There is, incidentally, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person. - Dan Greenberg
When he woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed and with a mouth reeking of morning breath, John padded across his room into the bathroom. On his way, he trod across a pile of his jumpers—the pile he'd been meaning to take to the laundrette. His foot brushed against something alarmingly warm and furry, and he threw himself off-balance just before placing all his weight onto the offending foot. He was caught up in a rush of panic for a moment, before silvery-blue eyes glared up at him and brought memories of the night before flooding back. The cat, to its credit, did not hiss or take a swipe at him.
"Sorry, mate," he apologized (it was too early for him to feel self-conscious about talking to an animal just yet), and reached down to pat its head. The cat chirruped and wound itself through John's legs before leading him out of the room.
John showered quickly and ate breakfast just as quickly, remembering the cat only when he heard a plaintive meow in the doorway. He didn't have time to bake any more salmon before work, and he obviously didn't happen to have any cans of cat food sitting around anywhere. "Uh..." he mumbled, searching through his pantry and deciding what was the least-bad idea to give to a cat. After a moment, his fingers closed around exactly what he was looking for—a can of tuna. It had been a long time since he'd bought tuna, but—he checked the date—it was still good. He opened it quickly and plunked it down onto another little plate. "Don't go getting spoiled, alright? Just because I've fed you real stuff twice now doesn't mean it's going to become a habit. It's going to be canned crap from here on out. If that bothers you...well, the window's open, alright?"
The cat ignored him, already devouring the offering. On his way out the door, John remembered that the cat had no water, and rushed back into the kitchen to quickly fill a bowl. He was running late now, or he would be very soon, and he groaned as he pulled the door shut behind him. After hiding his spare keys under a tacky ceramic rabbit in the yard he hurried on his way to work. He'd text Molly the location on the way.
[11:06]Okay. He hates this travel carrier but it might be because it still smells like Boots.
[11:15] Did you know that your cat will sit perfectly fine in a regular seat?
[11:19] Did you know that taxi drivers don't notice when you've got a cat sitting on their backseat?
[11:23] Did you know that taxi drivers don't like it when they notice you've got a cat sitting on their backseat?
[12:37] Clean bill of health! He's perfect! Except underweight like I said! And no chip or anything!
[12:59] What time do you get off tonight? I might catnap your cat until you get home. So fluffy!
[13:03] What are you going to name him? It'd better not be something like Tom.
[13:14] John. You're not actually going to name him Tom, are you?
[13:16] If you name this beautiful cat Tom, I am going to permanently catnap him.
[13:32] Call me when you get home.
When John finally got time to check his mobile, he had to laugh at the series of texts from Molly. He slipped into his coat and bade goodbye to the woman sitting at the desk on his way out—Mary, possibly, or...Terry—dialing in Molly's number as he hailed a cab. She sounded almost guilty.
"John! Don't be mad at me, okay? I...may have gotten a bit carried away."
That didn't sound good. "What are you talking about? Where are you?"
The voice on the other end of the line answered just a bit too quickly, a bit too chipper. "I'm at your flat! I just popped out to the shops to pick up some things for your cat, since I noticed you don't have any cat food or anything, and..." The line went still for a moment or two as she hesitated. The back of John's neck prickled, like he was being watched, which was ridiculous because obviously it was just him and the driver here: everyone else was flying by too quickly to notice him. "Well, you'll see when you get here, I guess." There was a clicking sound, and then the line went dead. John stared at his mobile a bit uneasily, but then sat back and fretted until they pulled up in front of his new building.
The first thing John noticed was a large carpet-covered structure standing just a few feet from the door. The second thing he noticed was Molly's sheepish face just a few feet from the carpet-covered structure. "It's a scratching post slash climbing tower!" she said, holding her arms out as though presenting it to an audience. "And your cat loves it!" She attempted a winning smile, but her face looked just a bit too guilty for it to be successful. As if on cue, a shaggy black head poked out of one of the holes in the tower, just above the height of John's waist and mewed softly. John grinned despite himself and reached out to pet the cat. It was then that he noticed the thin purple collar, the color rich and brilliant in contrast with the dark fur. "He needed a collar," Molly explained. "Everything that I got is completely practical. Cats need toys to be entertained, and obviously you needed a food and water dish, and cats really do better with a wide variety of foods in their diet, and..." She made her way into the kitchen as she spoke. John thought it wise to follow her.
A strange blue contraption sat on the floor, near the wall. It was clear that Molly had tried to put it somewhere out of the way, but it was just the right size to always be in the way in the small kitchen. "Cats don't really like drinking water that's been sitting," she explained as she crouched next to it. "So this bowl sort of, you know, runs it through like a fountain. It's good because then he'll want to drink more water, which is good for cats anyway." John vaguely remember the kidney infection that had killed Molly's cat just a few months ago, and managed a grateful smile. He couldn't refuse these gifts from Molly, because they weren't for him. They were for the cat, and maybe also the cat she had lost.
"Thank you, Molly. You've been brilliant, seriously. A huge help. You didn't need to go to all this, though..." John tried not to think of how much money she must have spent on this stray cat who might, ultimately, end up leaving him anyway. Instead, he folded her into a friendly embrace. After a moment or two, a soft thud on the table beside them made them pull apart. The cat was now sitting there and looking at them. He almost looked betrayed, and John had to laugh.
"He doesn't like that we're not paying attention to him anymore," Molly observed, and though it still seemed strange to anthropomorphize an animal like that, John had to agree with her. He hesitated for a moment, then reached out to pick up the cat—his cat. He was half afraid that the thing would try to scratch or bite him, or that he would hiss and back away, but the interaction went off without a hitch. Soon the cat was purring contentedly in his arms, pressing the top of his furry head against the underside of John's chin. Cat person or no, John thought to himself, I could really get used to this.
And he did.
At his insistence, he and Molly had (reluctantly) put up "Found: Cat" fliers, but as the weeks went by with no calls, John began to relax a bit. He also stopped expecting the cat to have disappeared each morning, and, as the days got colder, finally closed the window in the sitting room. They quickly settled into a routine: John would wake up, would now step over the cat, who would almost always wind up sleeping in whatever clothes John had discarded from the day before, and would get ready for work. During breakfast, the cat would jump up onto the table. John would remove the cat from the table. The cat would then wind himself through John's legs as he sipped his tea or coffee. John would put down a bit of food and make sure the weird fountain-bowl thing had plenty of water in it, and head off to work.
When he got home, if Molly hadn't slipped into the apartment to play with the cat (he'd never asked for the spare keys back, and she hadn't volunteered them), he'd make dinner for himself. The cat would jump up onto the counter to watch. He would remove the cat from the counter. He soon started putting the cat in a chair instead of the floor, feeling a bit guilty for not letting him watch him cook. He soon stopped feeling ridiculous for feeling guilty for not letting him watch him cook. After dinner, he would put down a bit more food for the cat and, if necessary, give him more fresh water.
Sometimes, on Friday or Saturday nights, he would go out to a pub with Lestrade, talk about anything and everything except what actually mattered. Greg and Molly were the only ones who knew better than to bring up Sherlock, and John was immeasurably grateful for them. Usually, John stayed in, having long since given up on going out on more than one date with the same woman. On these nights, he would brew two cups of tea, dump one down the drain with a sigh, take his cup to the couch, and read through medical texts or the newspaper or sometimes a novel or two. When he was feeling a bit more lazy, he would forgo the reading and grab a beer and the remote control, watching mindless telly until bedtime. Whichever one he ended up doing, the cat inevitably wound up jumping up onto the couch and stretching out next to him with his paws pressing against John's thigh. John never removed the cat from the couch. He would reach out and pat his quiet little friend, scratching his belly until the playful bites turned just a bit more serious. Eventually, his hand would still on the cat's back and a calm feeling of peace would descend over the flat.
When it came time for bed, John would rise, rinse out his cup, and give the cat one last pat before heading to his room. The cat would pad over to the cushion Molly had bought him to use as a bed, but John knew that, when he woke up the next morning, the cat would be on the floor in his room.
Less frequently, if Molly was over, they would talk about their days over dinner, like usual. Sometimes they went out for drink or to the cinema. It was still just friendly, and soon Molly began talking about the new guy she was seeing—the vet she'd taken the cat to. She looked happy when she talked about him, and John couldn't help but feel happy for her. If they both went back to John's flat after their night out, coming through the door laughing and talking about some funny scene from the movie or possibly just a bit too loud, a bit too tipsy, the cat would almost always stare evenly at them from the top of his scratching post slash climbing tower. He seemed to disapprove of their antics.
One night, returning home just a bit more wobbly than usual, John broke down into giggles at the serious look on the cat's face. Molly, less inebriated but only just, looked at him with confusion. "He looks so angry!" he laughed, gesturing at the feline presiding over the entrance. His giggles were catching, apparently, because Molly tittered a bit as well.
"What's his name, anyway?" she finally asked, as they made their way over to the sofa. John was not going to be standing up for much longer, so he figured he might as well embrace it and take a seat. He'd meant to reply that he still hadn't got one, that he was simply "the cat" and something about how he didn't really even need a name, did he, but his mouth answered before he could get his brain into gear.
"Sherlock."
The name felt sharp in his mouth, and he realized he hadn't spoken it in months now. He sobered immediately, looking across the room at the cat, who was still perched at the top of the tower. Molly's laughter dried up as well. She sat up a bit straighter.
"John..." Her voice sounded strange, uncomfortable. Maybe this was what it sounded like when she pitied someone.
"No, it is." Might as well go with it now, yeah? "Christ, look at him. His fur. Those eyes." He looked over—Molly looked concerned. "Molly, I'm not completely round the bend. I know it's not actually Sherlock. He's...he's gone. Fine. But that cat is the Sherlockiest cat I have ever laid eyes on, and that's his name whether either of us likes it or not."
Molly murmured something that could very well have been a concession. "Okay." She was making an effort to make her voice bright and cheerful again. It seemed that all the levity had been drained right out of the room, but she was determined to ignore that simple fact. "Okay. Come here, Sherlock! Here, kitty, kitty..." Her efforts earned her a disdainful look before the cat went back to licking his paw. Her laughter returned, bubbling up through a well of nerves this time. "You're right. Just look at him!"
John snorted and willed himself not to sink into the dark pit that still waited beneath the surface of his cheerful facade. "Sherlock the cat." Fine. It was fine. "Don't worry, mate," he called across the room. "We're just mates, me and Molly! She'll never take your place in this cold old heart!" So much for avoiding that pit, then. John tried not to look at her. The cat jumped gracefully from the tower and crossed the room, only to leap onto the couch and knead his way into John's lap.
"I should get going..." Molly still sounded a bit odd. "I'll talk to you later, John." She leaned forward to give him a quick hug, then disappeared out the door, leaving John the bitter old man with his pet cat and the new realization that this might actually be as good as it would get for him from here on out. Sherlock was purring.