Chapter 1

Sherlock raised his dark head from where he lay on the sofa as the man entered the room, looking for all the world as if he had been there for hours. Madame Hudson knew he liked to make a mess with the paints, but he doubted she realised that the violin playing was him.

So what if he was a cat? Did that mean he couldn't play the violin? The man who had just come in with a laden tray would certainly assume so; but then he was very dull.

Snanderson. The sole redeeming feature of that man, thought Sherlock, was that at least he could cook. Sort of.

He pointedly turned his head away from the man as he set down the tray, scowled in Sherlock's general direction and swiftly left to get on with other things. Why would Sherlock want to look at him after all? Humans were supposed to be smart weren't they?

But then Snanderson was hardly an exception he thought as he heard that ridiculous lawyer of Madame Hudson's tumbling his way up the driveway.

He stood up, stretched, and leapt down from his perch on the sofa, stalking over to the creamy mixture that Snanderson had prepared for his dinner, before turning away in disgust and walking straight out the door.

Upstairs meanwhile, Georges Hautecourt had finally finished dancing with Madame Hudson and was getting out papers and discussing the old lady's will.

"So you want to leave everything to Snanderson? Stocks, shares, the house, everything?" He questioned.

"Oh no! No! No!" She cried jovially, "I want to leave everything to my beloved cat Sherlock of course; poor dear can't look after himself at all! I wish for Snanderson to continue taking care of him and then when my dear Sherlock ends his days, then Snanderson will inherit everything."

At the same time in the basement, Snanderson was doing his laundry when he heard voices through the speaking tube. To say that he was angry was an understatement. After all the hard work he had put in, all the years of faithful service he had put in for the old bat, she was going to overlook him! For a cat no less! Not just any cat either, no.

He had never told anyone because he knew how it would sound. He knew they would just look at him strangely if he was lucky, if not then an early retirement would be in order perhaps, maybe in a lovely padded room, but he knew something was up with that cat. It was not normal, the way it looked like him with those too smart eyes. Like the damn thing was analysing him, like it KNEW what he was thinking.

They hated each other and they knew it.

His nemesis was a cat. Outstanding.

Well he sure as hell wasn't going to lose. No, he would get Sherlock out of the way, in a less than pleasant fashion, and then it would all be his.

"Muah hahahahahahahahhah- Oh that muther f*!#er!" For Snanderson had just unveiled the next painstakingly cleaned shirt out to iron, only to have a cat turd roll out onto his feet.

"Tomorrow. Tomorrow that furry git is GONE."