"I detest cats." Sherlock, behind the counter of Happy Cat's Pet Daycare picked up a small kitten by the scruff of its neck with two fingers, and set it down in a playpen. He brushed a hair off his coat.
"Why? Are you, um allergic?" John said, arms full of fluffy kittens. He dumped them into the playpen. Sherlock glared.
"No." He looked down at the kittens, not moving his head. They mewed, looking up at him with shimmering brown eyes. John frowned.
"Are you afraid?"
"What? Of course not, don't be absurd." A smile spreading across his face, John said.
"I do believe you are. Sherlock Holmes, afraid of kittens."
"Kittens have vicious claws and would impale you, if given the chance. Thank God evolution forgot the opposable thumbs."
"For God's sake Sherlock, they're just kittens." John laughed.
"They are the animal of the devil." Sherlock eyed the kittens, who were rolling on their backs, paws in the air. One of them yawned, extending a paw towards Sherlock. He shuddered.
"Well, I think he likes you. Hello there." John reached a hand into the playpen. Claws launched themselves at his bare hand. "Ow!" With some difficulty, he pulled his hand back. "Stupid cat." He went behind the counter.
"See, dangerous. Look at him, sitting there, plotting." Sherlock looked down into the wide brown eyes, wrinkling his nose. John opened drawers and cabinets, shuffling papers.
"Sherlock." He kept shuffling. "Sherlock, where are the bandaids?"
"Used them all." John muttered a curse.
"What on earth could you have used them for?"
"Protection." John took a closer look at Sherlock's hands. They were covered in bandaids.
"You've been scratched that many times already?"
"No. Just taking precautions." John stared. He stormed out of the room. The kittens purred.
Sherlock sat in a chair. Haunted by the kitten wonderland, he took refuge in his mind palace.
"Sherlock, don't move." Sherlock opened his eyes. John was staring at him, a plastic bag in his hand. He felt heavy. He started to shift, when what felt like a thousand needles dug into his skin.
"Ow-"
"Don't move." John set the bag on the table, and, speaking in a whisper said, "You, my friend, are literally covered in kittens."
"How?" Sherlock's mouth moved, but nothing but air came out.
"Don't ask me, I was out buying band-aids."
"Get them off, John. I told you they were plotting." His voice raised.
"How could they be plotting, they're just kittens." The kitten on top of Sherlock's head, the one with the wide brown eyes mewed. Just then, a woman walked in with a Rottweiler.
"Do you boys take care of dogs too?"
"That's a Rottweiler." John said.
"Well, a Rottweiler is a type of dog you know. My husband says it's more like a lion really. For some reason, we're having a hard time getting daycare arrangements." The lion roared, causing the cats to go wild. They squirmed all over Sherlock, yelping when they got caught in his coat. Between Sherlock's yelps, John tried to talk to the woman.
"Can you take your dog out, please?" The kittens scattered, half of them still clinging to Sherlock and half disappearing into different corners. The Rottweiler dragged the woman towards Sherlock.
"No, no, bad Timmy. Stop it Timmy, you don't want these nice gentlemen to turn us away like the last ones did. Timmy!" The Rottweiler dragged her across the room. John chased it. Sherlock was paralyzed. The brown eyed kitten nestled in his hair and mewed. It surveyed the scene with content. It hissed at the Rottweiler.
Curling its tail in midair, baring its teeth, the kitten crooned. Sherlock moaned. It looked at John and smirked.
"I can see it. My God, you're right. It's an evil kitten." John pointed the Rottweiler at the kitten. The kitten hissed and the Rottweiler whimpered. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, run."
"I don't know where to run, John. I can't escape myself."
"Throw the damn cat at the wall and run. Now." Not waiting for Sherlock, John seized the cat from his head. He felt a menacing gurgle in it's stomach. He was about to throw it when his arm froze. He traced the hairy knuckles clamped on his forearm to a bald head.
"My cat. Do not throw." He snatched the cat. Rather than stroke it, he set it on the ground. It licked it's paw. "Mr. Moriarty will be back tomorrow. Do not throw him then either." He ambled out, following the cat. John and Sherlock looked at each other. They ran out the back door, leaving the woman alone in a room of confused cats.
"But what about Timmy?"