John sometimes thought of Sherlock as a cat. The way he moved, and how he treated people. He had once come home to find the man laid on the couch in much the same fashion as a sun bathing cat would. Sherlock was a cat in his own way. His dress also showed this. John had a cat on his hands he knew. The grooming, sleeping, eating and the eerie way Sherlock chased criminals. John remembered watching his aunt's cat chase mice it went up and over done and under to get it. Same thing Sherlock did. Sherlock was always somewhere high you could count on that. John had forgotten how many times he had to look up for the man.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

It had been one of those lazy days for both of them. The sort of day where Sherlock would actually nod off on the couch and wasn't complaining. He had even eaten a bit of food if only to shut the blonde up.

"You remind me of a cat." John said. The dark haired man made a face.

"You do. You sleep at odd times; you're up for a better part of the night. You treat people like a cat would. Rub them up because you want something and then once you've gotten it you're gone. A cat baths itself near constantly and you wear your suits nearly just as long. Yesterday I came home and found you stretched out on the floor sun bathing." John explained.

"So by this I'm considered a cat?"

John nods.

"John stop talking to Anderson. You've gone daft." Sherlock rolls over and goes back to his sleep.