Molly Lestrade was disgruntled.
"Do you see this, Gregory. Do… you… SEE… it?" she demanded, holding up one of Bailey's onesies, fresh from the laundry.
Greg paused, a bit nervous, realizing full well that he didn't have the faintest bloody clue what his wife was on about.
"Molly… sweetheart… at the risk of being banished to the sofa… no, I don't sodding see it…"
"YOUR cat has left cat hairs all over my daughter's laundry," she spat at him.
"MY cat," Greg said… "Barnaby, you say? The silver tabby, you mean?"
"You know damned well which cat I mean, Gregory Francis. This isn't Toby's doing." Molly glared at him.
"Ah. Barnaby. The cat YOU gave me… so technically YOU'RE responsible for…" Greg cautiously pointed out, knowing just how far he could push his defense.
Molly glared at him, as Barnaby himself suddenly appeared, weaving his way around her ankles, purring conspicuously loudly, turning on the charm full bore. She sighed, reaching down to pick up the adoring feline.
"You're bastards, the both of you," she said, frowning at Greg as the corners of both their mouthes twitched. Greg knew his wife's weak points. He was one. Their daughter was another. As final resort, Toby and Barnaby might win the day for everyone.
"Maybe," Greg admitted, "but we're still your beloved boys."