Thankfully, Molly Hooper was available to ferret-sit at eight o'clock on a Friday evening. John felt bad for taking advantage of the poor girl, but Mrs. Hudson seemed liable to faint if she was faced with the reality of the situation and he couldn't think of anyone else to call.
"I'm really sorry about this," he apologized as he showed her in.
"Oh, no, it's no problem," she assured him. "It's kind of nice to have something to do, really. Oh, hello!" She lit up at the sight of the ferret, which had slithered out from behind the skull to sniff at her. "What's his name?" she asked, reaching for it.
"He hasn't got one. Careful, he . . ." John watched in amazement as the creature scampered eagerly up Molly's arm and onto her shoulders, making happy little noises. ". . . bites. Blimey."
"Animals like me," she said, with a slightly apologetic smile. "More than humans do, really. Maybe they think I smell like food, because I work in the morgue – I mean, no, sorry."
"It's fine, Molly," John sighed. "Thanks for doing this. I won't be long; I just need to pop down to the shops . . ."
"Take as long as you need," she said obligingly. "You should call him Sherlock," she added as he turned to go.
"What?" he questioned, glancing back.
"Nothing, it's silly; it's just . . ." She was blushing. Sherlock really had done a number on the girl. Even when he was ferret, nibbling on her hoodie, he still managed to embarrass her. ". . . he kind of looks like him. That's stupid, sorry . . ."
"No, you're right. That's a good name."
Molly beamed, and John managed a half-hearted smile before he ducked out the door.
A quick internet search had told him that ferrets were carnivores, and that he could get food for them at most pet stores. It had also told him that they slept around seventeen hours a day, but he didn't put much faith in that, seeing as humans were supposed to sleep around eight hours a day and Sherlock generally subsisted on less than half of that. It took him a little more than an hour to find a pet store, fend off the vendor who was trying to sell him a large selection of over-priced ferret merchandise, and get back to 221b.
"Sorry it took me so long," he said as he elbowed the door open. "It is frankly ridiculous the amounts of money people are apparently willing to spend on their pets . . ."
He trailed off as he turned around to see Molly making fluttery shushing motions from where she was perched on the couch. He frowned at her questioningly, and she gestured behind her. Confused, he moved forward – and stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. There, curled in Molly's hood as if it were a hammock, was the ferret. Sherlock the ferret.
Said ferret was making tiny mewling noises in his sleep.
"Uh . . . right," he said, quietly. "We probably don't want to wake him. I mean, if you don't mind staying for a bit. I'll just . . . make us some tea."
Molly was still sitting very still when he returned with the tea, a small, thoughtful frown on her face.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the tea. "Do you . . ."
He gave her an encouraging nod when she paused.
"Do you know where he came from?" she asked.
John gave an intentionally vague shrug.
"He just kind of appeared," he said, truthfully enough. "Sherlock has a hand in it, no doubt. He's been out."
Carefully, so as not to disrupt her slumbering passenger, Molly nodded, biting her lip.
"The thing is . . . he's so used to people. And – I know you don't have a litter box, but I put some newspaper down – I hope you don't mind –"
"No, no, it's fine," said John quickly. "It's good. I probably should have thought of it earlier."
"Okay, except he seems to know what it's for and everything. Like he's trained. I think . . . I think maybe he's someone's pet."
"I really don't know, Molly," John sighed tiredly.
"No, of course not. Sorry." She dropped her gaze to her teacup, flushing with embarrassment again. "It's only . . . whoever he belongs to, they must miss him."
"Yeah," John agreed, his eyes drifting to where Sherlock's violin sat propped against his desk. "They must."