AN - Did this one in first person because of reasons. As always, thank you for the prompt. Haven't done Catlock before, but here goes, and it's quite short, sorry…
Catlock - balls of yarn and scarves ~anon
He was sitting on the bookshelf, tail flicking slightly as he gazed down as me. His sleek black fur shone slightly silver in the moonlight that slanted from the long windows into the flat. I stood, staring at him as he sat there thinking, the way only a cat can do, before remembering myself and walking full into the flat, dumping the shopping on the table. Evidently my Sherlock had come to some sort of decision as he got up, stretched his cat stretch and jumped from the bookcase to the floor. I smiled at him as he wandered over and rubbed affectionately against my leg. But, Sherlock being Sherlock, I knew he was only being friendly because he wanted something. Manipulative sod,I thought, chuckling a little despite myself as I began to unload the shopping. It didn't matter that he was only being nice for his own personal gain - he was being nice, so I decided to revel in it.
I poured him the milk he wanted after a suitable amount of bunting had ensued, and went over to my chair. I picked up the paper and began to read, making the most of the few moments of silence and peace I had while Sherlock was otherwise engaged.
I heard the padding of his paws as he passed my chair and glanced up over the paper. He didn't look at me as he disappeared under his black leather chair. Some people find it odd that my cat has his own chair. Technically, it's my chair. I just call it his chair because he took a liking to it. He sleeps on it - or at the end of my bed - curled up in his blue scarf, the scarf he was snuggled up in when I found him and his brother - who now belongs to Greg - in the old cardboard box that rainy day. Sherlock has blossomed into a wonderful, clever, if slightly annoying black beauty of a cat. Anyway, Sherlock disappeared under his chair, and I went back to my paper.
I got suspicious after about ten minutes. Sherlock often went quiet for long periods, sitting extraordinary still on his chair or the sofa or the bookshelf or occasionally on top of the fridge. But he was always in sight. I put the paper down and was about to go and investigate when the little black thing pranced out, a strand of purple wool trailing from his mouth and disappearing behind his chair. I was confused at first. Sherlock just strutted forward and jumped up onto the coffee table. I thought for a moment, then my stomach jolted. Mrs Hudson's knitting. She was making a jumper for her niece's daughter for her second birthday, and she'd left it here because they were staying over. And Sherlock was sitting on our coffee table, wool dangling from his mouth, looking awfully proud of himself. I ran a hand through my hair and jumped to my feet, walking, a little hesitantly, to see the mess that had been created behind his chair.
It was a mass of blue and purple wool. The jumper itself appeared untouched - I thanked my lucky star for that - but the wool was everywhere. Sherlock just waltzed right back over, wool still in his mouth, then pounced on a blue strand. I stood there and stared. There was something oddly hypnotic in the way he chased it, pulling at it with his claws and biting it. I chuckled a little, watching him. He danced across the mess of wool after the end of a thread that had moved ever so slightly from him tugging one end of it. For a clever cat, he was clueless about some things.
I remembered myself after a minute and quickly grabbed him. He mewed at me and pawed my face - luckily without claws - wanting to go back and play with his wool. I dumped him in his chair and tried to tidy it up. Nothing was damaged, but it took a while to sort it all out. Eventually, I got it done, and took the basket into my bedroom. Sherlock wasn't to go in there until it was finished. I expected him to protest to what I was doing, or at least get in the way, but he didn't. He'd gone quiet again, and that was okay with me. I walked back into the room and gazed at the chair. There he was, my little Sherlock, curled up in his old blue scarf, fast asleep.