purring bundle on his chest.
John found it endearing and mentally thanked Mycroft for his timely mention of the fact that, when Sherlock was a boy, the only way he'd go to bed was if he had his teddy bear, and for John's future restful sleep, and, happy with the result, headed back to his room.
Two "birds" had been killed with one stone-John successfully got rid of mice and won a few extra hours of sleep for himself. He must be sure to work as a team with Mycroft more often, the doctor made a mental note.