Three days later, the Widow Morstan's number was still in John's coat pocket and his therapist was telling him he needed to get out of the house, and that he should get a pet.
When Mary had given it to him, it wasn't in a very romantic way. She'd only just alluded to her being a recent widow, so her tone didn't seem to convey, "Call me if you'd like to have a drink, or maybe some dinner." It more said, "People in this group sometimes need to call on each other when they need a shoulder to cry on between meetings. And, frankly, you look really, really lonely, so I could indulge you my shoulder for an afternoon, if you'd be so kind as to return the favor."
That implied intent in many ways deviated from what John was considering actually calling her for.
"Hey, Mary? Hi, there. It's…well, it's John, we met at Grievers Group Therapy the other day…yeah, that's me. Listen, are you allergic to cats by any chance?"
He had been waiting outside the Mayhew Animal Home when he spotted Mary from afar. She looked like she was doing better today. Perhaps this was because she had just left class, but her eyes were less red, and her hair had been combed, and she peeked out of her thick wool scarf to smile at him, a little confused nervousness in her eyes.
"Hi," she said, folding her arms. "Didn't want to adopt a cat on your own then?" He smiled weakly.
"Showing up alone would have only driven home the fact that I am a…a 33-year-old war veteran who's replacing his dead flatmate with a rescue cat." He tried to laugh as if it were a joke, in hopes she'd laugh too and they'd stand there laughing at his pain so it'd go away. She only smiled pityingly at him, and swung the door open for him.
He fought the desire to retreat into his coat collar.
He wished that Mary would say more while they were there. Not only did he want the tension in the situation to ease, but because he wanted the commentary in his head to cease. They had been placed in a white, linoleum-floored room with around a dozen cats, and at least half of them were competing for his attention as if they'd thought they'd never see a human with hands and a lap again.
And throughout it all, he heard his voice in his head. Chaos, he would sneer. That one was abused by a drunk. Kicking, from the looks of how it carries itself around your feet. Means it probably wouldn't get in the way too much. That one was left in a box in front of the shelter door three? no. four months ago. All so affectionate, how could you stand it? Cats were probably as unamusing to Sherlock as humans had been, and he seemed to be channeling his disapproval into John's subconscience. John stamped the phrase "dishonouring his memory" out of his mind as best as he could.
"Any of them catching your eye?" Mary asked. She was smiling serenely, cuddling a petite ginger cat next to her face. Two others were fighting for her lap and several were figure-eighting around her legs. She was better at this than John was.
"Erm…they all make a very good argument." She giggled, and John relaxed. He tried stroking a squashy-looking tortie on the floor next to him, but as soon as he did the cat became magnetized to his hand and wouldn't let him pull it away. It jumped up into his lap and wiped its wet nose on his cheek appreciatively.
"Oooh, that one likes you!" laughed Mary.
"Yeah, and when I met you I immediately wanted to use you as a tissue." he replied, grinning sheepishly and trying to unhook the cat's claws from his trousers. He stole a glance at her.
She was chuckling, though her brow was slightly furrowed.
"I wiped mine on your coat when you weren't looking," she said. Her smile fell for a moment. "Not one for the touchy-feely ones, then?"
"Ah—no, nope, not used to feeling so physically used," he replied. "I'm rather used to being a piece of furniture in my own home, and I'd like a cat who can...relate to that."
"How about that one?" Mary jerked her chin towards a statuesque feline, leering at them perched on a scratching post in the corner.
It was white with large brown and gray splotches over its ribs and part of its face. Its pale blue eyes were half-closed in an expression that could have been either reserved bliss or bitter displeasure. It was familiar.
John shoved the tortie as gently as he could off his lap and tried his best to step over to the post without crushing any tails. The kingly cat blinked at him.
He held up his right hand politely before it's long face for it to smell. Its pink, wet nose tapped his hand once or twice before it decided it's subject worthy. John brushed his knuckles gently between the cat's ears, and it pushed into them approvingly.
John was suddenly aware that Mary was beside him. Hers were longer, more generous strokes, which the cat responded to not much more than it had to John's attempts. It was passive, but not unreceptive. It was in control of the relationship.
"I think I found him," John said, civilly scooping up the large cat and holding it in his arms. The cat looked slightly discomfited being handled, but he quickly resigned to the conveniently warm coat. Mary scratched behind its ears.
"How do you know it's male?" Mary asked.