You will always be lucky if you know how to make friends with strange cats. -Proverb

John Watson wasn't a cat person. Wasn't much of a dog person, either, if he was going to be honest. Wasn't much of a pet person just in general. He supposed he could place the blame on his parents for not having a cheerful old golden retriever when he was growing up, no ratty old cat named Patches or something. He'd never even had a goldfish or a hamster, for that matter. He'd never been bitter or angry about that, of course—it had simply been the way it was. When his schoolmates had had to walk their dogs or clear the litter boxes, when they'd come to school puffy-eyed and miserable because old Scrabbles their gerbil had been lying stone dead on his wheel when they woke up that morning, John had been outside kicking a football or practicing for rugby. He liked animals, of course, but he'd just...never had any pressing desire to share his living space with one.

And he still didn't. The little flat he'd moved into after clearing out of 221b Baker Street was quiet and peaceful, not quite large enough to feel empty and not nearly small enough to feel cramped. The only things he'd kept from the old flat was the skull (now placed just out of sight on the top shelf of the tallest bookcase) and one of Sherlock's second-best scarves. (The best having been, of course, buried with him on that awful day.) It had been a sentimental thing but, surprisingly enough, had yet to send John into broken-down hysterics. Sometimes he wore it, on the coldest days during the coldest months of the year, but usually it simply hung on the hook, mostly hidden by his coat. John didn't make a point of looking at it, but he also didn't make a point of not looking at it. He imagined that, when he'd first moved in, it had still retained a bit of Sherlock's scent—sweat and shampoo and just his skin in general—but it had certainly faded by now. It...it was just a nice scarf, with very few bad memories attached. He liked it.

The lady in the flat below him had a dog—a great big shaggy mess of a thing, far too large for the small building, but quiet, at least. She was good-natured and friendly—the dog, that is: the woman was largely uninterested—but with the bad habit of jumping up on John's chest with her muddy paws when he walked into the yard. That was more human-animal interaction than John had had for most of his life, and more than he was really looking for.

One evening, though, as John was on his way home from his new job at a new clinic far away from his old place (Sarah's eyes, despite her best efforts, always held too much pity for John's tastes), he heard an unfamiliar sound coming from the tiny, gated yard of his building. Maggie—the dog—seemed to be barking and growling at something. As John got closer, he heard a strange hissing sound, punctuated now and then by loud yowling. When he finally got close enough to see what was going on, he saw the usually-sweet Maggie snapping at what appeared to be the top of an old black mop back into the corner of the yard. After a moment, the mop stretched out a paw and swiped Maggie right across the nose, sending her skittering backwards but only for a moment.

"Hey!" he snapped. Just because he didn't love cats didn't mean he wanted this one to get mauled. Not to mention the fact that it would be hard to look at the big old mutt the same way ever again if she managed to kill the poor cat. "Maggie! Off!" Apparently his Army Voice worked on canines as well as humans, because, after a startled glance up at the short man in the gate, the dog finally darted to the other side of the yard. That didn't get her very far away, of course—the flat was just on the outskirts of town, but that didn't mean that there was a lot of space for her to roam—but it worked well enough.

John continued on to the door, figuring that was that, but as he fumbled in his pockets, he heard a sound on the walk behind him. He turned around to see the mop—er, cat—sitting just a few feet away from him, looking at him with blue eyes. John found himself wondering at that (the only other black cats he'd ever seen all had green eyes) but not for long.

"You too," he said. "Go on, now. Scat!" He made himself very large, took a menacing step toward the stray, but it did nothing, not even when he threw his arms out. The cat lifted one paw and began to lick it. John shook his head. "Fine, that's fine. The dog's not going to stay away from you forever, and it's not like I'm going to stick around all night to save your life again. Your funeral." He turned back to the door and unlocked it, and even before he was crossing the threshold, the furry old lump had darted between his legs into the building. He swore under his breath and went after it, chasing it up the stairs. It seemed to melt into the shadows as he reached his door, and after a cursory glance around the top of the stairs, John shrugged (a bit guiltily, of course: who knew what havoc the cat would wreak in an enclosed space) and entered his flat.

Just before he could get his door closed, he saw another streak of dusty black shoot into the room and over behind the sofa. Well, great. Maybe that's what he got for not caring around leaving the thing in the building. John grunted as he sank to his knees to try to dig the blasted creature out. Psychosomatic or no, his limp had started to return just after the—well, after, anyway—and while he didn't need the cane anymore, his leg still ached constantly. The cat was just out of reach, and it seemed to know it: it just sat there blinking at John in the half-light of the room. It looked...satisfied.

"You're not staying here, you know that, right?" John gritted out, giving one more pointless attempt at grabbing it. "I don't have a bloody thing in this whole place that will interest you and I don't even like cats."

The cat was unimpressed. It stretched out on the floor now with a yawn (boredom, most likely, the arrogant thing...) but remained out of reach. John swore again.

"You want me to get the broom? I don't want to hurt you but I don't want you pissing all over my carpets."

A beeseeching mew, and another yawn. Well...the thing had just survived an attack by a vicious monster, John found himself reasoning, and didn't cats sleep most of the day anyway? Nocturnal creatures or no, he could understand the thing wanting to nap or something. He sighed, feeling thoroughly ridiculous.

"Fine. You win." He raised his hands, palm outwards, in defeat. "Stay there, see if I care." He struggled to his feet and went into the kitchen to start making dinner. Molly was coming over later, and he'd agreed to cook for her.

That was something—Molly. Strangely enough, she never looked at John with pity, or at least she kept it hidden well enough and looked away quickly enough that John never caught her. She was also strong, stronger than he would have expected. To say that her thing for Sherlock had been glaringly obvious would have been a very kind understatement, but she was never weepy or anything like that. She'd go along with John's wistful stories when he got into a really sentimental, reminiscent mood, but she was always smiling that sweet smile of hers and keeping things just upbeat enough.

He didn't fancy her, and she had absolutely no interest in him, either. That had been made abundantly clear one night early on in the horrors. John had been astoundingly drunk one evening and she'd helped him home to Baker Street. He'd made a move: a clumsy, ill-timed and (he cringed just thinking about it) sloppy kiss, but she had sidestepped it easily and laughed—actually laughed. Once his pride had gotten over her giggles, things had gone back to normal between them, only...friendlier. They saw each other about a night a week, sometimes every two weeks when their schedules got really crazy. It was nice.

John dropped two pieces of salmon onto a pan and, with a thoughtful look towards the sofa, then added a third, the smallest piece in the package. If the cat disappeared, then at least he'd have something to eat if he got a break tomorrow. He sprinkled the fish with an herb mixture he'd gotten at the shops ages ago, but left the smaller piece untouched and far from the other two. He had no idea what was toxic to cats, and he didn't want to risk finding that thing dead on the rug.

John didn't hum while he cooked, didn't dance or recite poetry or talk to himself as though he had his own cooking show. Too often lately he found himself wondering if he'd used to do such things, but he could never remember. He was now in the practice of Not Remembering, so it was an effort to recall any memories, even ones from before he met—

The buzzer sounded, and John rushed to press the button that would allow Molly into the building. That was another nice thing about this building: the technology. Presently, his guest arrived with a friendly grin and shrugged off her coat. Their greetings were typical and unremarkable, and John offered her something to drink while she waited for everything to be ready. She retired to the sofa while John prepared a salad.

Just as he was placing the last of the meal on the table, he heard a delighted squeal coming from the direction of the sitting room. What in the... He poked his head through the doorway and found the raggedy black cat curled up on the sofa right next to Molly. She was scratching it behind the ears and it looked rather pleased with itself. "When did you get a cat?" She exclaimed happily. "I love cats!"

John shrugged. "I didn't. It just sort of...followed me home tonight." A realization struck him. "Shit, Molly, don't touch it, it might have fleas or something."

Molly pulled the creature into her lap and set about inspecting it carefully. The cat, surprisingly, remained complacent. All the cats John had ever known would have been scratching and clawing their way free. "No, he's fine," she finally pronounced, nuzzling her nose against the cat's. "Completely clean, though he is a little bit too skinny for a guy his size." She released the cat and, instead of retreating back behind the sofa, it merely curled up in her lap. Molly squealed again, but softer this time. "John, look how lovey he is! Definitely a he, though, he hasn't been...you know...fixed. I wonder if he even has a home."

If the cat knew the answer, he revealed nothing. John studied the two of them for one long moment and then tilted his head toward the table. "Food's getting cold," he finally said. "Or...warm, in the case of the salad, I guess."

Molly reluctantly deposited the cat back onto the sofa (John was tempted to say something about keeping him off the furniture, but it was already a shabby old couch: what could one cat do to it?), then quickly washed her hands and joined him at the table. Their conversation was familiar and easy. Mostly they wound up talking about their respective patients. A part of John realized that dead people and weeping infections were hardly normal dinnertime conversation, but then he was hardly normal anymore.

When they had finished eating, Molly cleared everything away (she insisted), and John deposited the extra fish onto a small plate, which he placed next to the side of the couch. The cat had disappeared again, and he could just make out the glint of one of its strange eyes in the shadows. He returned to insist upon drying the dishes, at least and by the time they retired to the couch with their mugs of tea, the little plate was empty.

"You're going to need supplies!" Molly exclaimed, switching once more into John There's a Kitty Here! mode. "You'll need a box, and some dishes, and some food, because John you can't serve him real salmon all the time, it's hardly a balanced diet, and probably a collar—oh, wouldn't purple look lovely with his fur?—and toys and maybe treats and, oh a bed and a scratching post and—"

She paused to draw in a breath and John took advantage of the moment. "Molly, I'm not keeping him. I don't know where he came from. There could be some kid outside right now looking for him. Not to mention he could have any number of diseases and, really, Molly, I'm not a cat person."

The woman looked over at him and arched her eyebrow in amusement. He followed her gaze along his body and down to his fingers, which were stroking absently through the strange cat's fur. It had apparently given up its hiding spot and jumped onto the sofa again during Molly's stream of words. It was pressed against his thigh and he could feel the rumbling vibrations as it purred, eyes narrowing into slits with pleasure. He sighed.

"Let me take him to a vet tomorrow while you're working," she almost pleaded. "I'll get him looked at and get him all the shots he needs and I'll have him checked to see if he's chipped or tattooed or anything, alright?" John was about to protest, something about the hassle or the cost or the combination of the two, but she powered on ahead. "I know a guy, a student, he...kind of owes me a favor." She blushed, which intrigued John but he didn't push. "And I never got you a housewarming present, did I? Please, John. Please?" Her eyes were wide and pleading now, and she reminded him so much of her old self (small, sad, so pathetic and really in need of protection from Sher—no.) that he relented for the second time that night. Maybe he was growing mellower with age. Maybe he was going soft.

"Alright. Sure. If he's still around tomorrow whenever you stop by, and he doesn't run off when you try to take him, go right ahead." He wasn't convinced that the cat would even stick around for the rest of the night, let alone throughout the day tomorrow, and certainly not while Molly tried to haul him to a vet. Molly let out one more excited squeal and leaned forward to throw her arms around his neck (jostling the cat in the process and earning the two of them a look of irritation), then settled back into the couch. There was a James Bond marathon already in progress on the telly, and that was enough to occupy them for the rest of the night, until Molly finally rose and excused herself.

The door closed behind her, and John turned to look at the cat. "Just me and you now," he said out loud, with another shrug. "Look, I'll leave a window open for you if you want to get out, because there's no way in hell that I'm leaving the door open, alright?"

The cat just blinked at him.

John was about to ask it if it would be comfortable there on the couch before he realized what he was doing, and pressed his hands against his face. Cats couldn't actually answer back. Rolling his eyes, he grabbed a handful of towels and piled them down at the other end of the couch, just in case it wanted...right. Still a cat. Very few actual needs and/or wants. Well, just in case, anyway. He wrestled one of the windows open, after making sure that it led to a ledge large enough for a small but graceful creature to follow until it, and made his way to bed.

Don't worry, readers: that's not the end of the story! There are at least two more chapters coming (and possibly additional standalones related to the same "verse" if the interest is strong enough)! If you've made it this far, why not go a step further and drop me a line to let me know what you thought? What worked? What didn't work? How's my characterization? :D I'm not doing that annoying thing where I'm holding chapters hostage (ugh), but it *is* nice to know, anyway!