He had brought home a cat. Of all things, a cat. A nappy orange body of fur that was sure to make everything go wrong. It was probably filled with diseases and would cause havoc around the flat, tearing up his things, clawing and biting and making its waste everywhere, hacking up hairballs and shedding on his chair. A cat. A wretched cat.
Of course, this was according to Sherlock Holmes, who sometimes had the tendency to blow things out of proportion.
John had fallen quite hard for the cat. When he almost stepped on it while throwing out the trash, he was horrified, petrified even. He had picked it up from under the heap of garbage, stroked it, examined it, decided he loved it, and realized that the only possible thing to do was to bring it back up to the flat.
The cat was confused at first, but soon understood that this giant was tender and loving towards him, and he quite liked the adventure. The taller giant, the one that looked like a statue, though, the cat knew that this other giant wasn't fond of him. But he let him stay, because the smaller giant loved him.
"What shall we name him then?"
"John, we're getting rid of it."
"You can't expect me to throw away a kitten, Sherlock! Now, what shall we name him!"
Sherlock stared angrily at John, then directed his gaze to the fluff in John's lap, which was staring stupidly at him with large green eyes. There was a long pause, and Sherlock's hard stare softened.
"Rory," he finally said.
"Rory? Why Rory?"
Sherlock stood and plucked the cat from John's lap. He looked at it.
"I knew a Rory once, when I was in primary school," he said. John looked worried, afraid that Sherlock, at any given moment, would punt the cat out the open window.
"Oh?" he asked.
"Yes," Sherlock replied. He brought the cat close to his face. "Rory died of cancer within a few months of my meeting him."
John swallowed as the cat was returned to him. The cat nestled itself into John's stomach. It quite liked that spot, for it was cozy and very warm.
"Why on earth would we name our cat that then?" John asked, astonished.
Sherlock sighed, then smiled fondly.
"Mycroft had taken me to the pet store for my birthday that year," he said. "Rory was my first true friend."
John looked down at the trash ball kitten that still sat on him, resting comfortably and purring just so. He shook his head, and said through a smile.
"Welcome home, Rory."
And Rory very much liked the sound of that.