A/N Again, I missed a day or two, apologies.
Thanks to No reviewers this time~
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
XXIII. Cat
"What," Sherlock growls, one hand on the doorknob and the other poised to remove his scarf, "is that?"
"It's called a kitten," John replies calmly, shifting the position of the small, ginger-furred creature in his lap. Its miniscule, pearly white teeth are bared in a tiny yawn before it rearranges itself, tucking its chin neatly onto its front paws.
"You never set we were babysitting a cat," the detective spits in response. He stays in his frozen stance, eyes flickering rapidly between John's almost-smug face and the fluffy form of the kitten.
"And who told you it was a babysitting job?"
Scoffing as if such a thing should be obvious to even John, Sherlock finally begins to move, stripping off his coat and moving quickly to his chair, where he sits twitchily, eyeing the kitten suspiciously as he begins to cross and uncross his legs in an almost spasmodic manner. "You should bring it back. Those things are insufferable."
"Oh, you're quite one to talk about insufferableness," John shoots back. His forefinger navigates the smooth bit of fur between the sleeping kitten's ears, scratching fondly. He can hardly resist the appeal—in fact, he's half-wishing that this wasn't the neighbor's cat, that they could actually have one for themselves. Of course, Sherlock is hardly reacting well to this little scrap.
"Regardless, that thing is useless and messy."
"Everything is useless and messy to you," he sighs. "It's staying with us for two days. I'm sure you can survive that long."
"Not everything," Sherlock objects quietly. He keeps his eyes glued to the cat, as if holding it in place with his stare. "Just…" His voice cuts off suddenly, and he freezes in place, his knuckles straining from their hard grip on the arms of his chair.
John leans forward in concern, still making sure not to disrupt the tiny animal cradles on his legs. "Hey—give it a rest. You're getting overly worked up, okay? Calm down."
"I'll calm down once you get that abysmal creature out of our flat," is the snarled response.
"Alright, that's enough of that." John stands up, holding the kitten to his chest. It lets out a high-pitched whine of protest, and he strokes it repeatedly in an attempt to calm it down. Sherlock recoils as he approaches, flattening himself against the back of his chair and twisting his face in a revolted expression.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"Jesus, give it a rest. Here." Slowly, gradually, he transfers the cat into Sherlock's lap, letting his fingers linger on its soft flank. Sherlock is ridiculously stiff, as though even beginning to relax would be a catastrophic action. The kitten, however, is unperturbed—in fact, it rolls onto its back like a tiny dog, displaying an expanse of snowy white belly fur.
"Now try petting it," John instructs.
"No," Sherlock hisses. "No bloody way."
"Don't be so childish," the doctor chides, and he finds himself reaching out, his hand settling over Sherlock's. A small smile plays around his lips as he forces the detective's fingers to move to the cat's stomach, pressing them into the soft fur and holding them there.
"See? Not so bad."
Sherlock doesn't respond, but his eyes do look a bit less icy.