Dedicated to a stranger. If you're reading this, I hope you like it.
Inspired by a conversation on Omegle. As we know, Sherlockians own Omegle. Which is more than I can say about Sherlock. The beginning is a little...odd I grant you but it all falls into place, I promise. I've been itching to write this one. This is post-Reichenbach, so be aware of any spoilers. Please enjoy and review and what have you. I particularly enjoyed the final segment!
Many thanks.
K I T T E N S
ONESHOT
Five months living with Molly Hooper was taking its toll on Sherlock. He'd started smoking again, twenty, sometimes thirty a day. She'd tried to hide his cigarettes the first time she caught him, but he'd found them in ten minutes because he'd said she'd given away her hiding place by the way she buttoned her coat. He hardly left the house for fear of being spotted. He spent every day while she was at work on the internet playing crime solving games and she'd come home to find him sulking because the game had somehow got it wrong. He'd find cases; petty cases around the house which barely stimulated his over active brain. One night they were sitting down after dinner, his face pale and drawn due to frustration and lack of sunlight when suddenly he spoke.
"I think I need to go home, Molly."
She felt her heart sink a little in her chest. Even though he hadn't been much company the past few months, he had been company. She'd always dreamed of sharing a house with Sherlock Holmes and, although the pretence under which they were living together was far from normal, she knew she would miss him if he left.
"But you'll…what about everything?"
"I can't hide forever." Sherlock couldn't deny Molly had been the cornerstone to his plans. She'd executed every action he'd asked her to with sharp precession and she'd graciously let him into her home for the past few months. But her terraced house in a leafy London suburb was a far cry from his dank flat in Baker Street. He struggled to say he missed Baker Street; to miss something you'd have to love it to begin with, and Sherlock prided himself far too much in not loving anything.
"I need a cigarette."
Ten minutes later Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa beside Molly, the musky smell of menthol cigarettes powdering around him. She wondered whether he was going to resume the conversation he'd abandoned so abruptly.
"Your cat…" He started, rotating his hand in order to try and muster a name.
"Toby?"
"Yes, that's it." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, "He's a she."
"What?" Molly laughed, "They told me at the rescue centre that Toby was a boy. I asked specifically for a boy cat. You know, I wanted the male company…"
Sherlock brow furrowed confused as she blushed and tried to rectify what she'd said.
"Oh God, I mean…not like. I just…"
"Never mind Molly." Sherlock sighed, "But you might want to change its name."
"How do you know Toby's a girl?" Molly asked, cocking her head to one side curiously, "Is it the way he swings his hips when he walks? Or the delicate way he licks his paws when he cleans himself."
Silence.
"Oh I know." Molly began, mockingly, "Toby fancies you? Is that what you think? That my cat has a crush on you?"
"No." Sherlock stated simply, bewildered by her sudden tirade of stupidity, "More to do with the litter of five kittens Toby just had in the utility cupboard."
When Molly got home a few weeks later, Sherlock was sitting in her living room with a packed suitcase, his coat and scarf hung over the armchair.
"Sherlock?" Molly jumped as she entered the room. It wasn't the large suitcase that surprised her, but the fact that Sherlock wasn't outside smoking on curled up on the sofa in another internet induced sulk.
"I'm going home." He said simply, feeling about for his gloves. Molly sunk dejectedly onto the chair, wringing her hands in her lap.
"Have you called John?" She asked, meekly.
"No." Sherlock shook his head, "He won't mind anyway."
Molly wondered if Sherlock knew that John Watson hadn't eaten or slept since he'd seen his best friend throw himself off the rooftop all those months ago. She wondered if Sherlock knew that John's limp had resurfaced. She didn't think Sherlock understood that when he died, John had too.
"He'd be over it by now anyway." Sherlock rubbed his hands together, totally oblivious to how ridiculous he sounded, "Right. I should be going."
"Over it?" Molly cried, slightly incredulously, "You think John got over it that easily?"
"He's not over it?" Sherlock questioned, "Molly, I don't know how people feel about things like that."
"So what are you going to do? Just walk back in as though nothing happened?"
"I'll explain everything, of course." Sherlock sighed, suddenly aware that he was actually glad he was leaving. "Why what do you think I should do? Bring a fanfare and a red carpet?"
"Bring him a gift." Molly answered quickly. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in confusion. He'd never bought a gift in his life, besides he didn't know what John would want anyway. A new biro? A newspaper?
"A gift?" He almost choked on his own laughter. Did she really know him? "Like what, some jam?"
"No."
"A new jumper?"
"Too Christmassy." Molly looked around the living room before her face cracked into a wide, toothy smile, "One minute, I've got the most perfect idea."
He stood outside the door of 221b Baker Street rehearsing his entrance. Molly had said John may hug him and that he should be prepared. He hoped he didn't hug him; not because he didn't want to hug John but because he couldn't stand that awkward moment afterwards when John would gruffly pat him on the back. Balancing the suitcase and the large box Molly had given him; Sherlock took a deep breath and fished about for his key.
He stood for a moment at the door to their flat, placing his suitcase and box on the floor at the entrance. It smelled like fresh paint and Sherlock noticed that the large smiley face spray painted on the wall now had a crudely drawn frown instead of a smile.
"Very dramatic, John." Sherlock muttered to himself. Slowly he pulled off his gloves, drinking in the musty décor of 221b. Nothing had changed apart from the graffiti John seemed to have ironically defaced. Nothing had been touched. Even the skull was still there.
"Mrs Hudson?" John's voice rang out from the back of the kitchen, "Is that you?"
It seemed Sherlock had forgotten how to speak. Swallowing he took a tentative step into the flat, closing his eyes as he heard John's footsteps approach. He could tell from the clip of his heel he was wearing those god awful brown loafers.
"Mrs Hudson I…" Silence. Even when John's footsteps ceased Sherlock daren't open his eyes. He waited. Waited to feel John's arms fling around his body, maybe even a few tears fall on his should like Molly had warned. But nothing. Nothing at all. Sherlock's eyelids flickered open and John was standing, fists clenched, jaw slightly ajar. He moved an inch and Sherlock saw his arms move. He braced himself for the embrace.
Bang!
John's fist met Sherlock's face with a loud clap. Holding his jaw, Sherlock steadied himself against the wall, the warm metallic taste of blood creeping across his tongue.
"I deserved that." He said chivalrously.
Bang!
John punched him again, this in the stomach leaving Sherlock doubled over.
"Not sure about that one." Sherlock held up a hand, "No more."
"This is some sick…sick joke." John paced to the other side of the flat, hands clawing at his head, "You…you were dead. You are dead."
"Yes. Well if that's the case then you've just assaulted a corpse. Charming."
"Don't…what? Am I dreaming? I'm dreaming."
"Do you want me to pinch you?" Sherlock reached forward and pinched John harshly on the arm, causing him to yelp in pain.
"What are you doing?"
"Oh sorry, is a pinch a little too aggressive after you just tried to rearrange my face with your fist?" Sherlock snapped, wiping the rest of the blood from his lips, "It was all a fake. I faked it all."
Sherlock managed to dodge out the way as John swung for him again.
"Will you stop that?"
"All these months?" John's breathing became rapid and he shook his head, "All these months and you didn't even send me a text?"
"Couldn't risk it." The detective answered, rubbing a hand over his stomach where the doctor had punched him, "But I'm back now."
John bit back the urge to punch him again. It wasn't that he wasn't happy to see him. In all honesty there was thin line between him punching Sherlock in the face or kissing him, it's just that punching him seemed much more deserving after the months of heartache. John could hardly comprehend the way Sherlock stood there, actually looking shocked at how upset he was being. Did he not understand?
"I saw you jump."
"Did you see me land?" Sherlock savoured the silence, "And before you say you took my pulse, you didn't, you took the pulse of a corpse which Molly Hooper threw out of the window as I landed in a laundry truck."
"You have a grave."
"I know. I've visited." Sherlock began unbuttoning his coat, "Where's my violin?"
"Sherlock!" John rounded on him, "Are you not going to say anything at all? Are you just going to walk back in like you've spent a long time at the shops?"
"The queues are dreadful there…" Sherlock agreed, sighing, "John. I faked my own death so Moriarty wouldn't kill you. I watched you ask for one more miracle at that grave and here we go, abracadabra, I'm back. Now what more can I do?"
John stood rooted to the spot for a moment. Sherlock was right. He'd only done it all so Moriarty wouldn't kill him. He had begged Sherlock to still be alive and now he was. He should've been dancing up the walls with happiness, because everything had fallen into place. But yet he was still harbouring the months of distraught.
"Shake my hand." John said simply.
"What?"
"Shake my hand." John repeated, "So I can feel that you're real."
"You're not going to punch me again?"
John's face creased where he smiled. His skin ached where he hadn't done it in ages. Shaking his head he held out his hand, which Sherlock grasped. Smartly he shook his hand, breathing in deeply as it all became real.
"Nice to have you back." John said, straightening, "Right unpack your case and I'll make a cup of tea."
"Oh God, that reminds me." Sherlock turned on his heel and hurried back towards the door where he left his case and the box, "I brought you a little present."
"You don't do presents…" John said slowly, craning his head to look.
"Molly's idea." Sherlock rustled around inside the box, "Apparently it means sorry…"
John almost laughed at his reasoning. He hadn't bought a present because he'd wanted to buy one. He'd bought a present because Molly had told him it's what normal people do to say sorry.
"What is it?"
Sherlock turned around, a small jet black kitten curled up against his purple shirt. He held it tenderly as though it was a baby, his long fingers gently rubbing at the nape of the kitten's neck. John paused, half shocked, half wondering what on God's green earth possessed him to get a cat.
"Here you go." Sherlock gingerly placed the kitten into John's arms, a small smile threatening to tug at his lips. "Forgiven?"
John tried to prise the kitten away from tearing his newest jumper and nodded, confused, "Um, I suppose…?"
"He needs a name." Sherlock mentioned throwing his coat across the chair, "I took the liberty of making sure it's a boy, unlike Molly did with her cat."
"Why don't we name it after somebody we like? Somebody you like?" John suggested, taking a seat on the armchair, the cat purring gently on his chest.
"That narrows it down somewhat," Sherlock muttered sarcastically, "How about Jim?"
"Hmm." John bit his lip, "How about Greg?"
Sherlock turned, eyebrows knitted in confusion.
"Greg?" He asked, "After who?"
Dearest Stranger. Thank you. This is our division.