Chapter Two

As the week passed, Mycroft found that entertaining a feline houseguest was actually quite the challenge. In utter boredom from hours of being by himself, Winston had taken to the Italian leather sofa in the sitting room and practically torn one side of it to shreds. In slight exasperation, Mycroft mentioned it to Anthea in passing and she immediately suggested investing in a scratching post.

"And you better not just get any old cheap one," she had said sternly. "He's a breed that's used to nice things. You need to make it appealing to him and fit for royalty." And that's how Mycroft had found him in Pet City spending €120 on a two-storey scratching post that was so cleverly named a Climb and Play Activity Center. Winston seemed pleased with his new target, and thus the sofa was spared further torture.

But with one problem solved, another quickly showed itself in the form of hairballs.

"You know, it's bound to happen with longhair breeds," Anthea said one night as the maid she had hired to clean the carpets of the many stains caused by Winston took her leave. "You could always give him something to help move them along."

"Or I could shave him," Mycroft replied.

"That's a solution," Anthea agreed with a nod as she gave Winston a sympathetic pat on the head. "He has such a beautiful coat, though." Her face fell at Mycroft's indifferent glance. "I'll make a call to a groomer in the morning."

"Please do."

After Anthea left, Mycroft settled down in the armchair under the lamp with a book and Winston took his usual spot in the pile of blankets by the chair to sleep. It was such a quaint arrangement between them, but as long as it worked to stop the cat for hunting for something to destroy, Mycroft supposed that he could deal with it.

It seemed like ages passed before a sound broke through the stillness of the house: clicks of the front door lock unlocking. Of course he would; why in the world would he even bother to knock? Mycroft sighed and looked to Winston who was looking wide-eyed in the direction of the sound.

"You're about to meet your human counterpart." Mycroft set his book aside on the table and simply waited. The front door slammed open after a pause and Sherlock strode in as though he owned the entire neighborhood, tossing his coat on the coatrack as he passed by it. "Hello, brother dear," he said with a cheesy cheerfulness.

"Tell me, would it be too much to ask that you knock and wait for me to answer my own front door?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful at the question. "Why?" he finally asked after a few seconds.

"Because as hard as this might be for you to believe, I highly value my privacy and would like to have a choice as whether I let you in my house or not."

"Oh, don't even start to-" Sherlock paused as his eyes met the curious expression of Winston, who mewed politely in friendly greeting. A long second passed in which Mycroft could practically hear the gears in Sherlock's head running so fast that he was surprised that smoke wasn't coming out of his ears. With a deep breath, Sherlock made a face and then:

"What in the hell is that?" he asked, pointing to the cat.

"Why, I'm inclined to believe that it's a cat, brother dear." Mycroft's lips curled into a sarcastic smile as Sherlock's eyes slid to him in annoyance. "Would you care to enlighten me with another casual observation from that brilliant mind of yours?"

Sherlock chose to ignore that and stepped closer to Winston, making a face of slight disgust. "It's hideous."

"A standard of the modified form of the breed, I'm afraid." Mycroft got up and walked to the mini bar to pour himself a drink. "Peke-face is what it's called, if I'm not mistaken."

Sherlock leaned to get a closer look. "This is Mrs. James's cat."

"He was. She died recently, and Mummy brought him to stay here until things were sorted with her will."

Sherlock looked up. "And you actually agreed to this?"

"Knowing our mother, do you really think I had a choice in the matter?" Sherlock briefly smiled. "At any rate, he's well-behaved enough. Has a horrid habit of sleeping in clean laundry and clawing up everything that he can get his paws on, though."

Winston got up with a dramatic stretch and reached toward Sherlock, who squat down to offer his hand. "Seems friendly," he said as Winston rubbed his cheek on his fingertips

"A little too friendly at times."

Winston began to purr like a motorboat as Sherlock scratched his ears and chin. Mycroft studied his brother's reactions with a hawk-like eye, and in that expression, he saw a very brief glimmer of something from the past – an affection likened to one that was shared with the family dog, Redbeard.

"Hm." Sherlock stood up again and looked around. "Where's all his toys?"

"He has a scratching post to play with."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know nothing about cats."

"Oh, and you do?"

"He needs more than a cheap ball on a string to play with." Sherlock turned around to walk back to the coatrack to grab his coat, donning it with a dramatic sweep. "Next time I come over, I'll bring some extra playthings for him."

"Next time?"

Mycroft felt himself cringe a little on the inside as the foyer echoed with the slam of the front door. Pandora's Box had officially been opened; getting Sherlock to pull back from doing something that he was committed to do was like trying to control a raging hurricane.

A very small part of Mycroft hoped that maybe, just maybe, something would come along to distract his little brother from his mission, but something told him to get ready for the storm that was coming.

Sherlock was certainly not kidding with his plans to "bring extra playthings" for Winston.

Though the cat took more to sleeping and sitting around than playing, Sherlock had made sure that he wouldn't lack for anything should he suddenly feel the urge to let loose some energy. The once posh, clean and organized sitting room of Mycroft's home slowly became engulfed with toys of all different sizes, shapes and colors. Soon enough, walking through the sitting room turned into a theoretical game of hopscotch to avoid tripping on something. But Winston seemed to love the attention and all of his gifts, and since the furniture stayed in tact, who was Mycroft to complan?

Things seemed like they were going smooth enough. But Sherlock still had one more trick up his sleeve.

"You're supposed to be in Bath on a case." Mycroft moved aside to let his little brother in the house one rainy evening.

"My, you really are getting slow. Solved it an hour ago, it was barely a four."

"Well, make this quick, I'm very busy- what is that in your arm?" Mycroft's eyes slid up to Sherlock, who was slyly grinning as though he was the cat that had gotten the cream. "Oh, Sherlock, for the love of - you know, over the years, I've silently catered to your ridiculous sense of curiosity whether I liked it or not. But this," Mycroft pointed to the plant. "Isn't going to happen."

"Oh, come now, it's just a little fresh catnip, Mycroft," Sherlock said as he set the plant down on the coffee table. Winston lifted his head from where it rested to stare at his new gift. "It's not going to hurt him- in fact, he may not even react to it at all. The reaction to catnip is hereditary-"

"Sherlock-"

"Only two out of three cats are born with the gene that responds to catnip, so there's at least a thirty-three percent chance that nothing will happen-"

"Sherlock."

"I'm currently toying with the idea of a blog entry about the effects of aphrodisiacs on the feline brain and I need a test subject to observe. And who else should I use but our very own Winston?"

" 'Our' Winston?"

"Okay, 'your' Winston-"

"He's not my cat-"

"He lives here and you take care of him, what do you call that?"

"Habitually coexisting. And I only 'take care of him' because I will never hear the end of it if I so much as do anything less-"

"Since when have you ever cared about Mum hounding you to do anything?"

"I don't, but I refuse to give her an inch to even accuse me of-"

They looked to see Winston chewing noisily on a catnip leaf, snorting and sneezing as he practically buried his face in the leaves. To Mycroft's insane annoyance, Sherlock looked absolutely pleased with himself. "There, see?" he said. "He's going to go straight back to sleep after he's done. Trust me."

After a few minutes, Winston was dashing all around the sitting room at high speed, knocking anything and everything that he flew by over. Sherlock watched from the corner in utter childish glee, obviously cataloging every little detail that he could to file away for later. Mycroft sighed tiredly.

"If he breaks something, you will owe me."

"I'll pay you whatever I have to – this is hilarious," Sherlock said as Winston dashed around the corner again to pause and arch his back, looking around wildly. Before anyone could say anything, he was off again and something shattered from the direction of the kitchen.

"That was my favorite glass," Mycroft said tiredly.

"And now it's not."

Before Mycroft could reply, Winston ran into the sitting and hopped into his bed, taking a seat to watch the humans that were studying him with eyes that were as big as saucers. Sherlock flopped down on the sofa –the sound of which spooked the cat and made him dash off yet again. For a few minutes, Winston ran laps all through the halls and sitting room until he came up to Mycroft with a stuffed blue mouse that he had taken to mutilating in his mouth, dropping it by his feet.

"Yes, I'm sure that you're quite proud to have killed a stuffed mouse," he said flatly. "Your gift is thoughtful, but I have no use for it."

Winston's mane puffed out and he held his head high, his eyes seeming to glow in the dim light of the sitting room. Sherlock turned his head to look at them. "Look, you offended him."

The statement almost made Mycroft choke on his drink. "I never thought I would see the day when you would actually argue for a cat and his feelings. And I didn't offend him-"

"Yes, you did. You turned away his gift."

"As I recall, cats usually bring animals that were actually once alive as gifts."

"He's making do with what he has. Besides, this is cleaner; he's only thinking of you and your reservations."

Mycroft felt his face fall flat, his eyes narrowing. "You're having entirely too much fun with this."

"Yes, I am." Sherlock beamed and lie back on the sofa. "This is a one-in-a-lifetime opportunity; I have to make the most of it."

"Of course you do." With those last words, the room fell silent. Winston moved to the middle of the rug and lie down to sleep and the men went back to their programmed routines, Sherlock on his phone and Mycroft back in the world of his books.

And for the first time in a long time, the brother silently co-existed in the same space.

Mycroft turned over and felt a mass of fur cover his entire face.

"Winston," he said sleepily. "I thought we agreed that you belong at the end of the bed, not by the pillow." He pulled back to look at the cat, who reached out to give him a soft tap on the nose with one of his black paws. "I swear," he muttered as he sat up. "I don't know why I deal with you." After countless nights of trying to convince Winston that being on the floor was so much better than being on the bed, Mycroft had given up and deemed a corner of the bed with a sheet covering it as "Winston's Spot".

The cat had yet to listen and actually stay in it a whole night, but Mycroft chose to overlook that for the sake of his nerves.

As Mycroft took a seat in his armchair in the sitting room to scan through the morning papers, he felt a thump on the arm of the chair.

"Down," he said without looking away from the paper. But he was forced to move the paper aside as Winston practically shoved his way into his lap and took a seat, staring up at him as though he was waiting for something.

Of course he wanted to be pet – what else could he possibly want? It was the only logical conclusion. But Mycroft didn't pet cats; he just didn't do it. In all of his life, he had only touched one animal willingly and that was more than twenty years ago. But maybe if he gave Winston a pat on the head, he would see that as good enough and be gone. Yes, he could handle that. One pat. Just one.

As Mycroft reached to touch Winston's head, the doorbell rang and he almost shot up to his feet, Winston landing on his feet as he tumbled to the ground. With speed, Mycroft went to the door and opened it to see a woman seemingly about the height of a tree stump, her purple dress a shocking contrast to the pure white hair that graced the top of her head. She adjusted her glasses on her nose.

"Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes?" he replied, hoping he didn't sound too…flustered or something.

"My name is Charlotte Hughes. I was a friend of Rhonda's."

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Mrs. James," she clarified. "I was told that your mother brought Rhonda's prize Persian, Sir Snickers, here to stay until everything was sorted with her will and house. Well, she's left him to me and I've come to collect him."

Mycroft opened his mouth and shut it quickly. You knew this was coming eventually, he reminded himself. "Come in," he said politely, moving aside to let Charlotte waddle in. Winston stared at them as they came into the sitting room.

"If you need a carrier for him-"

"Oh, I brought one, it's in the car." Charlotte looked Winston over, leaning down to gently grab his face and examine him closer. "Looks as though you took decent enough care of him." Mycroft clenched his jaw. "With some cleaning up, he'll be ready for the show ring again in no time." Charlotte turned around with a smile. "I'll be back in a minute, going to grab the carrier." She waddled past him and out of the house. A pause passed before Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I told you that you would be going away one day," he said simply as he looked to the wide-eyed Winston. "Did you really believe that you were going to live here forever?"

Winston blinked and mewed softly.

"I'm sure you'll feel right at home back in the show ring. You belong there, you know…doing whatever show cats do."

Heavy footsteps came back into the sitting room. "Here we are," Charlotte said cheerfully. "Would you mind helping me get him in here?"

Winston put up a bit of a fight, but after some coaxing and pushing, he was in the carrier and the door shut with a sharp clack. As Charlotte fanned herself to recover from the sudden burst of activity, Mycroft spotted a certain blue mouse with one eye and the nose missing.

"Oh, I suppose you should take this." He leaned down to pick it up and held it out to her.

"That's all right, dear, he'll have plenty of new toys to play with at my house." She wrinkled her nose at the mouse and Mycroft drew it back.

"Of course he will. No need for this, then," he agreed politely. He escorted her and Winston to the door.

"I'll be off, then. Thank you for your time, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft nodded curtly and Charlotte turned away to waddle down the walkway, Winston looking out from his carrier to Mycroft with those bright orange eyes. The deduction hit him so fast that he almost didn't recognize what it was, but as the carrier disappeared into the car and the starting engine broke the silent air, it sunk in as to what Winston's look was telling –or more asking- him:

Why are you letting her take me away?

As Mycroft turned away to walk back inside, he shut the door behind him and started to gather the various cat toys scattered around the floor to put them in a box for storage. At least he wouldn't have to worry about tripping over them in the middle of the night. And thank goodness there would be no more fur decorating every single piece of clothing that he owned. And that blasted Cat Genie could finally perish to the darkest pit of hell with its ridiculously long cleaning cycles.

Yes, life was finally going to go straight back to normal.

As Mycroft finished cleaning up, he picked up the blue mouse that Winston so loved to torture and he felt a very light pang of something…something unfamiliar go through him. Quickly, he began to go through the catalogue of his memories to match up the foreign intruder and immediately, Sherlock and Redbeard came to his mind. It puzzled him; what in the world did his little brother and the deceased family pet have to do with this?

But he took the time to really dwell on what his mind spat at him, peeling back each thought as though the whole thing was an onion and he was trying to get to the center of it. All throughout their childhood at home, Mycroft watched as Sherlock and Redbeard grow so close that it was as though the dog was actually a human, another child in the Holmes household. By the time Redbeard died, Mycroft could tell that a part of Sherlock died with him. How an animal could become such a part of one's life was truly…fascinating.

Mycroft looked around his sitting room, once pristine and orderly in a controlled state of disarray, Winston's mark all over the place. The room was just as much the cat's as it was his. As though someone had hit in the back of the head, Mycroft found the center of the 'onion' and he looked back down at the mouse, slowly putting it in the box on top of the other toys.

Suddenly, the house seemed to feel...a little more empty.

To be continued...