Hey everybody! Sorry that took so long, finshing up school and such. So, this is a shorter chapter about Sherlock's encounters with "the cat" and the cat gets a name! Please review, I will send kittens and hugs your way (metaphorically) :) Thanks to everyone who already has, it made me feel all cozy-warm inside, like John had just made me tea...
Disclaimer: I, obviously, do not own Sherlock. If I did, I would be a much better writer, cooler, and wouldn't have the time to write fanfiction.
There were very few things that affected Sherlock Holmes. He did not get hungry, he didn't need sleep, and he didn't get sick. He was immune to everything. Or, at least, that's what he told everyone. There was, unfortunately, one condition that Sherlock had. He was allergic to cats.
So, when Sherlock ran downstairs and was met by a fuzzy ball of fur snuggled into his beloved blue robe, he was furious. There was no way he was going to let John know of his allergies, it was much too embarrassing. The most logical procedure, therefore, would have been to get rid of the cat, clean the apartment, and carry on as if nothing had happened. That's exactly what Sherlock was going to do, until John looked up at him with those sad, dark blue eyes, and Sherlock went against simple logic.
That was a definite first.
Sherlock had decided to text his dreadful brother rather than live with a sad John for a few weeks. The thought was shocking, and Sherlock's mind froze as it figured out what to do with it. This thought, was classified under sentiment of all things. However, the door to sentiment had been sealed shut and blocked by boulders. So, the thought wandered aimlessly, annoying every inch of Sherlock and breaking his concentration. What had he even been doing in the first place?
That's right, texting Mycroft. Dull. Need allergy medicine. Send immediately. –SH
The reply came back almost instantaneously, Mycroft being the concerned brother that he was. Tell John he can't keep the cat. Not worth getting you all fuzzy minded. –MH
Sherlock hated the surveillance Mycroft put on his flat, but at least he never had to explain.
I believe the point of medication is to prevent that. Get me some. –SH
Get rid of cat. Problem solved. – MH
Can't. Get me some. –SH
Mycroft didn't respond. Sherlock glared at the phone, willing it to beep. John's voice suddenly came into Sherlock's head: Manners will get you a lot farther than you think, Sherlock. Try it some time.
Please. – SH
Fine. – MH
John was still downstairs washing Sherlock's robe, so the consulting detective was left to observe his new pet. It wasn't an ugly cat, with its bright blue eyes peeking out from underneath a black coat. In fact, Sherlock had always admired cats for their intelligence, but still hated them for being the only thing that penetrated his brilliant mind. The kitten had now managed to finish all of his milk and tuna, and calmly stared at Sherlock.
"Interesting. You're about four weeks old, judging from your ears and ability to walk. You're not a runt, so you were not abandoned because of size. You were, for some reason, less important to your mother, though, because otherwise she would have been there when John found her. You could have been lost long ago, but you would have been dead by now, kittens need nursing often. So, you were only abandoned recently. Most likely because something scared your mother off, and she ran away, leaving you stuck behind a dumpster. A bit cruel, but cats have less sentiment than humans, so don't be too sad. It was in her nature."
The cat stared unblinking at Sherlock, unimpressed.
"Did you really just deduce the cat's background?" John was at the top of the stairs, trying not to laugh but failing miserably.
"Problem?" Sherlock asked, not giving John the satisfaction of seeing him embarrassed.
"Nope. You do talk to skulls, I don't know why I was so surprised."
"Neither do I." To Sherlock's horror, his statement was followed by a loud sneeze.
"Are you all right?" John had that concerned look on his face, and Sherlock was not about to let John go "Dr. Watson" on him.
"I'm fine." Sherlock made a desperate attempt to change the subject. "I'm assuming you've named this feline "friend" of yours?"
"Uh, well. I had thought of one, but…You see, I didn't have a bowl so I had to use"
"For God's sake, John. What did you name it?"
"Petri."
"As in, the petri dishes I use in my experiments? Why would you name it-"
"Because we were out of bowls, so I had to use a petri dish to feed it." Sherlock jumped up.
"Which one? Was it clean? Why are you touching my things?"
"Yes, Sherlock, it was clean. I washed it three times to make sure. And, as I've explained already-"
"You didn't have a bowl. I suppose, it's a nice name. Not as bad as Lulu or Stripes."
John let out a little laugh. "That's what I was thinking. Right, well… I'm making some tea, would you like some?"
"Yes."
As John was busy making tea, Sherlock found himself staring at the kitten, now named Petri, who was awake and walking towards Sherlock. Petri pawed at Sherlock's suit, and began to meow. "John?"
"Yeah, hold on, Sherlock, it's still heating up."
"No, not the tea! That blasted kitten of yours is hu- hung- Achoo! Hungry. That stupid cat is hungry."
"Oh, right. I needed to run to the store… I'll give it some milk to satisfy it for now. You sure you're alright? Do you have a cold? I know you said you don't get colds, but-"
"I don't! I don't get sick!" Sherlock was now battling the kitten, trying to avoid touching it with his bare skin. The kitten, being smaller, was getting dangerously close to Sherlock's lap. "Actually, John, I'll go get the cat food for you."
"You'll…Sorry, what?"
"I'll go get the kitten supplies." Sherlock was particularly annoyed by John's flabbergasted tone. Was he really that unhelpful? Yes, yes he was. "Helping" was not in his nature, it was too close to sentiment.
"Oh, alright. Are-are you sure? Do you even know where the store is?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have every street in London memorized, of course I know where the store is."
"Well, you don't know where the sun is, so…"
"Not this again. I'm out!" Sherlock grabbed his coat, sneezing again as he walked out the door.
"Oh, try to get formulated kitten milk! It's better for them. And actual cat food! Oh, and maybe a few blankets since you're so keen on it not using your robe."
"I've got it, John."
"Uh, okay! If you're sure…"
And so, the great Sherlock Holmes went to the grocery store, and Dr. Watson stared after him in pure shock.
Coming up: Will Sherlock survive his trip? Will John recover from his shock? Was Petri better off in the streets? Alert and favorite to find out soon!
