A/N: As I said before, I've never really written a serious FF before. And also, I haven't written seriously (aside from the blog thing) since November because school drains my creativity. So...yes, well. Here's the first chapter.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock blah blah blah.
Second disclaimer: I'm sorry for poor writing blah blah blah.
The next week passed slowly. Sherlock kept his mouth shut about the deal he had made with Mycroft. Sherlock kept his mouth shut about a lot of things that week. Much to John's growing agitation, he was completely reticent. The doctor was having a hard enough time as it was, what with the detective's, to be perfectly honest, highly irritating nicotine addiction and lack of self preservation or any sort of care for personal well being, so all of this business about "Mummy" was making him feel like he was just about nearing the end of his rope.
It was the cat's plaintive cry that brought John out of his musings (and the creation of another blog entry). Tilting his head up, his eyes locked on Sherlock's statuesque form perched on the low, rectangular back of the green armchair just across from John's redder, rounder, high-backed recliner. He had his bare feet up on the seat of the chair, the sheet from his bed draped about his shoulders like a thin, milky cape. He hadn't bothered to get changed out of his grey pyjamas or his thin red dressing gown. Sherlock never dressed until he absolutely had to leave the flat.
The cat was attempting to climb onto Sherlock's lap by way of the chair's arm, but every time it managed to lay a paw on the pensive consulting detective's leg, it would find itself being pushed to the floor. Once more it planted itself on the arm of the chair and emitted a clear, high pitched whine. John watched, always curious as to what Sherlock's reaction would be to the cat's antics. There was always something new to be learned from their interaction.
The lean, dark haired man was pulled from his innermost thoughts by the incredibly irritating caterwauling going on next to his left leg. He lowered his hands from their praying position underneath his chin to his lap, clasped together to resist any temptation of throwing the stupid animal. He fixed his intense silvery blue-green gaze on the creature beside him. "Shut up."
The cat did not shut up.
In an attempt to ignore the idiotic cat, he locked onto John's presence with a flicker of subdued anger in his crystalline orbs. Nicer jumper than usual—dark brown. Cable knit. Illuminated his darkish blue eyes. Why was he wearing that one? Possibly because he liked the color, more likely because he unconsciously wanted to look his best for the trip. Clean shaven—electric this time—and the shirt beneath his brown jumper was new, rarely worn. Nervous. But why? Left hand smudged—bluish ink with a red sheen, meaning he had been by the surgery when he had gone out to the Tesco for the standard necessities (cat food, milk, jam). Why had he been to the surgery? To pick up some extra medicine for their trip, obviously. Inside of his right shoe—miniscule line of dark grey mud about the edge, meaning he had walked rather than taken a taxi, but had thoroughly wiped his feet at the door before coming back up to the flat.
The ex army doctor squinted and, with a tiny frown, turned his head ever so slightly to the right, as if to defensively question him: what are you looking at? The bridge of Sherlock's nose crinkled as his brows drew together, but he said nothing, as usual. Instead, he plopped down into the chair, alarming the cat, and tapped his fingers incessantly. Tippity tap tap tap tappity tip. Tippity tap tap tap tappity tip. He cast about the room with his eyes, roving over each minute, utterly boring detail anxiously, his nostrils flaring with aggravation. "John."
Silence.
"John," he punched out, his gaze back on the shorter man. He was met with an expectant look. Good. "We're not going."
"We're what?" came the bewildered inquiry.
Sherlock leaned forward and placed his hands beneath his chin again, "We're not going." He stared at John for a long moment before breaking away to watch the cat pacing in front of his feet. What did it want anyway?
"Alright, yeah, I heard you, but why?" John's forehead creased with confusion. He shut his laptop, indicating that he intended for this conversation to be involved. Thoroughly involved. More silence. "Sherlock."
The detective adopted a long suffering expression and hissed, "For God's sake. Because why should I?"
"Because why should y—because you apparently have some kind of a deal with Mycroft, that's why," the stockier man rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb before continuing, "You need to go see your mother." He shifted in his seat and swung one leg over the other, his left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, his hand about his mouth and chin. Sherlock almost resented his shift in body language. It was the "I'm exasperated with you and will begin to reprimand you about your behavior now" position.
John waited patiently, but Sherlock directed his attention back at the pacing cat. The thin man picked it up gently, and held it against his chest as he stared into the flickering flames dancing in the fireplace. This was one of the first times John had witnessed Sherlock make any sort of display of affection toward the stray. He was inwardly pleased at the prospect of the consulting detective becoming friends with the grey creature. He had found the poor thing in an alley not very far from Baker Street. He had a few reasons for bringing it home. First, it was emaciated. Second, he thought it would be good for Sherlock to have something to take care of that wasn't dead and/or dismembered. Of course, John had ended up taking full responsibility of the cat, but this moment proved to him it was well worth the trouble.
As he watched his best mate stroke the cat mechanically, he contemplated Sherlock's childhood. He imagined a sullen little boy, constantly alone, wrapped up in his own imaginary pirate adventures. John couldn't imagine that it was very easy for Sherlock as a child. His mother had apparently rejected him quite a bit if he was so reluctant to speak of or with her—this was the first time John had heard anything about her since he'd found out that Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers. Mycroft was evidently the favourite out of the two, which could have been part of the reason for the brothers' strained relationship. John wondered vaguely where the father had gotten off to, but he'd never had the effrontery to ask anyone. He probably wouldn't have gotten an answer anyway.
"It's domestic. Not really my area," Sherlock rumbled, rubbing the cat's chin with his long forefinger. Its purring filled the empty spaces in the sitting room. "My—" he'd begun to complain about his brother, but he was cut off once John's soft chuckling met his keen ears. He whipped his head about to glare piercingly at him, "What?"
John shook his head and smiled softly at his uncommon flatmate, "It's nothing." He rubbed his mouth with his left hand and held back another chuckle, "It's just—you're saying being domestic isn't your area, and you're sitting there in your pyjamas and a dressing gown, cuddling a cat and staring into a cozy fire. You know. Kind of domestic." A shadow of sadness passed over his smile, colored it. His eyes peered through Sherlock's mask as if it were a window rather than a defense and connected with the real him. The heart that was tucked safely away in some obscure and darkened corner of his chest. "Sherlock…your mother is your area. She will always be your area, whether you like it or not."
The other looked down at the cat in his hands and frowned sincerely. 15 minutes, perhaps half an hour went by like that. John watching Sherlock, Sherlock watching the cat, the cat drifting into kitty sleep. Each was waiting for someone to speak (or meow), but it never came. Sherlock stood with his usual lanky grace and placed the shadowy ball of fur in John's lap. As he did so, their gazes crossed and connected, and John could see it in his face. He had conceded defeat.
Tonight they would be received by Mummy Holmes.