"Most cats, when they are out want to be in, and visa versa, and often simultaneously." - Louis J. Camuti

One morning, John awoke with a lead brick in the pit of his stomach. Without really thinking about it, he glanced over at yesterday's clothes. No cat. Well, that was fine. He didn't get out of bed just yet: just laid there staring at the cracks in the ceiling above his bed. How was it that, even in his sleep, first thing in the bloody morning, his entire being knew what day it was? Three years. It had been three years as of today. He groaned to himself and started to get out of bed, before realizing that there was a warm lump settled on top of the blanket between his legs. So he hadn't abandoned him after all. Feeling a little silly, he reached down to scratch the cat gratefully between his shoulder blades. The cat responded with a soft chirrup and a relaxed yawn, then rose to press his head against John's palm. He smiled a bit and scratched his ears. "Thanks."

Time to face the day. John pushed back the covers and went through his morning routine. It was only a little difficult to fight the urge to stay in the shower all day, hiding in the steam that filled the room. No. This would be the year that he would stop letting the day keep him locked up in his flat. Last year had been a valiant effort—he'd gotten halfway down the block before a tall thin man in a swishy coat sent him running back to the lonely safety of his own flat—but this year he would get all the way to work. He started his tea. Yes, he would get all the way to work, and he would work all day and if Molly or Greg called him then he would go out with them and pretend that it was just a normal day. If no one called him—which was fine, just fine—he would come home after work, have a beer (two, at the absolute maximum), and watch telly with Sher—with the cat until a reasonable hour of the night, at which point he would go to bed. It would be just like all the other days. With that, John set about preparing the cat food like always.

The cat was not interested. He glanced at the dish for a moment, then meowed plaintively up at John. John leaned down to pick him up for a moment, pressing his face to the top of his head. He would allow himself this one indulgence, and it would get him through the day. The cat purred, and John found himself grateful once again that the furball had followed him home that day so many months ago. He put him down on the chair. "I'll be back later." He wasn't sure why, but it felt like he needed to reassure the cat of his continued existence.

John headed to the door, and from downstairs he could hear his neighbor and Maggie coming in from outside. It happened in a matter a seconds. As soon as he opened his door, Sherlock leapt down off of the chair and dashed outside and down the stairs. In a moment, he heard Maggie snarling and snapping, despite her owner's attempts at controlling her. By the time John had made his way downstairs, the cat had apparently disappeared out the door. He didn't have time for this. By God, as much as he loved that cat, he...didn't have time for this. The neighbor looked at him in confusion. "My cat," he offered, noting over her shoulder that the gate was open. Bloody brilliant.

Panic rose in him as a few quick sweeps around the yard did not reveal the cat. He couldn't have gotten far: he'd only been gone a few seconds! John stared helplessly down the street (first one way, then the other). He absolutely could not go looking for that cat, not if he wanted to keep his job. He was just coming off of the probationary period and he'd already been late a handful of times this month, and had gotten a precautionary memo from the director last week. Before he knew what he was doing, his mobile was out, and he was ringing Molly's number.

"Sherlock's gone," John blurted out as soon as she'd picked up the other end. There was a pause, and John could all but hear her trying to formulate a logical but supportive response. Yes, John. We remember. You can get through this day just like the rest of us. He scoffed in frustration. "The cat, Molly. He's just run out. I have no idea where he went, but I have to go to work or I'm going to get fired and then I won't have money for rent and...Christ." He pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay. Don't worry, John. He survived on his own before he found you, so I'm sure he'll be fine for the afternoon. Loads of cats are outdoor cats. But here, if it makes you feel better, I've got the day off. You go to work, and I'll be over in a bit to look for him. I'm sure he'll be home before you, even."

It was easy to let himself believe Molly. She was right, after all. The cat had managed on his own for at least a few hours before following him indoors. It would be fine for today. John drew in a shaky breath and raised his arm to hail the cab that was coming at him. They so rarely passed by this way, since he was so far out of the city, but maybe today he would catch a break. He slid into the comfortable interior and gave his destination, watching all the while for a streak of black fur to dash down the block.

He was distracted all day, but at least it was about his cat, he told himself, and not his long-dead flatmate. Granted, it was still probably really strange for a man of his age to be so concerned about a cat (not even a dog, which were supposedly man's best friends, but an arrogant, aloof old cat!), but it was far more understandable than the alternative. When the endless day finally drew to a close (without anyone asking him to cover the rest of their shift or pull a double: would miracles never cease?), John dashed out of the building and hailed another cab. Usually he walked home, since cabs could get so expensive so quickly, but now he just wanted to get there as quickly as he could. Molly hadn't texted him any good news, but, he told himself, at least that meant she hadn't texted him any bad news.

The cab dropped him off in front of his building and he ran up the stairs, the constant ache in his leg completely forgotten in his haste. His flat was empty—of course. Molly would be out looking for the cat. That, or she'd given up looking and had gone home. He allowed himself a moment, standing forlornly in the middle of the room and staring blankly at the scratching post slash climbing tower, to feel the day's losses, harsh and stinging somewhere inside him. "Why today?" he asked the air, and the pathetic sound of his voice was enough to motivate him to keep moving. Today, though, of all days for that bloody cat to start running about again. Earlier that morning, it had seemed he'd understood the significance of the day, but that, of course, had been ridiculous. Sentiment. John could almost hear his old flatmate spitting the word with disgust. He was a cat, that's all. A cat with an interesting and charming personality, granted, but a cat all the same.

Still, he was John's damn cat, and this was where he belonged, not out there on the street. John took out his mobile to send Molly a request for any updates, rushing back down the stairs. When he threw open the door to the outside, he nearly barrelled right into someone on the other side. He was facing away from John, looking out into the street, and John saw a cab idling a few doors down.

"Can I help you?" he asked, a bit too impatiently. If his neighbor had ordered a cab, she'd better get out here already: John had other things to do. The cabbie turned around slowly, and it took only a second for John to recognize the bundle in his arms. "My cat!"

"He had this address on his collar," the man offered in a deep voice, strangely accented. "I feel terrible. He just ran out in front of me..." He offered John the lifeless body, but John couldn't take him. Instead, he studied the man's face. Most of it was hidden—his collar was turned up against the cold, and a hat was pulled down low around his ears and forehead. An odd patchy beard covered the lower half of his face. It was all John could do to keep from laying him out right there, but he drew in a few steadying breaths. It wasn't as though he'd done it on purpose. His eyes quickly scanned the rest of the man's body. His coat was clearly secondhand: ripped in several places and hastily repaired. His jeans were similarly worn, with one hole across most of the left knee that had obviously defied several attempts at patching. There was a very slight bulge at the man's hip, and John recognized it as a concealed weapon. Well. As long as he didn't reach for that gun too quickly, neither man would be in any danger. Finally, John eased the cat out of the man's arms.

Sherlock was still warm, but already long gone. John could just tell. Luckily, he wasn't too gory, but most of the ribs on one side were broken and even his fur seemed dull now. John resisted the urge to bury his face in the cat's neck. He knew how it must look—a grown man reduced to tears by the loss of a pet cat—but he couldn't bring himself to care. This was just the last straw, that's all. Today of all goddamn bloody days to add to the loss in his life. "Oh, Sherlock..." he managed mournfully. The cabbie seemed startled.

"Sherlock? Wasn't that the name of that fake detective nutter a few years ago?"

For a moment, John felt an expanding sense of peace. He was almost zenlike as he looked up, searching the man's face to determine whether he was serious. When he realized that he was, in fact, quite serious, the zenlike state deepened as he shifted his cat into just one arm, freeing the other to pull back and release a fierce left hook. He paused for just a moment as he locked eyes with the man in the doorway—silver-blue-green eyes that were hauntingly, painfully familiar. Fist still suspended in the air, he froze. "Sherlock?"

The cabbie doffed his cap almost sheepishly. "It's me, John."

John hesitated for only a moment before deciding to allow his fist to continue through the air. It connected solidly with an overly-angular cheekbone before the world went black.

"What's going on? Who are you? John?" Molly's voice sounded very far away, and perhaps as though it were traveling through a swimming pool full of jelly. John fought to open his eyes, and found that he was propped up against the wall near the doorway. He had fainted. How embarrassing. He groaned even as Molly pushed past the cabbie—Sherlock—who was pressing a hand to the side of his face. "Oh no! Sherlock! What happened?" The cat was lying in an undignified heap on the ground where John had dropped him. Guilt flooded him at the cat's mistreatment, though the rational part of his brain knew that it didn't matter to him anymore.

The cabbie started to answer before either man realized that Molly was, in fact, talking to John. She gave the taller man a strange look.

"He ran out in front of a cab," John answered quietly. "He's gone."

Molly crouched near John and the cat, scooping the latter into her arms. "John, I'm so sorry," she said, and her voice broke. "So sorry..." She pressed her forehead to the cat's side before returning her attention to John. "What happened to you? Are you alright?"

"He just experienced a short occurance of vasovagal syncope," the cabbie assured her. He sounded bored. "On the other hand, it's quite possible that he's fractured my eye socket."

"John." Her voice was reproachful, but also colored with understanding. "I'm sure he didn't mean to do it—"

"That's Sherlock!" he exploded, raising an arm to indicate the man still towering over the two of them. John watched her look down at the cat, confused for a moment, before following his arm up to the cabbie. She didn't seem nearly as surprised as she should have been.

"Facial hair doesn't work for you," she decided. John's head was starting to spin again.

"I think we've got a bit of explaining to do..." Molly murmured, rising to her feet and offering John her hand. "But first, maybe...a little ceremony?"

John braced himself for a derisive snort from the cabbie—from the human Sherlock—but nothing came. Instead, the unlikely trio made their way up to John's flat. He dug through his closet until he found what he was looking for—a rather large wooden box that had once contained his grandfather's, and then his father's, and then his own shoe-shining kit. He dumped the contents onto the floor while the other two looked on, and then grabbed a towel from the clean stack above him. After lining the box (and mentally daring Sherlock to make an insensitive comment), he took his cat back from Molly and eased him inside.

He led the other two back down the stairs and out into the tiny yard. A shovel stood propped against the side of the building and John found himself thankful for the relatively warm temperatures that afternoon, which had left the ground wet and muddy instead of frozen solid. He handed the box to Molly and began digging near the fence, where he had first "met" the cat. He dug deep enough to keep from attracting the dog's attention when nature began to take its course, and eased the box down into the ground. When it was in position, he knelt despite the pain in his leg. He didn't exactly want the other two to hear his words: they were for Sherlock-the-cat and no one else.

"You were...a cat," John began awkwardly. He wasn't entirely comfortable, wasn't sure what to say. The words had come much easier standing at his flatmate's grave. Of course, he'd been alone then. "A good cat. I guess it seems like you found me when I needed you. I thought maybe you needed me to save you from that slobbering beast, but I guess we both know that's not true, huh?" He snorted. "I was so alone, and I think maybe you knew that, didn't you?" God, he was just daring Sherlock to say something snarky, but nothing came. Thankfully. He cleared his throat. "And then you brought the other Sherlock back to me, and for that, I am so grateful. So...thank you. I'm not going to forget you, and, ah... I don't know, if there's a cat heaven or something out there, I hope you find it to your liking..."

Weak. John knew he was finished speaking, but stayed in place next to the small grave. Molly stepped closer and took the shovel from him to fill the hole gently with dirt. She said nothing, but she didn't really have to. Not yet, anyway. John would have hundreds, maybe thousands of questions for her in the very near future, but for now he was simply mourning the loss of his small friend.

A thin, scarred hand reached down, offering support, and John slid his hand (filthy now, and aching from the cold) into it. The taller man offered a supportive squeeze, and the three of them stood silently next to the small mound of dirt. One of them was remembering dark alleys and exotic locations and blood—and so much blood. One of them was remember the smaller, weaker person she'd once been and the two cats now which she had lost. The third was remembering a brilliant and mysterious cat and squeezing the hand of a brilliant and mysterious man as though afraid that he would disappear back into the shadows.