Disclaimer: I own nothing. A.N. Today's prompt comes from mrspencil: a surprising act by Moriarty. Thanks!
Moriarty wasn't famous as a very compassionate man. Not among his pupils – either you were brilliant, or no excuse would save you from a scathing tirade and your 'deserved' grade – and even less among his associates in clandestine activities. They would have sworn that the festivities could influence him less than the horoscope, too (and his opinion of that was very harsh).
But miracles did happen at Christmas, evidently, and Moran witnessed one during a crisp December morning. Moriarty had called him for some instructions, and then invited him along on his constitutional. Not that his company was needed, but the colonel suspected that Moriarty thought of it like an emperor being followed by his praetorian, and who was he to object?
Walking along, Moriarty stopped suddenly, much to his companion's surprise. There wasn't a bookshop or another shop that might have attracted his attention. "What?" the sniper asked.
His boss raised a hand in a stern gesture to keep him silent. Moran obeyed, of course, but wondered to what the other might be so intently listening. It was a completely ordinary day. Seeing the man dash towards a heap of garbage, the former soldier wondered for a minute if the man had finally lost his marbles. The professor had always been peculiar, but at the very least he was the most neat and proper man Moran knew.
Seeing Moriarty come back cuddling a mangy…something, Moran couldn't stop a bemused grin. "What's that?" he queried.
"Are you blind? She's the most wonderful kitten, Moran! Sure, she needs food and warmth and proper care, but I know she'll be a lovely companion."
"She'll give you fleas," the sniper said flatly, "and die on you in a week. She's too tiny."
"Are you saying I can't take care of her? I assure you, she will live much longer than some people I know. And I hope you don't aim to be on that list," Moriarty snapped.
"Whoa, let's not take rushed decisions now, shall we, boss? Anyway, assume she lives. She's not a dog, you can't train her. She'll just turn your curtains and rug to strips, and the rest of the furniture, too," the former colonel pointed out, frowning.
"Good thing that I have enough funds to replace them, then, isn't it? Let's head back, we need to get her settled," the professor replied, then started making soft cooing sound in the back of his throat and turned back, not deigning his companion of a look.
To Moran's surprise, the tiny ball of fur grew up, and from that day she could often be seen rubbing against Moriarty's ankles or draped around him like a purring scarf. And as a mocking – Moran was sure of it – her master called the orange tabby Tiger. The only one Moran couldn't even gare at, much less touch.