A/N – My brain is fried and this is what happened. I'm looking at you ScopesMonkey!

Fluffy

John ran down the short hallway, the receptionist's words echoing in his mind: "There was blood all over his hands so Dr. Andrews-"

John hadn't heard the rest. He'd just pushed through the glass doors and raced down the hallway toward Dr. Andrew's office. He slipped on the floor, managing to right himself by grabbing the door handle.

He didn't bother to knock.

Sherlock was sitting in one of the patient chairs, legs crossed, worrying his lower lip with his index finger and thumb. John looked at him for a second and then at Dr. Andrews. She was leaning against her examination table, magnifying lens in hand, looking at a tiny ball of white fur. John could see places where the fur looked like it was matted together with blood.

"What..." he started, the adrenaline and fear catching up with him in a wave and taking his breath away. Both Dr. Andrews and Sherlock turned at the sound of his voice. She offered a quick smile before turning back to her patient and Sherlock looked absolutely distraught. The grey eyes were rimmed with red and he looked on the verge of tears.

John closed the distance between them, the anger at being scared out of his mind abating as quickly as it had come. He stopped next to Sherlock's chair and his husband wrapped his long arms around John's thighs and buried his face against the doctor's stomach.

John glanced back at Dr. Andrews and saw the smirk appear on her face but she didn't turn away. He saw the tools necessary for stitches next to her, along with a spent syringe. He assumed she had sedated it and vaguely wondered how she knew what dosage to use before he turned his attention back to Sherlock. He buried his fingers in the dark curls and dragged his nails across his husband's scalp. It was Sherlock's favourite comforting gesture.

"Is this why the milk's been disappearing and why you were suddenly so keen on my buying canned tuna?"

After a long second Sherlock nodded but didn't remove his face from against the soft material of John's work shirt. John traced a thumb over an ear and felt a mild shudder in response. He smiled as the arms tightened around his thighs and looked back to Dr. Andrews.

"Little lady was in a street fight. Somebody bigger and stronger if the marks are any indication."

"It's a he," Sherlock mumbled into John's stomach and Dr. Andrews looked over. John watched a gloved hand press gently between the back legs and she shook her head.

"She checked, Sherlock. It's a girl - no testicles." He felt the frown mentally more than physically but after a second his husband nodded. John guessed that he was evaluating whether or not this revelation changed his affection for the small creature. Apparently not.

"All of the scratches are fairly superficial," Dr. Andrews said. "I'm going to stitch up the ones on her side here and the one under her ear, but she should be fine. We'll get her some antibiotics and I'd recommend seeing a vet in the next few days but everything looks pretty straightforward."

There was a definite release of tension against him and John moved his hands, placing a thumb on either side of Sherlock's jaw. He pushed gently and Sherlock raised his head. John looked down and met the grey eyes.

"Why didn't you just bring her inside?" John asked with no real accusation. A line formed between the detective's eyebrows and he shook his head.

"You don't like cats," he answered simply. John nodded; that was true - but he didn't exactly wish kittens death on the mean streets of London either. "Neither do I," the detective added.

"Obviously," John said, offering his husband a kind smile. He dragged his thumb over the bridge of Sherlock's nose and pushed the wrinkle away. "We can try and find her a good home though." Sherlock tensed again and John sighed internally, mentally accepting the fact that he was now the owner of a cat. A fluffy white one, with a lot of fur that would have to be hoovered constantly.

"Fine," he said, preparing to tell his husband it was okay to keep the kitten, when Sherlock chimed in with a much more acceptable answer.

"Mrs. Hudson likes cats. She always talks about getting one."

John leaned down and placed a quick kiss on his husband's forehead.

"Sometimes you really are a genius, Mr. Holmes," he whispered as Sherlock buried his face against John's stomach again.