John trudged up the steps to 221B late one afternoon, carrying a large grocery bag containing cat food, litter, food and water bowls, and a litter box in one hand. In the other hand, he held a cat carrier containing a tiny, fluffy, gray-and-cream-colored kitten.
Why do I always have to offer to take care of my girlfriends' pets to make up for Sherlock? he berated himself. Last night, he had taken his current girlfriend Sharie out to a restaurant, but, as usual, Sherlock had turned up and ruined it in an unbelievable and destructive incident involving noodles and a murder investigation. John had had to do something, and at least Sharie actually had a cat, unlike Jeanette, whose dog he had offered to walk-and who didn't actually have a dog. John winced at the memory. That had been bad. Really, he had gotten off easily this time. All he had to do was keep one kitten alive until nine in the morning three days from now while Sharie was out of town.
Keep a kitten alive for only three days. How hard can that be? he thought as he stepped into the flat-and heard an explosion. Well, maybe it won't be that easy, he thought as he rushed in, dreading to find out what Sherlock had destroyed this time.