Author's Notes : Thank you to: The Big M, icebluehost, KCS, Chewing Gum, Foggyknight, Cat and ShylockFox for your lovely reviews. :) I had meant to update this sooner, but of course, Real Life got in the way, with my first week of university, and so on. Watching 'Jemima' attempt to fit into a shopping bag today reminded me of this fic, and so here I am.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes. I do however, quite literally own 'Jemima'. Her picture is now on my profile, if you're curious. :)

I must admit that it was a morbid sort of curiosity that brought me to 221B in early January, 1887. Knowing as I did my friend's habits, my thoughts had constantly strayed to the kitten. I did not think that Holmes, inhumane and immune to the softer emotions as he could occasionally be, would have let the defenceless creature out onto the streets. But I could not help remembering the list I had made of my friend's limitations. There was no room in Holmes' lumber-room for practical gardening, or, so I judged from that inference, for care of a pet.

My imagination ranged through various scenarios, most I conceded to being most unlikely, but they all ended in the premature demise of the unfortunate creature from some slight oversight on Holmes' part, or indeed, from being overridden in importance by some new and urgent case. I knew well enough that the detective barely paid attention to his own needs during a particularly difficult problem, let alone to the well-being of others, and would no doubt be unaware of the care needed by such a delicate and sensitive animal as a kitten.

Thus, as I entered the familiar sitting room, I was not at all surprised to find my friend in his chair, apparently alone and reading a newspaper. I seated myself across from him, content to wait in customary silence until the thread of his thoughts ended, and I gazed in feigned nonchalance about me, attempting to see any tell-tale signs of an animal's co-habitation. My search was interrupted by Holmes' own keen scrutiny over the top of his paper.

"There's no point looking around, Watson." He sighed, bunching the paper into a ball and tossing it in the general direction of the sofa.

To my great amazement, this action revealed the object of my thoughts, limbs loose and tangled in the sound sleep that infants of all species are capable to fall into, regardless of outside noise or activity.

My expression was enough to bring amusement to the sharp planes of his face.

"I trust you were not searching the pavement for her remains? I am capable of many things, but I do hope throwing an animal from an upper window would cause some sort of moral conflict in my mind."

Sherlock Holmes had a tendency to answer my inner thoughts rather than my attempts at conversation, and I did feel some little guilt over my earlier theories. Happily, Holmes seemed to have disregarded any insult contained within my musings, and was now glaring down at the kitten.

"It was a close thing though. This confounded animal refuses to leave me alone."

To my amusement, he prodded the sleeping animal with a thin finger, but that resulted only in a luxurious stretch, and a glimpse of pink pads framed by golden stripes on the underside of her legs.

"It's almost as if she thinks you're her owner."

That comment sent an equally sharp look in my direction, but my entirely benign expression seemed to throw him, and he considered the mound of fur almost thoughtfully.

"For all her pathetic size, she is disturbingly protective of me."

"How so?"

"She growled at Mycroft."

"She growled at Mycroft?"

The surprise in my tone made him look up, and raise his eyebrows slightly.

"I didn't even know cats could growl."

"Of course they can, Watson. A cat is, after all, a distant relative of the large cats of Africa. Tigers can growl, as I'm sure you can attest to. It is a fairly common form of defence amongst most creatures, I would assume."

But my mind had already focused on another mystery within his statement.

"You took her to Pall Mall?"

"No, of course not! What a notion, that I should stroll about London with a cat! I am not in the habit, Doctor, of placing live animals in my pockets, and taking cabs to visit relatives!"

This brought a rather abrupt end to our conversation, and I shifted awkwardly in my chair as Holmes stood violently, in the process knocking the kitten to the floor where she bounded away under the table, and moved to the Persian slipper. I noticed, with a sinking heart, that it was the long-stemmed cherrywood pipe he had taken.

"Mycroft happened to be nearby, and invited himself in. Whatever point there was in his visit I never discovered, because upon seeing Jemima I was forced to waste several hours explaining to him where …"

I could not resist interrupting.

"Jemima?"

"Yes, Jemima." Holmes replied rather testily, sending up a plume of smoke.

"After the only woman Mycroft was ever frightened of."

From under the table, the kitten's eyes gleamed a fierce yellow in the light of the fire.

My goodness, my Holmes seems to be in a perpetually bad mood. :)

Any reviews or concrit will be welcomed.

Thanks, Taluliaka