Chapter 6 - 221B PAW STORIES

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 6

… Way up high...

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Sherlock had never been a very patient man, and being a tiger didn't change the fact. Eventually he got tired of it and pushed the door open.

He popped his head into the room and didn't see anything at first. Then he did see, and froze. A wide grin spread on his face.

Oh, today was going to be fun.

Curled up under his sheets, his breathing regular, John was sleeping peacefully. In manul form. Very quietly, Sherlock entered the room and walked up to the bed, glad for once that he had paws which stifled the sound of his steps. Luckily, the wooden floor in John's room did not creak.

Sherlock felt very much like jumping on the bed to spoon and cuddle until John woke up in shock. But then it was very likely that the doctor would sulk all day, and there would be no more cuddling. Sherlock paused suddenly.

What was wrong with him? A few seconds ago he was upset and frustrated with the situation because he'd planned on taking the train this morning to work on the goose and gem case and couldn't now that he was a tiger: he would be stuck in 221B all day. But merely by discovering his friend sleeping in manul form, his mood had changed drastically and he was now quite excited to be spending the day home after all. John was smaller than him even as a human, but as a cat he was just so tiny, it was...

No. Stop right here. Since when was he so obsessed with cuddling and adorableness and other nonsense? Since John turned into a Pallas cat, he retorted to himself in perfect seriousness, as if such a thing were completely normal. And why did it matter, really? Sherlock had always felt rather awkward with his lanky body, his too long limbs, his eerie blue eyes, his skin so white it was almost cadaverous. A shiver of distaste ran down his spine. Who would want to cuddle with that? And Sherlock himself would hardly feel comfortable doing so. But as a tiger? Admittedly it wasn't very practical for transport; it could be, were society not so stupid and liable to be frightened by the very sight of an unconfined tiger. For that matter, John was much luckier: he could just pass for a very weird house cat, and roam the city, spy on people, or even break into flats unnoticed.

A chuckle escaped Sherlock's lips as John scratched his nose with his paw in his sleep, furrowing his fluffy brow comically, his flat face puffing. All right, so maybe he wouldn't exactly go unnoticed. Still, he was more discreet than a tiger, although he certainly couldn't hold a gun in cat form. Sherlock's face broke into a grin at the mental image. It was so silly but hilarious nonetheless.

Stepping closer, he rested his head on the mattress to study his flatmate's features in more details. Cute was a surprisingly difficult concept to define. In his mind, it had always been associated to ridiculous and senseless, so rather pejoratively connoted. But there was nothing pejorative about the cuteness in manul-John. Yet the word cute had automatically popped up when he'd seen him the first time. Okay, maybe not the first time. The first concept that had come to his mind might have been weird or absurd. But it had made him laugh – something that wasn't easily done. Sherlock had never been one to break out laughing freely and openly. He was discreet, of course, but still: seeing John like this gave him a distinct sense of joy and mirth, so simple yet so vibrant. It wasn't the same thrill that cases provided him with, naturally; yet it somehow dispelled the boredom.

John wasn't as ordinary as he seemed on the face of it. In fact, what was truly extraordinary was that he only seemed ordinary. Sherlock had been bemused the day he'd played with the mad cabbie – when he'd been blathering to Lestrade about the man who'd killed, well, the killer. His gaze had been caught by the figure of John Watson: his common, overly normal, nondescript figure waiting by the yellow line like a good citizen, hands behind his back, looking around as if he'd just got there and was waiting for his new flatmate to tell him all about what had just happened. Apparently average, characterless John Hamish Watson, who'd just shot a man and saved his life.

Maybe. There was no telling what the safe pill was, Sherlock thought grumpily. I might have been right. In any case, that had been quite a blow. John wasn't a killer – he missed the war, there was no doubt about that, but he certainly didn't miss killing. Strong moral principles, nerves of steel... Indeed. Except Sherlock hadn't even thought of him while portraying the shooter. This was brilliant. John Watson had managed to surprise him within the first thirty-six hours of their acquaintance. He could have been just a possible flatmate among others. Well, except that there weren't many others in the first place. But he was a possible flatmate who could very well have been able to put up with him – and regardless of his obliviousness for such matters, Sherlock was well aware he wasn't an easy person to live with. And someone Sherlock could deal with too, which wasn't to be taken for granted, either. And now, he had even proved to be more than just worthy of interest. Sherlock had been thrilled.

The tiger started a little as John stirred in his sleep, whimpering softly. Sherlock blinked, and his face broke into his Cheshire cat grin. That was it. The tiger added a paw next to his head and tentatively crept up towards the manul's wrinkled and plushy face. A few more inches...

John's eyes snapped open. At first, everything he saw was too blurry to make sense, but when it became clear that he was face to face with a tiger's head and a ridiculously huge paw, he yowled and wriggled out of the sheets in panic, looking for his gun... which he found he couldn't grasp. The tiger was having a fit of giggles. John remembered that this was Sherlock and that he couldn't shoot him anyway, and that if he wouldn't grab his gun, it could only mean that...

He raised his paws to look at them and what was intended as a swearword came out as a squeal. He whined in despair. Sherlock, on the other hand, was enjoying the show greatly. John was so amusingly flustered, his gaze roaming around the room in dramatic despondency, wondering if this was a nightmare. Hoping it was. Then he met Sherlock's eyes and he glared, as if the detective were responsible for their current state. The tiger tilted his head innocently to the side, and the manul pouted before rolling and lying on his other side, burying his head into the pillow. I am not getting up. I am just not. Actually, I even refuse to wake up. Let me sleep this off.

Since John was obviously sulking already, Sherlock thought he couldn't do much more harm if he were to jump on the bed and curl up around the smaller cat in an attempt at spooning. So he did. John jolted and mewled protestingly. They rolled on the mattress, fighting – the manul answering the tiger's playful touch with teeth and claws, then suddenly realizing it and recoiling in remorseful fright.

Sorry. Didn't intend to scratch you. Are you all right? He brought his smaller paw to the tiger's just-scratched nose, and rubbed it in an attempt at soothing. Sherlock considered telling him to stop fussing, and that his well-intended gesture was just making it worse, but John soon seemed to realize this himself and jumped back in mortification. Definitely blushing, Sherlock thought, even though the manul's cheeks couldn't redden, although they did puff up some more. It made Sherlock want to kiss them. What?

John moaned pitifully and lay flat on the bed, decidedly not ready to face this day. Sherlock is a tiger. Why is he still a tiger? Why am I a manul? Why, why, why... He looked so doleful that Sherlock started to feel bad for him. It couldn't be helped, though. Sherlock himself would have surely not taken the matter so lightly, had he been the smaller of the two felines. They both had quite a bit of pride.

So the consulting detective curled up on himself, lying on the mattress next to his friend and flatmate, careful not to touch him. Even if it was quite endearing and Sherlock enjoyed how comical John appeared to him, he didn't want to spend the whole day stuck in the flat with a sulking manul. Confessedly, he could overpower him easily, but since the last time he was rather disinclined to resort to sheer strength. Sherlock was a creature of the brain, and he feared that if he could hurt John while a human, he would be even more likely to do so as a cat.

Squash him even more, probably, he mused, and the thought elicited an unintended chuckle. John turned his frowning face to the tiger, but the sparkle in Sherlock's eyes was so genuine, so far from the snicker he'd expected, that he felt himself melt. Sherlock noticed, and extended his paw in a peace-seeking gesture. John stared at the paw, then up to the tiger's eyes, and at the paw again. Finally he extended his paw as well, aiming to put it on Sherlock's and seal the deal. Except that his leg was much, much shorter... and didn't make it to the extended paw. John blinked in disbelief and his eyes widened in embarrassment. His humiliation was now complete. Sherlock felt very much like giggling crazily, so silly was the whole situation. But he wisely decided against it and instead came closer to the poor manul until their paws touched. The contact snapped John out of his petrification and kindled a stifled pule from him. Seeing that it wasn't enough, Sherlock flattened until his head was on the same level as John's paw and nuzzled it.

See? Stop feeling so idiotically inferior all the time. John couldn't hear the words, but got the message. He felt stupid for acting so miffed that early in the morning. Lowering himself, he rested his brow against Sherlock's, closing his eyes so as not to think about it too much. Sorry. Breakfast?

John wasn't sure Sherlock could read his thoughts. But perhaps he did, for the tiger stood up, grinning, and jumped off the bed to walk to the door. John followed him nimbly and found his body wasn't as clumsy as he'd thought.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Naturally, once they'd reached the kitchen, they realized that they couldn't possibly prepare breakfast with their paws. They exchanged a troubled glance, and Sherlock had to stop himself from snickering – he personally did not care much for breakfast anyway.

John, who blamed Sherlock for all of it anyway, blew into his whiskers in frustration. Turning to his friend, he said:

"Why didn't you turn back? And why did you make me turn into a manul?"

Which came out as something like:

"Meow! Meow meow meow meooow!"

He gaped, appalled at the sound he'd just made, and this time Sherlock broke into a fit of giggles. John puffed his cheeks sullenly, which only fed the tiger's laughter. The offended cat was about to turn away and retire to his room for the day when finally Sherlock pulled himself together. Sagely, he did not try to speak, and instead pointed towards the door and the flat below.

We should get Mrs. Hudson. Then pointing to himself. I can go if you want.

John waved his paws frenetically.

You can't go! What if someone comes in? You're a bloody tiger, you idiot!

Sherlock pouted. But at least she'd recognize me. She doesn't know you're a–

But John didn't even stay to try to understand him. He walked to the door and waited for Sherlock to open it for him. A little vexed to have been ignored, Sherlock snorted and turned away. But John didn't even look at him, and kept waiting. Ever the soldier's nerves, Sherlock mused before giving in and pushing the door open. John rushed downstairs, and froze in front of the door. He had only two choices, and both were blows to his pride: either he could mewl until Mrs. Hudson heard him, or he could scratch at the door. He picked the latter, while Sherlock sniggered on the first floor. A minute later, they heard footsteps rushing to the door, and it opened on their landlady. She blinked, surprised not to see anyone, before her eyes fell to the floor and she saw... well, the manul.

"Ooh. You're John's pet, aren't you?"

Sherlock giggled helplessly, catching Mrs. Hudson's attention.

"Oh. I see. So you're not John's pet. You are–"

Hearing the doorbell, she paused abruptly and went to open the door.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said, nodding to the landlady in greeting.

John gulped and decided it was better to shut his mouth. He froze on the spot, straight and stiff, his stance military, and his eyes glanced up at Sherlock to check that the mad genius had had the sense to run and hide. He was relieved to see that he had.

"Hello, Detective Inspector," replied with a smile. "It's nice to see you again, but I'm afraid Sherlock isn't in, if that's why you came."

"Really?" he asked, eyeing the weird cat on the floor suspiciously.

"Yes. They left yesterday for a case a client had brought them – I think they went to the countryside."

"Oh well, I had no idea... Sherlock isn't answering his phone, but then again, when does he?" He chuckled, still glancing at the frozen cat at his feet.

"Indeed, Detective Inspector," Mrs. Hudson replied, noticing the glances and leaning down to pick John up. The manul didn't dare refuse and tried to behave like an ordinary housecat, albeit a bit heavier. But Mrs. Hudson did not wince as his weight came onto her dodgy hip, and went on: "Why don't you give me the details of the case you came for? If they come back today, I can tell them all about it."

"That's very kind of you, but I'm already breaking so many rules just talking to Sherlock. And now there's even John..."

The manul furrowed his brow and Lestrade blinked, unsettled.

"What is that thing?" he finally asked, unable to ignore the strange animal in her arms any longer. "Is that a cat?"

Hidden behind the door at the top of the stairs, Sherlock had a very hard time not to laugh. John glared venomously and Lestrade recoiled.

"What the... seriously, isn't that an awfully weird-looking cat?"

At this, John flinched, and Sherlock stopped laughing. Mrs. Hudson scowled slightly.

"It is my cat," she said coldly. Lestrade's face fell and he spluttered:

"I'm sorry, I didn't–"

"That's quite all right. So, that case you came for?"

"Yes. Well, it hasn't made it to the media yet – that's why I need to ask you to keep it to yourself." Mrs. Hudson glared, and Lestrade coughed once nervously before continuing somewhat precipitously, "It appears that a jewel has been stolen from the Countess of Morcar in her hotel."

John froze and Sherlock suddenly pricked his ears.

"It's a blue gem she was particularly fond of," Lestrade went on. "We've been looking for it for two days – to no avail. I was hoping Sherlock would help, even if there hasn't been a murder."

"I see. Well, I will be sure to tell them when they come back. If it is really urgent, you may want to try to contact Dr. Watson – he at least would answer."

Sherlock snorted as Lestrade exchanged a knowing smile with the landlady.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Have a very nice day! And sorry for, um, insulting your cat."

Off he went, and as soon as the door was closed, Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh of relief. She looked at the struggling cat in her arms that was clearly growing ever more irritated, and she tried to pet away the fluffy scowl.

"Oh, don't make that face, dear. You're not horrendous at all! You're a very handsome feline, with your beautiful fur and your striped tail. And have you seen how well-drawn your face is? All those black stripes and circles around your eyes. Here. See?"

She held him up against her chest in front of the mirror hanging in her corridor. John blinked, astonished at the unexpected wave of compliments. He stared at his own reflection curiously, and studied his features. It was true that it wasn't so bad. He'd even realized that morning that he wasn't really as clumsy as he looked. Just like me, he thought grumpily, before remembering that it was him. Still, he remained a weird fluffy cat while Sherlock got to turn into an impressive tiger. It was all so unfair. But when has life ever been?

Up the stairs, Sherlock rolled his eyes and snorted at the scene, slinking back into the flat in distaste. It was the first time someone other than him got to pet John, and he found he didn't like it.

At all.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Mrs. Hudson came up and prepared breakfast for her two troublesome renters. She put the kettle to boil and made toast with whichever spread and jam the two wanted, remarking every once in a while: "Not your housekeeper..."

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch, his posture regal, and waited until Mrs. Hudson brought him his coffee there. The infuriating tiger still managed to take the mug between his two paws to drink in a human-like manner. John, on the other hand, had to sit on one of the kitchen chairs, his two front paws on the table and lap his tea from a bowl. He was trying to communicate to dear Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't possibly eat a whole slice of toast without it being cut to pieces when Sherlock, growing bored alone in the living-room, entered the kitchen. Taking the scene in, he went to a drawer and pulled it open with his teeth. Carefully picking a knife up between the points of two of his very sharp teeth, he carried it to their landlady. She started a bit, but then understood, and finally cut the toast into smaller morcels.

"Oh boys, how in the world did you end up both transforming into cats?" Sherlock frowned slightly at being called a cat but did not object. He himself was trying to find an answer to that question. Because while one day might chase away the boredom, two would be too much. Beyond that, he didn't even want to consider the ramifications of spending the rest of his life as a tiger. It would be terrible: no murders, no chasing around London, no cases, no Work... It would be disastrous. Admittedly, he'd have John. But John could as well do as a cat. He could roam around, and what he could do as a man – being stolen by some woman to build a family and other such nonsense – he could well do as a feline. London certainly wasn't lacking in females. Sherlock didn't realize the absurdity of his considerations, or that John would never run off with a cat; but it motivated him nonetheless to find a way for them to turn back as soon as possible. Ideally, before tomorrow morning, so they could take the train and finally get on with that goose and gem case, now that they even had a client. So to speak.

"You're being awfully quiet, Sherlock. Is anything wrong?" John asked the tiger.

Both Mrs. Hudson and John were turned to look at him and he blinked. Nothing was wrong. Except that he'd prefer her hands to be farther away from John's plushy fur. He pouted. Taking his sullen look the wrong way, the good landlady shook her head, walked up to him with a smile, and started petting him.

"Here. You're a good tiger. You're handsome too, but you know that already so stop sulking. Hmm?"

Sherlock frowned and was about to edge away from the unwanted touch – he never liked anyone crowding his personal space too much. John was an exception. The exception.

But then it occurred to him. John. Would it, conversely, annoy John as well, if he were to let Mrs. Hudson pamper him? It was worth a try. Observing his flatmate from the corner of his eyes, he smiled up sweetly at his landlady and purred.

John did get unnerved.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"No! Sandra! Don't leave me!"

"I've had enough. You can have this back."

John sighed in despair. Why was crap telly even crappier today, when they were stuck in the flat?

Because the worst programmes are always in the afternoon, Sherlock retorted mentally, as he put his last paw into the fourth bucket of water he'd placed on a towel in the middle of their living-room. John turned to him and watched jadedly.

Sherlock had spent the whole morning on the couch with him, making obvious efforts not to snap at the telly – and less obvious efforts not to snuggle up to his flatmate. Then they'd had some bacon that Mrs. Hudson had prepared for their lunch – well, John had had some bacon, and Sherlock had laughed at him eating it from the plate. But then the infuriating detective had thought it smart to keep experimenting on his own body. John found the idea utterly moronic, but at least it occupied Sherloc, and he was less likely to return to the couch to go on tempting him with cuddling. John, having little inclination himself to touch, completely failed to observe that Sherlock's experiments were designed only to prevent said cuddling and had nothing to do with whiling away the time.

Presently he was curious to see what a very low-voltage electricity jolt would do to his body – hence the four water buckets. Since he wasn't sure of the outcome of the experiment, he'd decided to stay in the living-room. When John finally realized what he was doing, the hair on his back stood straight up and he leaped off the couch to run over. He jumped on time to startle the tiger out of his experiment and made him stumble, fall flat on his fac and splatter water all over the floor. Sherlock yelped in protest, but John bit his nose to silence him.

Are you insane?! You could kill yourself!

Don't be daft, John! I knew perfectly what I was doing.

Oh yeah?

Yes!

John seethed. The tiger frowned and couldn't think of anything better to do to wipe away the scowl on the manul's puffed up face than to lap it up. John shrieked and jumped back, falling off the tiger into the water flowing across the floor. He mewled pitifully. Sherlock chuckled and picked up the poor cat by the scruff of his neck, like a mother picking up her kitten. He carried him to the bathroom where he wrapped him up in a dry towel. John squealed and struggled at first, but once he was surrounded by the softness and warmth of the towel, he stopped complaining and Sherlock even thought he heard a quiet purr.

I'm sorry. I'll clean the living-room, he tried to signify to the manul, nuzzling up against his paw through the bath towel. He picked up another towel and went back to their living to wipe their floor. It wasn't an easy task, and he couldn't fathom why John had done something so stupid – but he was nonetheless gratified to have seen him so panicked for his sake.

If John had been paying attention to his experimenting, then it meant the television had become boring. Sherlock frowned. Didn't John usually like to watch television? Yes, but not five hours in a row, he amended. What did John usually do when he was home? He read the newspaper, but it was a little difficult for cats to turn the pages. Maybe John, with his smaller paws, could manage, though. That was an idea. What else? The detective's eyes scanned the room and stopped on the laptop. Of course. Jubilant, he finished mopping the water up and ran to his room.

John saw him rushing past the bathroom door and wondered what had got into him. He realized he missed his voice – their voices, in fact; both his own and his flatmate's. They could remain silent for hours while in the same room, but at least they knew they could talk to each other. What if we can never speak again? he wondered gloomily. He could hear Sherlock rummaging about in his room, and for the umpteenth time today wondered what could have possibly happened for the both of them to turn into felines. What was different from yesterday? Why hadn't at least Sherlock turned back into a man?

His pondering was interrupted by Sherlock rushing back the other way. John's curiosity piqued, he hastily followed, unaware of the comical sight he presented: crawling bath towel with an exotic, fluffy face.

He joined the tiger in the living-room, surprised to see that he had indeed cleaned up both the spilt water and the four buckets. Sherlock was currently plugging something into John's laptop and trying to open it by nuzzling between the keyboard and the screen. The manul gaped at the unusual scene and chuckled. Sherlock could truly be adorable in tiger form. Only in tiger form, of course, he added quickly, so as to fight back the I'm-falling-in-love-with-my-male-flatmate theory. Naturally, John didn't even want to think that he'd fallen already.

He walked up closer to the tiger just as the latter finally succeeded in opening the laptop without damaging it. Sherlock stepped aside so John would see the KinderBoard, with the largest keys Sherlock had managed to find online. The keys were colour-coded to teach by character set – and it was originally designed for children with vision or motor-skill impairment. Well. John didn't need to know that, did he?

Sherlock looked excitedly at the manul to see whether he was pleased or not. John was more than pleased. His pupils sparkled endearingly and he blinked, disbelieving. He wasn't sure what made him happier: that he could finally do something of his day, or that Sherlock had been so thoughtful just for him (the tiger's paws were much too big even for this keyboard). It didn't take him long to be sure, though. Grinning widely up at his flatmate, gave him a dazzling smile that, on a his heavily furred face, came off slightly more alarming than the Cheshire Cat's. Sherlock smiled back, feeling something bubbling in his chest. He brushed it off as excitement and joy at seeing his friend so happy. And since when have you been excited to make anyone happy? Since you have friends, murmured a voice in the recesses of his mind.

But Sherlock was too busy watching John jump onto the table and examine the keyboard with wonder to pay attention to it. Jubilant, he pressed the ON button, entered his password, and used the mouse (not realizing the irony) to open a text document. He typed, still with some difficulty, but successfully, at his own pace: THANK YOU

Sherlock sent him a boyish grin. Then something crossed his mind. He put his own paw on John's, and moved it over the keyboard, pressing the desired keys. After thirty seconds or so, a sentence finally formed on the screen: I THINK I KNOW WHY I DIDN'T TRANFORM BACK. John turned a hopeful gaze on him. DO YOU KNOW HOW WE CAN TURN BACK?

It was a little arduous typing this way at first, but John was starting to get it and was faster than his flatmate. He did, however, greatly enjoy the feeling of the huge paws guiding him along the keys, and for once he felt needed. Sherlock couldn't type. John was necessary for him to express his thoughts: no matter how much they might act out or vocalize, as animals they could not express proper thoughts and form full sentences. Thanks to the keyboard, they now could – but the smaller paws of the manul were indispensable, a welcome contrast to the uselessness that John most hated.

Sherlock was noticing all that, and was very content about it. To see John feeling useless was one of the things he hated the most – when he noticed. Most of the time, he didn't even realize his partner was feeling overlooked and worthless in comparison to the detective. With John's helped, he typed: YES. WE MUST CUDDLE.

John blinked and thought he'd got it wrong, but then he saw Sherlock's grave stare and broke into a fit of giggles. You can't be serious! Sherlock pouted, and waited until the snickering manul stopped laughing at him. He tried not to feel too offended, and instead moved the smaller paws over the keys again. IT IS THE ONLY THING WE ALWAYS DO AND THAT WE DID NOT DO YESTERDAY.

This made John quiet down and stop to think about it. The observation was true, of course – but still, it didn't make much sense that they would have to cuddle to turn back into humans. Yet he found the idea rather alluring, as it gave him a good excuse to spend the night with tiger-Sherlock again – something he'd regretted not doing the previous night, but hadn't been able to bring himself to do because he'd suddenly felt very self-conscious. But now that he too was in cat form, he didn't mind it so much.

Well, at least he could ignore the whole issue for the night.

And so, repressing a smile, he typed: OK. He did not actually believe that this would make them human again, but if they had to spend the night like this, it was surely better to be together. Perfectly logical conclusion, wasn't it? And somewhere in his mind, he thought that perhaps Sherlock didn't believe it would work either, and maybe, maybe, just wanted to cuddle, too. What am I thinking? This is Sherlock. Sherlock, for God's sake!

But Sherlock did believe in his theory. Consequently, he decided that it would be wiser for them to cuddle up on a bed this time, and not on a couch where John would be sure to fall and wake up on the floor. So once John had eaten dinner – some more bacon – Sherlock simply pushed open the door to the staircase and held it for his flatmate. John automatically followed, unaware of his friend's satisfied smirk as he passed.

Once they were in John's room, and without making him beg for it this time, Sherlock picked John up and put him gently onto the mattress before joining him gleefully. They snuggled under the sheets and blanket, and nestled, the manul resting against the warm and fluffy chest of the tiger. Since he did not really believe in his flatmate's theory, it didn't cross John's mind that they might wake up as two very naked men embracing; and so he fell asleep peacefully, purring softly.

It did cross Sherlock's mind, but he did not see the problem. And so he too fell asleep peacefully, purring not so softly.

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tbc

…

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»