Chapter 4 - 221B Paw Stories

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 4

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… and You for Me

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Sherlock wasn't pleased at all – and that was an understatement. Since the last time John had transformed into a manul, he'd been positively avoiding Sherlock and even the flat in general. He took more hours at the clinic and was spending most nights out, often his new girlfriend's place. He'd been very quick in dating that one, Sherlock noticed – but he didn't look further into it. Maggie. What a dull, trite name.

Of course he would always come right away if Sherlock asked, but if it wasn't truly important, he would leave just as soon, having done whatever Sherlock had called him for. He was still the faithful friend and blogger, watching his back during chases and helping him insofar as he was able during cases. Yet something was different. Sherlock couldn't help but note that John avoided all body contact and jolted dramatically every time their hands accidentally brushed, every time they bumped into each other. It annoyed Sherlock to no end – especially since John did not react that way when they were on a chase or when the detective was in some immediate danger. He would still jump and push him away to safety, but would recoil just as quickly.

Sherlock couldn't quite fathom why John should be so upset with him. On the contrary, he'd acted like the perfect friend the last time John had transformed, hadn't he? He had made breakfast, had been considerate all day long, had helped him go on the internet by scrolling down the pages for him – and now he'd even ordered a special keyboard with larger keys, so the next time he turned into a manul he'd still be able to type up his blog. Or to learn how to with paws, anyway. Now Sherlock wondered if it'd be of any use at all, considering how evasive John had become lately. He'd hidden the keyboard in his room, not sure what to do with it, and had decided to let it go unmentioned.

Unmentioned. That word perfectly fit what their relationship had become. They had lost the comfortable intimacy they'd shared so easily from their first days together. There was no connivence left. John was always jumpy. Even when they spent time together, which was unavoidable, Sherlock could sense that he was on his guard – his stance military, almost self-restrained. Naturally, he'd tried confronting him about it, but to no avail.

"You're avoiding me."

"No I'm not."

"You try to stay away from 221B as much as you can. You start like an idiot every time we inadvertently touch. You–"

"That's not true! I just want to spend time with Maggie. That's only–"

"Natural? And more hours at the clinic is also natural?"

At this point John had got up, rolling his eyes, and gone to make some tea, putting an end to the discussion. Sherlock had tried to address the issue several times since, always with as little result.

Then the Union Jack pillow had disappeared, and he'd finally understood.

"You're upset about that night we spent together on the couch," he'd said, completely oblivious to the fact that Maggie was also in the room. John had invited her for tea, because they'd been strolling and it'd started raining when they weren't too far from 221B. She had insisted on coming up to the flat to meet Sherlock. Obviously, she had regretted it greatly. John had glared and snapped.

"I have no idea where that cushion went. And please stop being so damn suggestive, Sherlock!" Then, turning to Maggie, somewhat panicked: "Nothing like that happened between us. He's just..."

Fortunately (for John anyway), she had laughed it off. Sherlock hadn't.

Today, he was determined to discuss the matter with John properly. This just couldn't go on.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Today, John was determined to see Sherlock as little as possible. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and he felt guilty enough knowing he'd be leaving Sherlock alone while he spent it with Maggie. He had told his flatmate already, but since there had been no reaction, he'd concluded that Sherlock either didn't care as much as he thought or that he hadn't been paying attention. Either way, there was no going back. Everything was planned and Maggie had just told John by text that she'd already got a goose from her sister who lived in the countryside and was preparing it for dinner.

When John opened the door to 221B, he prayed that Sherlock would be away on a case. He well aware that it was wishful thinking: Sherlock would've definitely told him if he'd been onto something. But not today. John couldn't believe he actually felt depressed about not spending Christmas with his flatmate – his bloody male flatmate – when a beautiful young woman was presently cooking for him, excitedly awaiting his arrival. He shook his head as he closed the door behind himself to be greeted by a silent staircase. Even Mrs. Hudson was spending Christmas at her sister's this year, and Lestrade with his new wife in Italy – it was also their honeymoon, John recalled. This meant Sherlock would really be alone. But hadn't he always been?

The doctor frowned, trying to dispel his guilt. It should be none of his concern, if his flatmate decided to spend Christmas alone instead of with his family or a partner. Ignoring the little voice in his head that said but you're his partner, John walked up the steps and sighed as he saw that a light was on in their living-room. So Sherlock was there after all. There would be no avoiding the confrontation.

Again, a wave of guilt washed over John. He knew he was being a twat. A very selfish one, to boot. But ever since the last time he'd transformed into a stupid cat – and God how he feared it would happen when he was with Maggie – he'd obviously tried to distance himself as much as he could from Sherlock. He wasn't mad at him, he was rather mad at himself for indulging in the cuddling, the sleeping-together, and the pampering. He'd enjoyed it. A lot. Too much. And it had scared the hell out of him.

Hence the sudden distancing attempt – the new girlfriend, the increase in work at the clinic, and all his other smaller avoidances. Sherlock disapproved, and John knew it. The detective was quite possessive: whatever he fancied, he wanted to monopolize. But John also knew he shouldn't read anything more into it. He certainly wouldn't doubt his own sexuality just because Sherlock was playing around with him – not in a bad or cruel way, really, but like a child. Irresponsibly, and blissfully unconcerned.

John took a deep breath and entered the living-room. He froze. Sherlock was sitting, back to John, facing the windows and absorbed in the contemplation of an old battered hat that lay on the low table. It was snowing outside, and the room was grey and silent. John's heart clenched and he bit his lips as the loneliness radiating from the scene hit him. He felt the urge to run to Sherlock and hug him and say: "Merry Christmas!"

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

The deep baritone voice cut into John's thoughts and brought him back to reality. He shivered.

"No. Actually, I'm just popping in to get Maggie's present."

At this, Sherlock turned to him, and John couldn't determine if he looked more surprised, annoyed, or... disappointed.

"You're not staying here tonight?"

"I just told you. In fact, I told you last week," John said, walking to the kitchen and opening the cupboard to get the wine he'd bought in the morning. Sherlock followed him.

"But it's Christmas Eve."

"Exactly! Why are you so surprised that I'd spend it with my girlfriend?"

John bit his lip. He hadn't intended to snap. The whole thing just made him feel so guilty and he wanted nothing more than apologize and explain. But he couldn't. How could he possibly say it? "Sorry Sherlock, this whole tiger business has completely messed with my head. I loved the cuddling and I think I'm attracted to you." It made John feel like banging his head against the wall.

Sherlock remained silent, but stiffened perceptibly. He filled his gaze with a bored and contemptuous indifference; his shoulders slumped slightly.

"I'm not surprised. I just didn't remember you'd told me. Probably deleted it. Dull." He turned back to the hat, failing to meet John's eyes. The doctor felt even worse.

"Look, Sherlock..."

"No, stop right there," the detective interrupted, pointing his bow towards John's face – and only then did the doctor notice that Sherlock's violin was out of its case, lying on the sofa. "You're going to apologize and tell me to call Mycroft or – God forbid – Mummy so as not to spend Christmas alone. Let me assure you, you're the only one who finds it depressing. Well, maybe like all of the ordinary people out there. But I certainly don't. So off you go. I'll see you tomorrow."

He picked up the violin and was about to start playing when John interrupted in a falsely firm voice:

"I won't see you tomorrow. I'm staying with Maggie until the 27th. We're going to her sister's tomorrow, remember? I told you that, too."

From where he stood, John couldn't see his friend's expression; he was glad he couldn't. Pulling his gaze away, he walked to the door.

"I have my mobile, if you need anything..."

Sherlock scoffed, but didn't turn to him.

"Why would I need anything from you?"

It hurt, but John knew he deserved it. Clearly, both his attitude and now his running away were upsetting Sherlock. He pictured him in tiger form, and it was almost enough to make him drop the wine and offer to get some Chinese take-away. But he couldn't stand Maggie up now – and he wasn't gay, for God's sake! It must be the whole cat issue. Yes, he decided quickly, that was it. Except that it didn't make up for abandoning Sherlock on Christmas Eve.

But last year had been such a fiasco... John shook his head.

"No reason. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

He went up to his room to get the present and left 221B Baker Street to the sound of a violin melody. We wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, we wish you a merry Christmas, and a happy New Year!

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

When he was sure John was out of earshot, Sherlock dropped his act and put the instrument back into its case, giving in to his sulk. Now he knew how serious the matter truly was. If John considered him a threat to his sexuality and manliness or God knows what, he'd marry the first woman he'd meet – Maggie, perhaps – and leave 221B for good. Sherlock ignored the pang in his chest and frowned. He couldn't permit it.

The whole issue was ridiculous to begin with. Slumping back into his chair, he looked at the old hat morosely.

"You've been abandoned too, haven't you?" he said with a pout, poking it.

He'd been happy to get a case on Christmas. Lestrade was away on his honeymoon – the third one; when would he get it? – but Molly had called Sherlock this morning about a strange man who had bumped into her on the street, completely panicked, looking around for pursuers, leaving her with the Christmas goosehe was holding to run off in a hurry, his hat falling in the process without him noticing, or at least bothering to retrieve it. She had seen no pursuer and had found the matter so puzzling that she thought it might interest the detective. While she had him on the phone, she invited him over for Christmas dinner. She planned to cook the goose.

Sherlock had been befuddled at first, then somewhat touched. Then he had remembered the previous Christmas they'd shared and wondered if Molly would ever give up. She'd had a boyfriend or two this year, but ithad never become serious. In any case, Sherlock was to spend the evening and the night with John, so he had to decline. He realized now his tone must have been suggestive again, as John would put it, for she hadn't invited the both of them over, but had just wished him a merry Christmas. She had still come to give him the hat and even let him inspect the dead goose: nothing special, white with a black bar on its tail. Molly hadn't stayed long. Maybe he should have been a bit more welcoming. But then again, he wasn't interested in the slightest, even if he found Molly overly kind, funny and reliable. Moreover, John had told him not to get her hopes up if he didn't intend to have a proper relationship with her – at which point Sherlock had stared, eyes wide, until John had broken into a fit of giggles, realizing the absurdity of his remark. As if Sherlock would ever consider having a "proper relationship" with anyone.

He clicked his tongue, annoyed. What had he done wrong? Was John really upset about the waking up nude in his arms? He hadn't even been in his arms, he'd fallen off the couch. Sherlock's lips curved up at the memory. John had been so funny and adorable, even in human form. It'd been worth it, really.

Really? What if he leaves? His face fell. This was ridiculous. Why would John leave just because he couldn't deal with his own sexuality? On second thought, it seems to be a fairly common reason for ordinary people, Sherlock thought moodily. His brow clouded. What could he do? He didn't want to lose his only friend just because said friend didn't know how to cope with his hormonal needs.

But was that really all? John wasn't so young anymore. He might want to marry and build a family, and not spend his life stuck with a mad detective who almost had them blown up every once in a while. Sherlock pouted. Would his wife then see him in manul form too? What would she do? Would they cuddle?

He stood up abruptly, unnerved. This was absurd. And unfair. He had done nothing to deserve being left behind on Christmas Eve just because John was avoiding him. Sherlock didn't care about Christmas – at all. But John did. And the fact that he'd be ready to spend it with a woman he'd just met in order not to spend it with his flatmate was significant enough. Why did he have to burst into Sherlock's life if only to recoil and leave him shrouded in his solitude again?

Not that Sherlock needed John. He didn't need him at all. He'd just got used to his presence, which saturated the whole flat and seemed to follow him everywhere even when John wasn't by his side. He'd replaced the skull quite effectively indeed: he had got under Sherlock's skin even more thoroughly than his silent, grinning friend on the mantelpiece.

Shivering, Sherlock decided to light a fire. He went to change in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and came back to sit in front of the fireplace. It was still snowing outside, the air ringing with Christmas carols. He shrugged. The holiday made no difference to the Work. But he'd deduced everything he could from the old battered hat already, and could only wait until morning to continue his investigation of the man running wildly around London with a goose.

He lay down on the couch and wished John hadn't hidden – or even thrown away, perhaps – his Union Jack pillow. Sherlock liked it. He'd got it from one of his first clients. Furthermore, it now reminded him of John.

And why would I want to be reminded of John? he thought, confused. He blinked, then shrugged it off. It didn't matter. John was an idiot who didn't seem to be able to come to terms with himself. That's not true, and you know it. Sherlock frowned. Fine. If it only resulted in scaring John away, he'd stop the cuddling during transformation days, he'd try to limit physical contact as much as possible – but they never even touched much. What Sherlock missed most was the intimacy, the knowing smiles, the shared giggles, the banter, and the remaining 16 items on the list of What John Does That Is good. He couldn't have that with the skull.

Slowly, he drowsed off on the couch. There was nothing better to do.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Cheers!"

"Cheers! And a Merry Christmas!"

Glasses clinked against each other, and John smiled, trying to look cheerful. Trying to admire Maggie's beautiful red dress, which outlined her form perfectly, and not of Sherlock's hideous blue dressing gown, in which the bastard still managed to look handsome. Trying to enjoy the delicious meal his girlfriend had prepared, and not to wonder if his flatmate had eaten at all today. Trying to sound as excited as Maggie about going to her sister's, saying he was looking forward to meeting her, and not thinking of Sherlock chasing criminals around recklessly all by himself while he was away.

Trying, trying, trying... and failing.

"You know, I found something funny in the goose when I cut it."

"Oh, really?" God, that must be the hundredth time I've said that tonight.

"Yes! I think it might even be valuable. I'm sure this can't be my sister's, though – it looks too precious."

She got up and came back with a blue gem. John's eyes widened. It truly did look precious and snapped him out of his musing about Sherlock... though not for long.

"You said you found this inside the goose?" he asked, disbelieving. She nodded.

"Weird, isn't it? I thought it might be a puzzle that might amuse your funny friend, too." She smiled. It wasn't particularly mocking, but John didn't like it and felt as if she were deriding his friend.

"I think it might, yes," he replied a bit stiffly.

The evening went on, lovely and perfect. And yet nothing felt right.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he was surprised at first to find himself lying on the couch. He didn't usually bother to lie down to sleep, but when he did, he did so in his own room and not in the living-room. Not that John would mind, he was sure, but...

John. Right. Whining, he rolled and decided he wasn't yet ready to get up and face the flat, gloomily empty on a Christmas day. There was still the hat, but the hat could wait – well, the owner of the hat would wait anyway. A single man, labouring class, certainly couldn't go away for Christmas. Sherlock would probably find him within the day and inquire about the troublesome goose.

That was when his eye caught a glimpse of yellow fur with black stripes. He groaned. Not again.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

John helped Maggie put her luggage in the car and stood back as she shut the trunk. She turned to him, smiling brightly.

"Let's go, then!" She noticed that he hadn't handed her his own bag and arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "Why didn't you–"

"I'm sorry, Maggie. I don't think I can come."

"What?"

John shifted a bit on his feet, awkward.

"Sherlock hasn't been answering my texts at all today and I–"

"So what? He's an adult, John! He can take care of himself. Can't you even stay away from him for a week-end?"

"That's not–"

"Yes it is! When he texts you to come, you always go, and when he doesn't, you go because you find it suspicious that he hasn't texted you! Don't you realize how ridiculous this is?"

"I'm sorry, but I told you. This is Sherlock, and considering his job and personality anything could have–"

"Fine. Then I have to congratulate you. You almost lasted twenty hours."

"Maggie–"

"Leave it. I'm too angry with you right now to discuss things properly. We'll talk when I come back."

She got into her car, slamming the door, and drove away, leaving John with his bag on the pavement.

He sighed. How did he always manage to upset both parties? Because he knew Sherlock would be sulking anyway when he saw him enter the flat – or maybe jubilant, considering he'd won out over the girlfriend and her sister in the countryside. Certainly not grateful, and even if sherlock were happy to see him, he wouldn't allow himself to show it in any way. Still, it was with a sense of relief that he hailed a cab and said: "221 Baker Street, please!"

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock had been roaming around the flat all morning, trying to occupy himself. He found there wasn't much he could do in this form without John around. John, or anyone else, he corrected himself. Just someone to help out – prepare some tea, spread case files on his bed, cuddle on the couch... No. He rolled his eyes in exasperation. This was dull. Really dull. With nobody around, it wasn't entertaining in the slightest.

Being as how he was so bored, Sherlock decided to experiment. And since he couldn't possibly manipulate anything as a tiger to work on his usual research, he ended up experimenting on himself. First of all, he wondered if the saying about cats hating water were true and whether a tiger could be considered a big cat in that respect. To test the theory, he took a shower. He made a mess of the bathroom, spreading water everywhere: turning it on and off wasn't an entirely straightforward task with paws. Then he realized he didn't even have a towel ready, and was stuck, soaking wet, in a nearly-flooded bathroom. Soon he began to chill, and decided it didn't matter if he tracked the wet about even further. He went to his room and opened the cupboard by pulling the handle with his teeth. He got out towels and spread them on the floor, rolling on them vigorously to help sop the water out of his coat.

The shower hadn't been a very good idea. He was still cold and wet, and he found that a tiger's fur wouldn't dry by just rolling on towels. With a groan, he slumped back onto the towels in dismay until he was sprawled flat on the floor of his room, legs wide apart. I must look like a carpet, he mused. The thought was absurd and it depressed him even more. Why did he have to transform today of all days? John wasn't even around, and with such big, cumbersome paws, there was no way he could answer his texts to whine and tell him to come back because he'd turned into a stupid tiger.

Sherlock was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't register the door to their living-room being opened. He started when he heard John's voice.

"Sherlock! I'm back earlier than I expected. Are you here?"

Sherlock blinked, then rolled his eyes. John truly was an idiot, talking to an empty flat. The detective had never understood why people announced themselves to emptiness, thinking someone might be home. It was such a waste of words, really. Why not wait until they were face to face with the person? They must be either stupid or lazy. Or both.

"Sherlock?"

The tiger tried to ignore the fluttery feeling he got as he heard John come closer down the corridor, cursing as he saw the flooded bathroom, picking up his pace, pushing the door open...

"Sherlock," John said, his eyes coming to rest on the wet, shivering, wholly pitiful form sprawled on the floor. The tiger tried to look haughty and imposing – quite in vain.

John felt a wave of guilt and compassion hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he tried to hide his pained gaze from Sherlock.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he murmured. Sherlock snorted in disdain: even John must have been aware that a tiger could hardly type to send a text.

John walked up to his friend and knelt down, wrapping his arms around the big, soaked cat, not caring at all that it would dampen his clothes. Sherlock started and stiffened at first, but then allowed himself to relax into the embrace.

"I've been an idiot. I'm sorry," John said.

Sherlock nuzzled up to him to signify his pleasure. He realized he wouldn't mind remaining a tiger, if it meant John would continue holding him that way, never leaving his side.

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«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

xXx

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tbc

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