A/N: I have another Sherlock story for you... It probably takes place somewhere near the beginning of Sherlock and John's friendship, though I can't give you a precise time.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except for maybe the idea? But I don't know if anyone else has thought of this, and I'm too lazy to look. Sherlock was a product of its creators, who got inspiration from the great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. This is a self-beta thing. So any mistakes are mine. Also, I'm American. So I apologize to the English that will have their brains bleed from my incorrectness and/or lack of "u"s... I can't control the English I'm taught, only the English I learn.

Also, this is going to be a multi-chapter fic. Not sure how long. At least two. If not three. Maybe more... just don't get your hopes up.

Alternate Chapter Title: Who Dragged What In?

I hope you enjoy the story!

It was a particularly vicious double murder. Definitely a crime of passion, according to Sherlock. The passion being directed to absolute fury. In his words, "Love is a vicious motivator." John didn't question him, though he did wish to ask how and when tall detective had come to this conclusion. Instead, he kept silent as Sherlock continued his deductions.

"Not the classic weapon of choice; the murderer used a knife, instead of the usual blunt object. Normally, for this type of motive, it would be more satisfying to repeatedly whack the object of frustration. Or, in this case, the person."

"So the murderer preferred to butcher their victims." Detective Inspector Lestrade noted. The man already looked exhausted, though it could have been because of the late hour. His grey hair was sticking up in different directions from when he ran his hand over his head upon arriving at the scene.

"No, not butcher. That implies there was even the tiniest level of skill dealing with the bladed weapon." Sherlock corrected. "This was no professional. And it was a kitchen knife. Serrated edge." He leaned closer to the bloody mess that was one of the bodies. "Quite possibly a bread knife, actually."

"A bread knife?" John asked.

"First thing on hand." Sherlock explained. "He didn't even take the time to grab a good one out of the holder." He paused for a moment. "If you look in the kitchen, you'll probably find a fresh loaf. Made yesterday, but not covered due to the fact the baker was sliced into ribbons before she could." He vaguely gestured to the corpse.

Lestrade peaked through one of the doors to where John presumed was the kitchen. "Yeah, there's a loaf of bread in here. Actually, two."

"How did you know?" John asked.

Sherlock pointed. "It's quite obvious. She still has flour on her jeans, and some underneath the strap of her watch. The muscles of her wrist are toned due to a repeated twisting movement used for a select few things. Add that to the flour, and it matches up with the kneading of dough."

"So… she baked her own bread." Lestrade said. "How is that relevant?"

On came the long-winded explanation that John always tried to learn something from, even if he couldn't follow along with the lightning fast speech – as lightning fast was Sherlock's only speed when in what John had dubbed in his mind as "deduction-mode". This time he learned that serrated edged knives tear the skin unless used with a sawing motion and the knife kept sharp. (And even then, the cut was rarely smooth on anything. It just appeared so on bread due to its porous composition.) The murder weapon was neither, as Sherlock went on to expose. It was especially unpleasant when Sherlock decided to not only gesture to what he was speaking, but manipulate the torn tissue to get his point across. By the end, Lestrade looked rather green, and John was feeling similar. But Sherlock didn't notice, only leaving with a swirl of his Belstaff and without a single farewell.

Once John got outside – after removing the blue suit and shoe covers that the Medical-Examiner-that-wasn't-Anderson had insisted he wear – he looked around, and couldn't find Sherlock anywhere. It looked as if Sherlock had just left without him. Again. It hadn't happened in a while, and John had been beginning to hope that they were past that. Apparently not.

He sighed deeply in both annoyance and resignation before heading toward a road he knew would more easily get him a taxi.

Upon arriving back at 221B, John entered an empty flat. Completely empty. Well... empty of human life. It was still full of clutter, every available space stashed with paper that probably lost its importance some time ago, or knick-knacks that were beginning to accumulate between the two flatmates. John looked through the rest of his living space, and Sherlock's bedroom door was open enough that John could tell he wasn't in there. So where had the Consulting Detective vanished off to?

A part of John was worried, but he reasoned that Mycroft Holmes probably had a good eye on Sherlock. All of that stalking and security camera manipulation had to be good for something. Though why his voice of reason was pointing this fact out as positive, John would never know.

Just as he was trying to decide between staying up and waiting for Sherlock to return or going to bed, as it was late, his thoughts were interrupted by the front door opening and then closing. He heard someone mounting the steps, and looked out of the door to the flat to see Sherlock climbing up to the landing. Once the Consulting Detective reached it, he walked into the sitting room without a single hesitation in pushing past John to set down the box he was holding.

The cardboard container in his hands was absolutely filthy, covered in mud and smelling of something worse. John put a hand over his nose. "What is that?"

"I thought it was quite obvious." Sherlock didn't look at him, instead grabbing the lid and pulling it off.

A sound then met John's ears. Tiny little squeals of something that made his heart instantly melt. But it also sounded distressed. Confused beyond any form of understanding, John just watched as Sherlock reached into the cardboard box and pulled out a tiny creature.

The poor thing was filthy. A tiny kitten, that was probably a midnight black when its fur wasn't clotted with dirt, sat in the palm of the detective's hand. "Hold this." Sherlock passed the animal to John, who took it carefully, very aware of its age; too young to be able to open its eyes yet.

"Sherlock, where—"

"And this one." The tall man passed John another tiny kitten, this one slightly larger, but of a dull, brown color. He then hefted three in his own long fingers and carried them away. Unsure of what else to do with the squirming fur in his hands, John followed.

Sherlock placed the kittens he was holding in the sink, then wordlessly took John's away and put them there as well. He moved the faucet to the side of the bowl and turned on the water. He adjusted the temperature to a comfortable heat and placed the plug over the drain, gently nudging the tiny kittens out of the way.

John just stared.

Sherlock removed his coat after reaching into the front pocket and taking out a small bottle of a clear liquid. John caught the label; gentle cat shampoo. The taller man removed his watch and rolled up his sleeves a little more than they already were before turning off the water. "Are you just going to stand there being useless?"

John blinked. "Did you…?"

"Get rid of the box. It's smells horrible." Sherlock ordered before the doctor could form a solid thought.

John couldn't find it in himself to disagree, especially when he went back into the room where the cardboard carriage was present. The stench was indeed terrible, and he practically held his breath as he went all of the way outside to throw it into a bin.

By the time he got back up the stairs, Sherlock had grabbed a bath towel and had it resting on the counter. "Ah, John. In my room there is a basket just next to the door. On your right. Empty the contents onto my bed and bring it here?"

This time it sounded more like a request, so John had no trouble obliging. Though the basket was full of a bunch of odd things; at least four of Lestrade's ID badges, a large handful of paper cranes (John had no idea Sherlock was interested in Origami), a golden wristwatch, and a few coins. As directed, John dumped the entire thing out onto Sherlock's perfectly made bed and returned to the kitchen with the empty woven wicker basket.

"Now what?" John asked, unsure of how to proceed.

"Put a pillow inside or something." Sherlock suggested, toweling off a kitten.

John took a moment to appreciate the adorable scene before walking out to the sitting room in an attempt to find a pillow that would suit the basket. Seeing none available, he grabbed a throw blanket from the pile next to the sofa and placed it in the bottom of the new kitten container.

As soon as John was back in the kitchen, Sherlock was in front of him, gently setting a clean, orange kitten inside of the basket still in his arms. John adjusted slightly for the tiny bit of extra weight before setting the basket down on a chair, as the table was still cluttered with the remains of whatever experiment Sherlock had been working on the previous day.

Sherlock was bent over the soft brown kitten John assumed he had been handed earlier, its fur spiky and wet. But Sherlock gently brushed and dabbed the towel on the kitten's poor, shaking body in an attempt to dry the creature. It was so precious, seeing Sherlock's laser focus. And when John was finally still enough to pay attention, he heard Sherlock whispering quietly. His deep baritone lifted into a comforting lilt, and there were a few clicks John assumed Sherlock made with his tongue. A few seconds later, Sherlock grabbed the kitten and placed it into the basket by the other.

He did this with each individual kitten. There were five. Two a soft, deep brown. One a bright orange. One completely black. And one that was a smoky grey.

"Where…" John trailed off, uncertain if he really wanted to ask. But then he nodded, deciding he should know. "Where did you get kittens?"

Sherlock looked up at John for the first time since returning to the flat, though it was through his dark, hanging curls as he was still bent over the basket. "You know how it is; the mother dies, the original owner can't take care of them, they get put in a box and left at a busy corner of some street." He said this with such a tiny twinge of bitterness that John wasn't sure whether or not he'd actually heard it, or just imagined it.

"So you, what, pick up the box and bring it home?" John asked.

"Precisely." Sherlock confirmed, grabbing the basket and taking it out in front of the fire place. The Consulting Detective then began to place logs haphazardly into their spot.

John stopped him. "Let me do it."

Sherlock looked offended. "I'm perfectly capable of—"

"They are your kittens. Take care of them, and I'll get the fire started." John interrupted. And as Sherlock moved to do just that, John took a moment to fully comprehend what he had just said. All of the events in his life before that moment… all of them led up to him talking to Sherlock Holmes about making sure his kittens were sorted.

Shaking himself of the absolute bizarreness of the situation, John attempted to move on and do as promised; start a fire.

Sherlock had gone to the microwave, removed the jar of eyeballs, and replaced it with a heating pad John used for cramps in his shoulder; it still bothered the army doctor on stormy days. Once heated, Sherlock placed it underneath the first fold of the blanket inside of the basket. Then he thought of what to do next, briefly slipping into his memory for any form of reference.

And in consequence, he was absolutely horrified; there wasn't a single whisper of information on raising kittens in the entire expanses of his mind palace. He whipped out his mobile and did a quick search on the internet. He compared sources and looked at official websites as he scoured the web to find conclusive data and advice on how to raise orphaned kittens. The information it did give had him sighing deeply. This was going to be so inconvenient.

But as Sherlock peeked into the wicker basket of five infant felines that were climbing over each other to snuggle against the warmth of the heating pad, his determination solidified.

He was going to raise kittens.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you liked it! If not, then... no one is keeping you here.

Who do you want the kittens of 221B to interact with? Please let me know! I'll take it as inspiration at least.

Catch you later