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"If ya feed it it'll just keep comin' back."

Eric frowned out the back door at Sherlock, crouched down near the edge of the garden trying to coax something out from under a bush. It was, Eric was fairly certain, the same mangy cat that'd been skulking around the place since Christmas. Not being particularly fond of animals (cats especially) Eric had been rather meticulous of late in making sure no scraps of meat or any other edibles got left out where the strays could get them. One just didn't go around inviting disease-ridden animals anywhere near their living space, simple matter of common sense.

And then here, of course, was Sherlock. Feeding a damned alley cat in the back garden.

"It also won't die," Sherlock intoned blandly, not bothering to look up from what he was doing. Eric huffed an annoyed sigh and reluctantly strolled out from the warm(ish) kitchen into the frigid air of early morning.

Sure enough, there was a ragged-looking brown tabby curled up under the bush, hackles raised and tail all puffed out. Eric regarded it with an unimpressed stare. Sherlock had made a little pile of torn-up lunchmeat near the edge of the shrubbery and had apparently decided to just sit and wait until the thing came out to eat.

"It's probly got rabies or some shit, y'know that," Eric pointed out in a supremely unenthusiastic deadpan. Sherlock waved him off over his shoulder.

"Rabies is only transmissible when the animal is symptomatic," he rebuked with a slight huff. "And anyway it's easy enough to treat with appropriate prophylaxis, no danger of systemic infection."

Eric didn't know what half those words meant, which was generally par for the course when speaking to Sherlock, granted, but still a bit irritating. Especially when a cat was hissing at them.

"Well leave it the hell alone so it can eat or whatever, then. Y'don't gotta sit there an' watch it," he grumbled, adjusting his cast in its sling before shoving his right hand as deep into his jeans pocket as he could manage. Bloody freezing out here, christ.

"It was limping, I want to know why," Sherlock objected. He very deliberately didn't budge from his spot crouched down in front of the cat. Eric rolled his eyes.

"It's a street cat, some kids probly kicked it about or somethin'. Why does it matter?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock just frowned. In front of them the cat had stopped hissing and now had them fixed in a frozen glare, hackles still raised. Eric eyed it warily. If it lunged at them he was getting the hell out of dodge, sod helping Sherlock – prat could deal with a scratched-up face all on his own.

After a moment of silence Sherlock sighed very slightly to himself. He shifted his crouch a bit to rest his chin on his forearms, pillowed atop his knees, and regarded the cat with a pensive gaze. Very nearly sitting on the dew-soaked grass, but of course he didn't seem to notice or care if his jeans got wet.

"Shouldn't really matter at all, I suppose," he muttered. Something seemed a bit off in his tone, but Eric was far too cold and in far too close proximity to a vicious animal to feel much like analysing it. "It's just that it sort of looks like..."

He trailed off with a deep frown and stared at the cat for a few silent, thoughtful seconds. The animal's seafoam-green eyes flashed in the morning light as it opened its mouth to hiss again. Eric unconsciously leant away with a grimace – he'd been taught fairly firmly from early childhood on that one just didn't bloody go around bothering with stray cats. People lost hands that way, fingers all rotted off from infection. It went against every fibre of his being to just stand there without chasing the thing off.

"Looks like a mangy cat with a limp t'me," he ground out somewhat more spitefully than he'd intended. Sherlock glanced up at him with an odd expression – a sort of half-confused, half-forlorn look. Eric just scowled in response. He took step back, his movement making the cat growl, which did not at all improve his disposition towards it. "Look, it ain't even friendly," he pointed out, trying (and mostly failing) not to sound too tetchy. "All it wants to do is bite the shit outta us. There's no point bein' nice to it."

"It's just scared," Sherlock rebuffed in a rather petulant tone as he turned his attention back to the stray. "Trying to look intimidating so we'll back off – it doesn't know we're not going to hurt it."

"I might," Eric mumbled crossly. Sherlock shot him a sharp glare, something very nearly verging on dangerous in his eyes, and Eric backed off with an apologetic hunch of his shoulders. "Not really, christ... I just don't like cats, alright? They're mean little bastards."

"Only the frightened or aggressive ones. Well-socialised cats are perfectly companionable," Sherlock countered. Mercifully he'd dropped the flash of anger, though he still didn't look particularly happy. Eric wasn't sure if it was to do with his comment or if Sherlock just didn't like the idea of having to leave the stupid alley cat alone after he'd gone to all the trouble of feeding it.

"Yeah, well, anythin' with knives on its feet an' a mouth fulla bleedin' fangs can stay the hell away from me, companionable or not."

Sherlock didn't deign to respond to that. Finally, after several more seconds' staring, he straightened up from his crouch. As soon as he took a step backwards the cat bolted – nothing but a streak of brown fur in a straight shot over the fence, gone in a blink. Sherlock tucked his hands into his hoodie pocket and gazed after it with an unhappy look on his face.

"It'll be back soon enough," Eric assured. His resentful tone wasn't perhaps the most sympathetic, he acknowledged, but then this was one of the very few things he found he honestly couldn't tolerate – luring diseased animals off the streets near to where people lived, practically inviting a bite. Dangerous and irresponsible, even by Sherlock standards.

As was beginning to be a habit when he was upset about something, Sherlock chose to very pointedly ignore Eric as he turned and stalked back to the house. Drama queen. Eric failed to avoid rolling his eyes at the theatrics and followed along behind. Honestly, pissed off over a stupid cat. How ridiculous could you get?

Fully prepared to let Sherlock's little freeze-out run its course (he was fairly sure the prat would just forget he'd been angry in a few hours, anyway, so it wasn't like this would be a permanent thing) Eric shut the kitchen door behind him and made to head back up to the bedroom. Maybe waste time on the internet for awhile or something, he didn't know. Whatever got him far enough from Sherlock to avoid being scowled at for the next however-long.

Sherlock had stopped near his counter full of chemistry things, meanwhile, and as Eric glanced back at him he was unsurprised to find he'd already lit a cigarette.

But, then... ah, hell. Frowning, he paused and stared at Sherlock for a few seconds. The man was looking moodily out the window, watching to make sure the cat returned for its meal. Clearly upset that it'd run off. He was, for whatever unfathomable, irrational Sherlock-reason, legitimately concerned about the wellbeing of a mangy half-dead stray.

After a minute or so Eric sighed. He rubbed his good hand through his hair, then let it flop down again, defeated. The nonsense he was willing to put up with, bloody hell.

"We'll go an' find some proper cat food later, alright? Don't keep feedin' it the damn sandwich meat."

Sherlock startled slightly and glanced over, apparently not having realised Eric hadn't yet left the room. He blinked, confused, then opened his mouth to ask a question. Something outside seemed to catch his attention first, however, and his gaze quickly darted back to the window.

"Ah, it came back," he exclaimed, sounding honestly delighted by that. Eric, now more or less resigned to his fate in enabling all this, moved to stand next to the sink and followed Sherlock's line of sight out the window. There was the cat, alright – inhaling the little pile of shredded ham like it hadn't seen a meal in days. Damn thing'd never leave now.

"It's not comin' in the house," was all Eric could think to say, unhappy scowl firmly in place. Beside him Sherlock wasn't paying any heed whatsoever – he was far too busy watching the animal eat. A faint, probably unintentional smile had crept onto his face. Eric glanced over to him, bit back a sigh for the injustice of it all, then settled his gaze back toward the scrap of fur and claws lurking in the garden.

Of all the stray animals Sherlock could've taken an inexplicable liking to, it just had to be a bloody cat.

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