I Think the Cat is On Fire
Author: Howlynn
Realm: Sherlock
Story Title: The life of a consulting mouser
Summary: When Sherlock died, John moved on, married, and adopts a stray cat that reminds him a great deal of someone. What happens when Sherlock returns and discovers that his namesake is a hideous fur bag.
Character/Relationships: John/Mary Sherlock H, Sherlock the cat
I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
This is a prompt from thequeergiraffe who wrote a story called The Night Descending. You have to read that story first. s/8268913/1/The_Night_Descending
This is a pure fluff and silly return fic. There will be no punching, suicide or point to this story other than it was entertaining to imagine Sherlock's reaction to how John memorialized him. Please review – the new box is easy to use so give it a shot.
Things that go bump in the night
John was not pleased, but he didn't want to argue. He quietly opened the terrace door, knowing Sherlock would let himself in. The next morning, John was worried. By that evening, Mary was a little worried too. She didn't really care about the cat, but John's despair and seeming desperation unnerved her.
She tried to comfort him the next day and he actually shouts at her. "Don't you See? I can't lose him again!"
"Lose who? It's just a stray cat, John. He was never ours. Not really, he's probably just run off or gone back where he came from?" She is confused. John never shouted and he was acting like the cat was a person missing.
"Anything could have happened to him. And it's your fault he was out there in the first place," John said putting on his coat and lacing up his shoes.
"Where are you going?"
"I am going to look for him. Obviously," he said in such a tone that it shocked her.
"John? Cats roam. You can't find him," she says softly, realizing that he was a little round the twist about the cat.
"Really? Watch me." John says as he slams the door.
John stomps around the neighborhood for four days, looking more frantic and unhinged each day. He knew he looked like a mad man wandering about shouting for his long dead best friend, and the first day he would explain that he was seeking a cat named Sherlock, not a ghost. The second day, he barked it at those who made a show of staring. The last two days, he didn't say a damned thing to any of them. Let them talk. They do little else.
He is certain that Sherlock has met with disaster. He couldn't go home. He couldn't face Mary and her apologetic steady eyes. He couldn't stand the flat without Sherlock. He is exhausted, and he feel more alone than ever. He's more than tired, he just can't even get up off the bench.
Sherlock is gone again. He is gone and John would never see him again. There is nobody about, it is nearly three in the morning. Even the drunks have given up. It began to rain and John just sat there on the bench staring straight ahead.
John plays the conversation from the roof again in his mind. 'Goodbye, John,' whoosh-beat-beat, the sound of his own heart functioning, 'whoosh-beat-beat. The rain grows heavy and he can feel his skin turning to ice, but he doesn't care that his cloths have wrinkled to him like a wet plaster cast. What would they do if he just decided not to ever get up again? He will just sit here, waiting for him, until he comes back.
He cried for a bit, unsure for which Sherlock. Mycroft's car drove slowly by three times. John didn't move a muscle. He got his game face on and didn't take a step toward the black Jaguar. It is four a.m. and he is shivering, but he still sat.
He hears a cat fight across the street and down the mews. "Sherlock?" He shouts and is on his feet sprinting across the road and down the narrow brick corridor. He locates the feline row and sighs with disgust. There are cats all over this mews. "Sherlock, where are you?" He waits, but no cats claim him.
"Sherlock?" he bellows into the night.
He spin and bumps straight into a person. He had not even been aware someone was following him. He knows he's probably in danger. Anyone out in this weather, at this time of night, is probably up to no good. John is cold, tired and lost and he really hopes this trashy little mews isn't where his wife has to come identify him.
"Looking for me, by any chance?" The familiar voice booms and John takes a step back.