Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days.

- Ecclesiastes 11:1

It had been sweet of Mrs Hudson to offer to look after Toby for the entire eight weeks that John and Molly had been on their honeymoon, but it had backfired. Mrs Hudson had become a little too attached to Toby; John had seen sadness and longing in her face the night they had come to take him home again. She was lonely.

Before the taxi had even turned into their street, it had been decided: Mrs Hudson wanted—no, needed—a cat. And as far as John was concerned, if Mrs Hudson wanted or needed a cat, she would have one.

Happily, Melissa Brennan's cat had not long ago had the unbelievable number of eight kittens. Lestrade had recently taken the big step of asking Melissa—and Smoky—to move in with him; Melissa had neglected to mention the upcoming kittens. For all that he liked cats, Smoky included, he had not been impressed when he'd wandered into his own bathroom at five o'clock one morning and found eight newborn kittens in the bathtub.

That had been weeks ago, though, and any domestic unrest in the Brennan-Lestrade household had long been smoothed over. Today was Kitten Day; the kittens' eight-week birthday and the arranged day that John and Molly were going to pick up Mrs Hudson's Christmas present, to be kept at their house for the ten days between now and Christmas.

"Remember," John said once Molly was warm and nestled in the back of the cab, and they were on their way to Greg and Melissa's. "We talked about this."

"Yes."

"We're getting a kitten for Mrs Hudson and nobody else."

"Yes."

"I know kittens are cute, but they grow up to be cats, and they cost money and need to be looked after, and Toby's enough for one household."

"Absolutely."

"So please don't instantly melt into some puddle of kitten-loving goo the second you—and you're not even listening to me, are you?"

Molly's new husband was sometimes grumpy and inclined to nag and fuss, but she had a secret weapon up her sleeve. She demonstrated it now by snuggling into John's side.

"That isn't even fair," he said, but he was smiling. "Never picked you as the manipulative type."

"I'm not being manipulative," she protested mildly. "And I never said a word about wanting a kitten of our own. I know that we don't… oh."

"Oh, what?" But without any further hesitation, John leaned forward to address the driver. "Excuse me," he said, "pull over, please."

"… What?"

"I said, could you pull over, please? Now?"

The last time Molly had been taken ill mid-transit had been in a Parisian taxi. John had made a similar plea then, but whether his French had been substandard, or whether the driver had been passive-aggressive, the end result had been that Molly had had no other choice but to throw up into his cupped hands.

Beyond the actual vomit, poor John had then had to deal with an extremely embarrassed and distressed wife, a cleaning bill, and a pissed off cabbie yelling at him in French. And while John's conversational French probably was substandard, he definitely knew what salope meant, and he did not appreciate Molly being referred to as one. Said cabbie probably had no idea how very close he'd come to losing teeth that afternoon.

This cabbie, it seemed, had more common sense, or at least recognised the urgency in John's tone. He pulled over into a loading zone, and John leaned over to push Molly's door open just in time.

"That better not have got anywhere in my cab," he groused as John got out the farside door to walk around to Molly's.

"She's got pretty good aim by this time," he said, inspecting the damage. "… Nope, missed the cab entirely." He produced a tissue from his pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Molly, who was by now looking more embarrassed than ill.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she blurted out.

"You're under house arrest until September," John said lightly. "No harm done to anything but yourself. Are you okay?"

"I am so tired of this already..."

"I did tell you that you could have stayed at home if you weren't feeling up to it," John reminded her, brushing a lock of hair off her damp forehead.

"Yes. But… kittens."

Sherlock had retreated to his bedroom hours before, but it was clear from the scent of tobacco smoke that he wasn't asleep. Mycroft had finished his reports for that evening, and was on his way to his own bedroom, when he paused and detoured to the room at the end of the first floor hall.

Mycroft, like his brother, wasn't big on knocking or privacy. He did tap on Sherlock's bedroom door before opening it, but only by a margin of three or so seconds. He found Sherlock lying on the bed. Despite the heat, he was wearing silk pyjamas and, as Mycroft had suspected, he was smoking.

"Generally speaking, a knock is meant to be a supplication, not a herald of one's arrival," Sherlock said, without even bothering to look up. He blew several smoke rings toward the ceiling.

"Are you trying to burn the house down?" Mycroft wanted to know sourly. "Because if you are, I'm sure I could find some accelerants to assist you. If you're going to do something, do it well."

"Anyone who can fall asleep while smoking simply doesn't enjoy it very much, Mycroft. I'm sure I could never be so horribly inattentive." Sherlock sat up and ran his hands through his rampant curls—he needed a haircut. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Why is there a live specimen of one of the world's most venomous spiders in our bathroom?"

"Well where else do you expect me to put it?" Sherlock honestly wanted to know. "I found it near the fence the other day. I'm experimenting with whether Funnel-Web spiders are able to develop Pavlovian responses to rewards and punishments."

"Are they?" Mycroft felt a rare twinge of genuine interest. Cicadas were a non-event—quite insignificant, indeed—but there was something macabre about spiders that appealed to him.

"No, sadly." Sherlock sighed. "They're quite stupid. I must admit, though, that I'm fascinated with their aggression. I'm waiting to see how long that one will take to starve to death, since I can hardly release it anywhere near human beings."

"Yes, I'd be grateful if you made sure of that."

Sherlock stubbed his cigarette out, a sharp little stabbing motion in the ashtray beside his bed, and sat up. "Mycroft, I'm waiting. Why are you invading my room at ten to midnight, pretending to discuss a spider I know you found four hours ago?"

"I'm concerned about you, if you must know," Mycroft said blandly. "You're unhappy."

Sherlock coughed and reached for his cigarette packet again.

"In fact," Mycroft went on, "Something's recently come to light that's made you afraid."

"Your belief in your own powers of deduction becomes over-confidence so easily, Mycroft."

"What are you afraid of?"

Sherlock paused, cigarette and lighter poised.

"Spending the rest of my life in this horrible, over-heated, spider-infested country," he finally retorted. It was meant to be flippant, but Mycroft instantly recognised that there was truth in his words. Sherlock was afraid of this. "Living out my days and nights in this god-forsaken house, with you fluttering about me like an old woman, wanting us to have brotherly heart-to-heart discussions all the time."

"Sherlock. When I ask you a serious question, I only ask that you return me a serious answer. You know I'm going to find out anyhow."

"Then I would absolutely hate to rob you of your chance to reaffirm that you're much more clever than I am." Sherlock finally lit his cigarette.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Why do you always have to be so resentful? I ask only—"

"Now if you'll excuse me, I'm tired. Good night."

Still with his cigarette in one hand, Sherlock curled up into a ball and rolled over to face the wall. Mycroft rolled his eyes and rose. This conversation was definitely over.

When he was sure Mycroft had retreated to his own bedroom, Sherlock brought out his phone again. But this time he was not searching Bible verses. He was searching airfares and flight itineraries.

Greg was, as usual, at work. Melissa was very much at the house, and very much her chatty, social-butterfly self. Both John and Molly had always liked her, and despite an age difference of just over two decades, she and Greg had made a solid relationship of it. Underneath her impeccable makeup and fashionable clothing and the occasional fit of giggling, Melissa was a clever woman who held down a highly qualified and demanding job. It wasn't such an odd thing that Greg would be drawn to her. That she was twenty-seven, blonde and pretty only helped.

She was all smiles at the door, and happily let them into the house. Molly's pregnancy was a subject that Greg had found out about by accident, and not to be discussed with anyone else- even Harry- for another month or six weeks; as such, it was tea for all and very quickly down to the very important business of kittens.

"Eight weeks today," Melissa said, sipping from her cup, "and they're all litter-trained and not doing anything antisocial or weird. Come have a look—they should be in the utility room."

"Should be?"

"She keeps trying to put them in our bed," she explained, leading them down the hall. "Greg found them in there the other day. God, I wish I'd had my phone on hand. His face…"

"Remember what I said," John warned as they followed Melissa out to the utility room at the back of the house. "We've already got a cat. We don't need any more. And anyway, Toby will be jeal-"

They'd reached the doorway by this time. John had just laid eyes on the little slate-coloured mother cat and the squeaking pile of assorted white and grey kittens snuggled into her.

"Oh, they're beautiful!" Molly exclaimed. "Aren't they, John?"

Oh, bloody bugger shit, John thought. I want one!

"They're okay," he said.

"Are you after a particular gender, or are you going more for colour?" Melissa asked, casually picking up the nearest one, a grey with white socks. She inspected it, and then handed it over to a delighted Molly. "That one's a girl," she said. "I'm pretty sure she's the little bugger who keeps escaping all the time."

"Not in her favour," John remarked, imagining Mrs Hudson chasing the kitten up the flat stairs sixteen times a day, or tripping over her in the dark one night.

"Well, this one's less of an escape artist," Melissa now picked up a squeaking white kitten, while Smoky looked on in casual unconcern with her huge orange eyes. "This one's a boy. And loud. Greg likes this one. Says he's got a lot of personality. Runt of the litter, but I think everyone knows he's the boss."

As she put the noisy kitten into John's extremely reluctant arms, he suddenly remembered that Melissa was, by profession, a criminal psychologist.

Dammit.

"I love you," Molly gushed as they got into the waiting cab, gazing over at the carrier he was holding in his lap and poking her finger through the bars at the kittens inside.

John made a noble attempt at looking very put out. "Mrs Watson, don't ever try to convince me to do something illegal," he said. "And I'm not refereeing any cat fights."

"Toby will get along just fine with Casper," she cooed at her newest family member. He was just then pushing around his sister, she of the escape artistry and the white socks.

"If he takes one look at him and rips him to shreds, I'm coming down on Toby's side."

She smiled. "I wouldn't expect you to do anything else," she said. "Though, you know, he is going to have to learn that he's not going to be an only child forever. I'd hate for him to be jealous of the baby. I think Casper might be the best thing we could get for him."

"You mean, the best thing we could get for you," John teased. "Just remember, he's your kitten and I reserve all rights to ignore him. Merry Christmas."

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Please, for God's sake, don't ask for a puppy."

Molly snuggled back down into John's side.