A/N - Ok, so this story is a bit odd, I'm not going to lie. I just saw a picture and this idea kind of formed, so I had to write it down. I'm writing some other stories right now, I just had to do this one quickly. It's not long, so bear with me.

Disclaimer: If we're being honest, this is never going to happen in the show. Gatiss and Moffat own the reality.

The milk was laid out on the floor, left with a skin forming over the surface. A couple of splatters were dried around the edges of the bowl, now little more than a pale smudge on the carpet. It had been laid out five days ago. Five days ago was when it had happened.

John curled up in the old armchair, the faded material offering comfort, warmth and familiarity. Mrs Hudson had put up posters with the face on them, however other people just saw the dark black hair and the blue eyes. They didn't see the glint those eyes got after envisioning the cunning location that sneaky mice would hide themselves in, or the tousled, matted quality of the dark fur it got whenever he buried his head in the old blue scarf that Mrs Hudson's late husband had left behind. For some reason he loved that scarf.

The posters didn't say much, or if they did John couldn't read it. There was a big pattern of letters at the very top of the page, followed by a picture and then lots of silly letter patterns, like 'please help' or 'lost.' He'd spent ages looking over them, even stretching out a ball of red yarn to connect similar letter patterns to each other, and he'd scratched marking around the similar letters, trying to decipher their meaning. All his best efforts, however, had only earned him a gasp from Mrs Hudson and an exasperated 'John'! Later on, he'd spotted more of the papers on her kitchen table, without the markings or yarn. It looked rather silly without his guide to the translation, in his opinion. The only thing he could understand was the picture of his friend, the only one he could talk to in street. From what John knew, Mrs Hudson wanted other people to be able to recognise Sherlock.

It wasn't for fame. If anything, Sherlock was infamous around the neighbourhood. Sally across the street always yelled at him when he sat on her doorstep, offering up his catch of the day. She'd groan in disgust, kick the bird or the mouse away and slam the door on Sherlock's tail, if she could. Sherlock would simply pick the catch up, cross the street again and eat it in secret behind the bins in the back alleyway - Mrs Hudson absolutely loathed Sherlock's 'addiction' to small rodents.

Greg, the dog from two blocks away, had a mutual understanding with Sherlock. If both parties stayed off the others turf, they'd help each other out if they got into a spot of trouble with the red setter down the road, Jim. Of course, Sherlock rarely stayed off Greg's territory - if he saw a mouse there, there was no doubt that he'd be eating it behind the bins the next day. Greg didn't really seem to care, although he barked loudly if another dog approached, clearly unhappy for people to know that he didn't actually mind putting up with Sherlock's antics.

The two girls from a couple of streets away, Molly and Irene, who although constantly got into cat fights with each other, put up with Sherlock flaunting his latest bird willingly, even eagerly. John thought Molly often seemed to be the girl sustaining more blows and scratches whenever the two squabbled, however both seemed to be able to make Sherlock walk a little taller, his tail flicking behind him in the air whenever he passed. Irene was constantly rubbing up against him, whilst Molly, although she would glower at the girl from a metre or two away, seemed content just to loll against the same wall as Sherlock, even when he didn't necessarily think that she had to stand so far off. Irene apparently felt the need to be curled up beside him. In John's opinion, the latter shared more animal magnetism with his friend, although he preferred Molly's character.

So Sherlock was known. People loathed, loved and/or respected him around the neighbourhood. John couldn't stop himself wondering however, as he gazed at the full milk bowl, whether or not any of those people had been as affected by the fall as he had. They weren't friends in the same way the two of them had been. They weren't the ones who saw the too-tidy bed in the mornings, and the forever forgotten milk. They weren't the ones who had seen the fall.

It had been five days ago. Sherlock was sitting tall up a tree a few streets away, his height greatly exaggerated by the angle which John was looking at him through. His face looked calm, however his body was tense and shivering ever-so-slightly, his fur quivering on its ends. He had just confessed that he had offered the mice cheese and what-have-you in exchange for letting him parade them around in the high regard of the community which, Sherlock claimed, he did not deserve. John hadn't believed him for a second, as he'd seen Jim around the corner moments before, a glint in his eye as he headed into the bakery across the street - it may have been John's imagination, but he could have sworn he'd seen blood on his teeth and still wet on his dark coat. The whole neigherbourhood had been buzzing with the news that Sherlock was apparently not all that he claimed to be, however hearing it from Sherlock's own mouth made John worry. What if it was all true?

Then he'd fallen.

John hadn't seen too much of it. He was quite a distance off. All he saw was the tumbling of legs and black coat, and then he was gone. He'd run over to see if he was all right, to see that it wasn't true. But he'd been gone. He'd been lying there, and John didn't bother checking thoroughly for blood, even though he couldn't see any obviously, because in that moment he just knew he was...

Maybe he'd jumped. Maybe he was pushed. No matter what had happened, the result was the same.

With a small yawn, John leapt up onto Mrs Hudson's desk. He saw that the big white box was up on the screen again, with little squiggly letter-patterns inside it. He liked that big white box. Normally he could just step around on the screen and punch in random letters, making new letter-patterns as he went along - he thought they made far more sense than the ones Mrs Hudson used. Today, however, he chose his words carefully. He stepped on the small boxes on the surface of the desk with delicacy, as if each click were a step in an elaborate dance. He looked up at the screen to see what he'd written after a minute or two.

He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him.

It didn't make any sense, John admitted, but it seemed to sum up how he felt.

Suddenly, there was a meow from the doorway. John's head whipped around, amazed. There, in the doorway sat a black cat, with intelligent blue eyes staring back at him. Without thinking about it John pounced on him, swiping him across the mouth. Sherlock yelped, and pushed him away. John couldn't quite find what to say. One word seemed to come to the forefront of his mind, however.

How?

And Sherlock smirked, and made a noise that was somewhere between a snort and a chuckle.

Stupid person. Nine lives.

And with a jolt John sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes with his furless hands. For a moment he hoped it was all just a dream. Well, obviously the cat part was, he silently chided himself. But no.

The chair was empty. There was no violin playing that had woken him up. His laptop hadn't been stolen, and there was no traumatised client in the living room.

For the first time in his life, John Watson that they had all been cats.

...So? Purr or hiss?