Watsoncat and company belong to thecaptainsideways, Sherlock and John both belong to the joint custody of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Gatniss, and Moffat and the various situations and plots belong to me...DON'T STEAL!

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The day after Sherlock (the human) brought home a laser pointer and Sher-cat and I played for the longest time, just chasing a red dot around like how we had chased clues the week before.

After three days I was ready to write out what happened, hoping that confronting it and not repressing it would make me feel better, but Sher-cat hogged the computer, insisting that I needed to give his art time. In the end he got bored and I was able to write this anyway.

To Lily, my good friend, I'm sorry I didn't realize sooner that it wasn't really you. I hope you can understand that I didn't mean you any harm and I hope we can still be friends.

And to Moriarty: I know that you're still out there somewhere. Reading this. You're too pompous not to relish in your own work. I'm speaking on behalf of Sher-cat as well as the rest of the Yard. We're not giving up until we put an end to you and your organization. London will be the better for it, I know.

Guys! I read a newspaper article that said the world was ending! Did you know? What should we do?

Okay. Ignore that. Sher-cat clarified. But what I don't understand is if they could just pay the Russians to save the planet, why don't we? It seems like an awful dumb reason to die. I know that humanity must have the resources somewhere! Why is it taking so long for someone to do something? Sher-cat, why are you laughing?

Okay, I'm gullible. And mad. Sher-cat lied to me about the world ending and I fell for it. But he did it so gosh-darned convincingly! I wish I could resist, or somehow see the truth! Does anyone know how to train in the art of not-getting-tricked?

I'm too busy to think anyway, Life's been fast-paced here on Baker Street. We're getting new mysteries and new clients every day! The detective business is booming!

We've been able to solve cases about stolen cat toys for really rich kitties (it was the local magpie carrying toys back to its nest) and territorial spats for a few feuding strays, and once we even helped a Canadian cat who was lost in London find his owner before he had to board the flight home.

Boy! That one was fun! I couldn't understand half of the things that cat was saying, and in the end it all boiled down to a race through the airport at the last minute to catch the cat-carrier which was supposed to take him home. As it turns out, a stray cat that looked just like the Canadian cat (who has asked not to be named on the internet) had realized that the human couldn't tell the difference between the two cats, had purposefully mislead the poor foreigner and had seamlessly taken his place in order to flee London and escape from a cat-gang that had it out for him.

Lestrade only comes every once and a while for help with murders, since he can pretty much manage most cat-deaths on his own. He only comes to us when he's really stuck.

Really really stuck.

Like, four possible murder suspects with no alibi and each with motive stuck.

One morning he came and said that he'd been up all night grilling four possible murderers, but had no luck in finding the true murderer, so he wanted our help.

And of course, Sher-cat being his usual friendly self said: "Boring."

"Come on; four cats, all in the same room together, all with motive for killing the cat, all as silent as death, and one of them has to be the killer! I'm stuck!"

Sher-cat looked down on him with a cocked eye. It is a weird thing he's been doing lately, tilting his head and arching his brow so that he looks extra-condescending.

"How was he killed?" Sher-cat asked.

Lestrade seemed relieved. "Ripped up. Looks like a few good bites around the neck."

"A few?"

"Well, yeah. It's hard to tell which bite really did the job. His neck is all open, you see."

"Then it's obvious." Sher-cat said shrugging.

Lestrade shook his head. "Spell it out for me Sherlock; I've had a long night."

"If one cat didn't do it, then they all must've done it." Sher-cat pressed.

Lestrade looked awed, like all of the pieces of the puzzle came together perfectly in his mind. He raced out of the flat (as quickly as I could open the doors for him) and didn't come back until later that night, looking shaggy and disheveled.

"How did you know that was going to happen?" He demanded just as soon as Sher-cat was within earshot.

"Easy. It's basic cat-nature." Sher-cat said smiling.

"What happened?" I asked feeling, once again, that I had been left out of some great joke.

"We went to arrest all the cats on your logic and three of them fingered a friend immediately. That cat made a break for it."

"And you let him run?" Sher-cat asked.

"I was trying to arrest four cats with two officers; I was a bit busy, thanks."

"But you caught him, right?" I asked worriedly. Admittedly I'm not fond of sharing the streets with a killer. And especially not one that Sher-cat helped find. I mean, Good Gravy! What if he finds out where we live?

"No, that's why I'm back." He said.

"He's by the river. North side." Sher-cat said in a rather bored tone.

Lestrade's jaw dropped, and for a moment I thought he would tell Sher-cat what I've secretly thought all this time: "You're guessing!"

But he silently slunk outside the flat, probably deep, deep, deep in thought trying to figure out how Sher-cat figured it out.

That's something I wish I could figure out.

But it's nice to be busy. After the You-know-who episode(not Voldemort) I was worried that we'd only be dealing with nut-jobs and weirdos from then on. It's good to know there's still normal crime going on.

Well, not good…but…You know?

It's been very quiet here on Baker Street since I wrote my last entry. Nothing has really come up since the Sham of Four. Everything just kind of ebbed away. The humans seem to be very busy, so they're almost always out, leaving Sher-cat and me alone. Its okay for me because I enjoy a little bit of down time, but Sher-cat is happiest when he's working; otherwise he's a big pain!

He won't stop complaining about being bored, he's demolishing the flat! He's all over the couch scratching the cushions into nothingness! He tears through the piles of junk that lie around in the kitchen! I can't take him anymore!

I realized how bad it had become when I was praying for Lestrade to have something urgent for us like a serial killer or a rabid cat on the loose. What a horrible thing to think!

But I should at least be happy that for the moment You-know-who is out of our hair. Right after the whole 'Holiday in hell' fiasco every trace of him shriveled up. No one has seen or heard of him at all; he's completely disappeared!

Which is fine by me, I never want to see that cat ever again if I can help it, but Sher-cat is a bit dismayed he's lost his nemesis already. I think he actually misses that creep! Or maybe (and more likely) he misses work.

Nothing is going on here for us, everything is peaceful, which worries me most of all.

I know that when everything seems perfect all hell is building up behind the scenes, preparing to break loose!

I never could get the hang of Thursdays.

Sherlock the human gave me a bath.

I HATE baths.

I HATE Thursdays.

It wasn't even my fault! I was just walking around, minding my own business! Actually I was returning to the cushion where I sleep after minding my own business! Sherlock the mad scientist was mixing chemicals haphazardly in the living room (John told him not to) when his phone rang.

To my utter horror his arm jerked and the beaker that he was holding flew out and seemed to come at me in slow motion.

It was like a scary movie, where you see it happening but you can't stop it! I couldn't move! I could just watch petrified as the chemicals showered down upon me.

I had no idea what the chemicals were, whether they were toxic, or whether they were hot; all I knew was that they were wet and on me.

As soon as my fur got drenched I cried out in fear.

To those cats who are reading this, you sympathize with me, right? To the humans who are reading this, you will never know the bane of getting cat-fur wet. It is pretty horrible. It's heavy and matted and weird and uuuurrrrrghhhh!

And to those weird cats who like to swim: WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOOOOOOOU?

Anyway, I ran away from the source of the liquid and upstairs into John's bedroom where I ducked under the bed to lick myself dry, and hopefully avoid the musty smell that comes from cat fur being wet too long.

I noticed that the chemicals smelled really weird and I was debating the safety of actually licking them when I heard Sherlock the human tip-toeing into John's room.

"Here kitty, kitty, kitty."

I've never heard of a cat actually responding to the call of "Here kitty, kitty, kitty". Does it ever work?

"Come here you stupid cat. Where are you hiding?" he hissed.

I might have come out, but I was feeling a bit indignant. And wet. So I waited for him to find me before I gave up the ghost.

I've said it once before, under the bed is the first place Sherlock checks for cats. I was suddenly staring into a pair of bright blue eyes which flashed like lightning when he looked at me.

"Here you are, dummy." He grabbed my scruff and hauled me out from under the bed, dragging me across the floor on my face.

Have I mentioned that Sherlock is not my favorite human? He's nice and pets me every now and again, but he's really insensitive. And mean.

He held me up to the light in John's room and sucked in air through his teeth.

"Oh, no." He said worriedly.

"What?" I asked starting to get scared.

"We're in trouble." He said staring at my back.

"What, what, what, what, what?" I cried.

He took me to the bathroom and tossed me inside, ran out of the bathroom and closed the door on me. Which isn't a problem, I can open doors, but I was curious about what he was looking at. I jumped up to the sink and looked at myself in the mirror.

"Holy Mackerel!" I screamed loud enough for Sher-cat to hear me from the other room, but I couldn't help it! It was horrible!

My fur was blue wherever the chemical had splashed over it. I had a blue blob on my forehead and splotches of blue down my back. Not pretty blue fur like Sher-cat's, which was black with an indigo sheen; that would have been alright. No, Bright blue. Like when the laptop died and the screen turned blue, blue. It was extremely bright and everywhere and it clashed horribly with my ginger fur.

I felt like crying.

I rather like my fur, it's a nice rich color and it's soft and nice and I keep it very clean. Now it was wet, smelled funny, turned blue and was kind of drying up to be hard and crusty.

I could have attacked Sherlock when he walked back into the bathroom, armed with thick yellow gloves which reached up to his elbows and a glass beaker from his experiments.

"You!" I shouted through my frustrated tears. "You did this! You fix it! Fix it right now Sherlock!"

He ignored my mewling and filled the bathtub with water. At that point I had a fair idea of where this encounter was taking me.

I tried to escape out the door, but he had locked it and I still don't know how to open locked doors. (P.S. If anyone out there want's to tell me please feel free to leave a comment. It could save me next time.)

Apparently cat's ears are more sensitive that human ears, because the bathtub filling with water sounded like a water fall of churning, bubbling, frothing water and the roar was practically deafening for me pressed against the door, screaming for Sher-cat's help.

"What?" was the aggravated reply.

"Help! Oh my gosh! He's going to bathe me! Help!" I screamed as Sherlock's long white fingers locked around my chest, gripping me in a strangle-hold from which there was no escape.

With much less ceremony than I would have thought, Sherlock chucked me into the water with about as much delicacy as he would give tossing a pillow.

I had barely touched the water, which was actually very warm like a bowl of soup, when I kicked off against the tub and catapulted over the rim of the porcelain prison and returned to where I was pressed against the door.

"Sher-cat! You've got to help me!" I said giving Sherlock a sliding glance as he leaned forward carefully, trying to pick me back up, but I would have none of it.

Sherlock turned off the water, and without the roaring noise in my ears I could think clearly again.

My paws were wet, but that was pretty much it besides the chemicals in my fur. The smell which had only been a little thing before was starting to make me dizzy.

"Watson, listen to me." I heard Sher-cat's voice as though he were right beside my ear. Actually he was right on the other side of the door. "You have to let him bathe you. That stuff in your fur is Sodium(I can't remember the full name it was long and too hard to spell)Chlorate. It's poisonous."

"But the water…" I whimpered realizing help would now be coming for me. John was still at work for another four hours.

"Won't hurt you." Sher-cat assured me. It was easy for him to say, he was nowhere near the water, I was in it.

Sherlock grabbed me and put me into the bathtub again. I grabbed onto his arms with my claws as the hot water rushed over my flanks, up my tummy, and to my chest.

He painstakingly removed his arm, claw by claw from my grasp and then suddenly I was adrift in the sea.

Oh, sure I could feel the bottom and I could swim if it came to that, but there's something about being in a body of water that's disorienting. It's not just a bathtub anymore, it's the ocean somehow.

I tried to leap out again and again, but Sherlock blocked me with his body.

He poured a bit of some stuff in a bottle onto his hands and rubbed them together, and I thought that was odd, until he started rubbing me with his hands, then it started to make sense.

He scrubbed my back with his narrow, sharp fingers and lathered my head in bubbles, which I tossed away with a few mighty bucks. I scratched him a few times.

I HAD to, it was instinct. I was scared, and he was touching me, and there was water, I HAD to lash out. I wanted to apologize afterward, but honestly, doesn't he deserve it?

Every time I scratched him (and trust me, I had to seriously hold myself back from not shredding his arms) He would grit his teeth, call me stupid and try to dunk my head under the water. He deserved it!

And the weirdest thing about the bath was that I could kind of smell John the whole time. It wasn't quite John's smell, but it was a smell like John.

And before you ask, no, it wasn't just his scent in the bathtub. Humans don't leave very strong scents.

THE WORST THING ABOUT THE BATH was when I thought Sherlock was done and he had to rinse me off. Do you know what rinsing is? It's when he pours a cup of water over your head until the bubbles are gone!

On second thought, I don't want to talk about it. I did and said things I wasn't proud of.

When I thought he was done he drained the bathtub and pulled me out of the water, sopping wet and wrapped me in a towel and held me against his chest stroking me through the towel until I was dry and I cried intelligibly into his shoulder. It was pretty traumatic.

Then he put me down and USED A HAIRDRYER TO FINISH THE JOB!

I thought I had finally had a heart attack and died, I was so scared! He put me onto the floor and all of a sudden I heard this almighty roar that was even louder than the bathtub filling! It sounded like a lion right next to my head!

I shivered from the icy draft chilling me from under the bathroom door, and then a gust of steamy air whipped up my fur in a torrent of noise and heat and wind.

The hot wind was everywhere! In between my legs, on my back, in my face, up my tail! I've never been so violated in my life! And I've been to the vet twice!

Sherlock finished and the silence and stillness was deafening. He opened the door and I ran off.

I have a little hiding place. Sher-cat doesn't know where it is, and the humans don't know where it is, and I'm not going to say where it is here just in case Sher-cat reads this (As we all know he sometimes does).

I hid there for the rest of the day, tucked away into myself trying to reestablish my trust in humanity and trying not to become catatonic. It would have been easy to stay traumatized, but Sher-cat needs me and I need to be stable when he needs me. Crazy cats are not reliable cats.

The whole time I smelled a little bit of John on me. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. It wasn't John's whole smell, it was just a little piece of it, but I couldn't name that piece. It was somewhat comforting.

When John came home I leapt up on him and asked for a hug. He responded: "Hold on, hold on I'll feed you."

I said "Forget the food John, I need a hug and I need it now! You won't believe what Sherlock did to me today! Why do you ever leave?"

After he put some food down he eventually got my message and I snuggled up on him, content to finally be with the only human I really trust.

Sherlock had continued his chemical experiments after cleaning up the traces of his crime and now he was mixing two beakers of yellow fluid over an open flame.

John sniffed the air a few times, turned to Sherlock, sniffed, turned back to me, sniffed, then held me up to his face and breathed deeply.

"Sherlock," He said with a curious expression "Why does the cat smell like my shampoo?"

Sherlock's face: priceless.