John was just waking up. He yawned, showing off his sharp teeth and stretched his back legs shakily until he felt like getting up and walking over to the water bowl. His tiny pink tongue lapped up the room temperature water and he licked his face when he was finished.
He turned back towards the room and looked at the other occupants. It had been three days now since they had all become kittens. Sherlock, who looked quite ridiculous with poofy black fur, had tried to use his oversized paws to Google their condition, but found he couldn't type a coherent word without fingers. The general consensus among the group was that the condition was temporary and that they should carry on until something changed.
Sherlock was not an affiliate of the group consensus. He was completely livid about having to share his flat with the kitten versions of Moriarty and Mycroft. Mostly the kitten version of Mycroft, who was a grey Persian butterball and liked to lick his belly in mixed company. The Moriarty-kitten was a little striped Scottish Fold, who mostly hid underneath the sofa with his bright yellow eyes glinting in the darkness. Lestrade-kitten, a tan and white British Shorthair, was trying to get a good holiday out of his affliction. He enjoyed himself on the windowsill during the sunny hours of the day and took long naps stretched out to his full length. Mycroft had labeled John as a Ragamuffin kitten. John hadn't ever heard of the particular breed, but his fur was orange and fluffy like Sherlock's and he had tiny paws.
Mycroft was sitting straight up on the sofa, surveying the room. "Good morning, John," he said in his prissy voice. "I trust you slept well."
John walked over near him. "Yeah," he replied, as if talking to a Mycroft-kitten was completely ordinary. "Did you have a good rest?"
Mycroft looked down at him, still managing to look a little condescending. "Yes, thank you." He looked as if he might say something more, but suddenly a black blur leapt over the top of the sofa and knocked him to the floor making Mycroft say "Oomph!"
The Sherlock-kitten pinned him to the ground. "I know you know how to fix this," he mewled at his brother.
Mycroft tried to bat him away with his paws. "Stop it, Sherlock! I don't know anything about this! Don't you think I'd want to get myself out of it at least?"
Sherlock's blue eyes narrowed. "Fine," he grumbled and nimbly sprang off his brother and back onto the sofa.
Lestrade walked over and nuzzled Mycroft. "You okay?"
Mycroft sniffed and shook his head. "I'm fine."
Sherlock's tail floated upwards and his ears twitched. "Mrs. Hudson is coming."
"How do you know it's her?" John wondered, ducking behind a chair.
"She has very specific vibrations…and I can hear her. What's it like inside your tiny little cat-brain, John? Have you got even more dull?"
John puffed up in indignation. "No."
Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson entered the room carrying a heaping bowl of cat bics. "Hello, sweeties!" she exclaimed. Four kittens, with Sherlock excepted, came running up to her, shouting at her to help them, which to her only sounded like adorable mewing. "Aww, don't worry babies, I'm going to feed you all this tasty kitty food!" She placed the bowl in the centre of the kittens.
Sherlock lunged from the sofa and latched onto Mrs. Hudson's leg with his claws. "Mrs. Hudson! Listen! To! Me!" he cried as she tried to shake him off.
She eventually grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and placed him in between Moriarty and Lestrade. "Now behave today, kitties," she said with fluffy sternness. "Mummy has got to go to her knitting circle this afternoon so she can make hats for all of you." She folded her hands together, imagining all her kittens with little bonnets. She blew them all kisses and then left the flat.
Sherlock sniffed arrogantly at the food and watched while the others gobbled it happily. Then he saw a fly, and he batted it into a corner. Sherlock pounced on the fly and then ate it without thinking. He took a pause, then shrugged it off. He'd probably swallowed lots of insects over the years.
Moriarty left the food bowl and began to lick his paws, wondering how likely it was that he could kill someone as a kitten. Eighteen ways came to mind instantly, and he grinned his little kitten grin, plotting.
Lestrade jumped up onto the windowsill, anticipating an afternoon of sunbathing. Instead, he saw that the sky was clouded and angry. He made himself into a small little bundle and stared out the window. A flash of lightning spooked him, and he ran to hide behind Mycroft who had been sitting there regally, facing in the other direction.
"What's the matter?" asked Mycroft. He turned his head towards the window and saw rain drops splattering against it. His ears flattened against his head and his eyes widened comically. "Oh Lord…I haven't got my umbrella…" He nearly trampled Lestrade in his efforts to hide underneath the kitchen table, where he curled himself into a nervous ball.
Moriarty pranced up to the window, eager to watch the storm brewing. He was content for a few minutes whilst Mycroft, Lestrade and John huddled together fearfully. Then a clap of thunder shook the entire house and Moriarty scurried off to join them under the table.
Sherlock scoffed at them all hiding together like a flock of sheep, afraid of a simple storm. Then Moriarty started to try calming John by licking his fur for him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stalked over, pushing Moriarty out of the way with his head. He plopped down on top of John possessively, pushing all the air out of the little orange kitten. And then he fell asleep.
…
Sherlock shot straight up in his bed, feeling nervously for pointed ears and a tail. Finding neither, he lay himself back down with a sigh of relief. John, also a human being, was sleeping soundly beside him. Sherlock lay back and stared up at the ceiling, wondering at his odd dream. Sherlock supposed it was just one of those non-sequitur dreams with no meaning and little interpretation. He licked the back of his hand started washing his face with it.
