Sherlock's Cat

It's unbeta'd so feel free to point out any errors :]

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; ACD, Gatiss and Moffat do.

"There's a cat in the dishes- it's licking them!" Sherlock is gazing into a microscope slowly shifting a slide beneath it. Coming home from the practice to his plates being licked by a cat is not what John had wanted from his evening.

Without looking away from the microscope, "Your deductive prowess continues to grow."

"Sherlock, why is there a cat licking our dishes?"

"I suspect he's hungry," Sherlock quips.

"WHY ARE YOU LETTING IT?" There was only so much apathy John could take from Sherlock before he burst.

"Because he allows me to do experiments in peace," irritation was creeping into Sherlock's voice; John's cue to calm down or put up with five-year-old Sherlock.

"How did it even get in?" he asked, strategically replacing his anger with confusion.

"He was pawing at the window. It was distracting so I let him in."

"Sherlock, you can't just let stray animals into the flat."

"I don't see why not. He's hungry I'm not. He eats the food I leave before it goes rotten. And he makes less of a fuss about it than you."

"It's been in here before?"

"Of course he has. He's a stray cat. They don't just paw at first floor windows."

"Then why is it in here?"

"I trained him," he almost sounds proud.

"You what?"

"John, I've already explained to you. I know you aren't as intelligent as me, but I thought you'd be able to grasp this faster than he," Sherlock waves a hand at the cat, "did."

John rubs his face resisting the urge to bash Sherlock over the head with the microscope that he insists on continuing to look into. "IT'S LICKING MY MUG!" he dives for his mug sending the cat skittering across the room and under the sofa.

Sherlock sighs, "You've upset him now. He's not going to come out."

"Sherlock, some diseased alley cat was licking my mug and you're worried about its feelings?" Something flickers across Sherlock's face as if considering how angry to get, but it passes in less than a moment. John falls silent knowing he's hit upon something more than a cat in the dishes, but of course he also knows Sherlock isn't going to outpour his emotions. He steps across the kitchen to search in various cupboards until he finds a tin of tuna, which he empties into a bowl and places in front of the sofa on his way out of the door. There was only so much of Sherlock he could take before he needed a stiff drink.

John's second homecoming of the night is greeted with screeching violin strings. He pulls the door shut behind him and lurches up the stairs. He stops on the landing and glares in at Sherlock.

"Did you get rid of the cat?" No answer. The bowl of tuna is still on the floor, the window still open.

John jolts out of an uneasy dream to the noise of 221b's doorbell. Sherlock's voice drifts up from the hall sending a ripple of anger through John. A stray cat and, he looks at the clock, a four o'clock wake up call were making this a why the hell do I live with him? day. The voices stop moments before the door slams shut.

John stares at the ceiling. Wide awake. Obviously he wasn't getting enough sleep tonight. He flicks his legs out of the bed and tip toes down the stairs in a feeble attempt to gain the element of surprise.

Sherlock's on the sofa eating some sort of noodle out of a carton. Of course. Sherlock had felt the need to order take out in the dead of the night. He couldn't just find something in the fridge; He had to wake up at least three people. For some noodles. John's about to repeat this aloud when he notices the second bowl, the cat eating out if it and the conversation Sherlock appears to be having with aforementioned cat.

"No, no of course John couldn't understand. Not without- " the cat looks up at Sherlock as if interrupting him gently. "Done already?" Sherlock fishes a noodle out of the carton and dangles it in front of the cat, "still hungry?" The cat noses it politely before looking up at Sherlock. He smiles sadly before rising and crossing to the still opened window. He raps the glass twice with his knuckles and the cat jumps off the table, across the room and into the night. Sherlock splays his hand on the glass and stays at the window, watching.

John doesn't move. Doesn't speak. He wants to ask what he just saw, but… he probably wasn't meant to see it at all.

Sherlock's voice breaks the silence, "He kept me company," a pause, "before you did." In a flash John's brain re-colours the events of earlier and guilt washes through him. He opens his mouth, "No need," Sherlock interrupts his apology before he'd even started it, "you couldn't possibly have deduced it." Sherlock walks across the room, an artificial bounce added to his step. He picks up the bowl of tuna and shakes it into the bin. Chuckles, "He never liked tuna," he flicks a finger to the cartons, "but Malaysian brought him running."

A week had passed along with two cases and in the now 'peaceful' lull Sherlock is contentedly reading the morning papers. John is typing up the last week's escapades. There is a faint meow and an insistent pawing on the window.

Sherlock looks at the cat, looks at John and begins studiously ignoring the muffled sounds. John looks at Sherlock, looks at the cat… and feels a tug. He stands and crosses the room to open the window. Sherlock looks up at John anticipation written through his eyes, you mean we can keep him?

Sherlock's cat drops into the flat, trots across the rooms and hops into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock resists the urge to burst into a grin, but his lips quirk nonetheless.

John sits again and begins typing, "You have to get him his own bow-"

"The chipped green one. You never liked it anyway."

"And if he so much as-"

"House trained."

"Does he have a name?" John asks with a smirk.

"Don't be ridiculous, John."