Chapter 8 - 221B Paw Stories

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 8

… Once in a lullaby

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Tell me, are you so unnerved because you think we could become brothers in law, or because you would've liked to do both sisters?

"Damn him!" John cursed as he repressed the urge to slam the door to his room behind him, and fell into a chair.

He'd been foolish, but Sherlock had been obnoxious. John had seen the remorse in his eyes the moment the words had left his lips, but still it was so unfair an attack he hadn't wanted to stay one more second in the room, for fear of choking the insufferable man. Or of blurting out something idiotic and crazy, such as "I'm so unnerved because I'm stupidly falling in love with you, you git!"

Definitely not a good idea. He might have considered the choking option a bit more, though, he mused fiercely as he changed into his pyjamas for the night.

Perhaps he should just go on a vacation for some time, away from Baker Street. Sherlock hadn't even seemed to notice it when he had gone for couple of weeks in New Zealand, so that shouldn't be a problem. John would cool off a bit, and come back once all was in order in his head. And if he turned into a manul... Well. Perhaps Sherlock's cuddling theory wasn't complete, or did not always apply. It might have been just a coincidence. He would probably turn back into human form on his own, eventually... Right? And what about Sherlock?

Now, that was an idea. John grinned devilishly. If Sherlock were to turn into a tiger while he was away, he'd be quite troubled, and maybe would realize John's importance in his life. God, just to transform back? That's not even importance. It's usefulness. Oh well. Sherlock appeared to find him pretty useless, so usefulness was good enough, the doctor thought grimly. Maybe it was worth a try.

No, said the part of his brain that was still functioning. Just think: what would Sherlock do? What would he do? Well, he'd be bored, for sure. He'd whine and annoy Mrs. Hudson, most likely. And then... he would go out on his own, even as a tiger, perhaps at night, because staying all day in the flat doing nothing would drive him insane. If he found any interesting case, it'd be even worse, because he would surely end up investigating after all, regardless of his appearance. Sherlock was not stupid, but he was reckless, and he could do incredibly idiotic things if he got carried away – and John did not even want to think about the consequences.

No far away trip for me, then, he concluded with a sigh. He realized now what a difficult situation he was in – not that he hadn't been aware of it, but now the whole extent of it just hit him full force. If those absurd transformations kept going on, and Sherlock's ridiculous theory was right, John would never be able to live anywhere else than Baker Street, or very far from it. And if he did not live with Sherlock, they would have to find some way to contact the other during a transformation so they could... This was crazy. If he disappeared for an entire night every once in a while, his girlfriend or his wife or whoever he'd be having a family with, would no doubt found it suspicious, and think he had a mistress. And what could he say? "Sorry, darling, I never told you but I turn into a weird cat now and then and just won't transform back unless I spend the night snuggling with my ex-flatmate. Naturally there's nothing else between us."

...Right. He groaned and buried himself under the cover.

Eventually, he fell asleep, but when he awoke with a start for no apparent reason, he could not tell exactly at what point. He blinked, not quite remembering where he was. He could see a bed and a door and...

Wait. Why am I not sleeping on the bed? And why is the door so big?

John got a sinking feeling in his chest, and raised a hand before his eyes... only to see a paw. A miserable mewl resonated in the room, and he jumped, surprised by his own cry.

Why? Why me? Why does it always have to be me?

After the first reaction of bewilderment and despair came the annoyance. Then, John thought about the advantages of the situation, so as to forget the downsides of it.

It will annoy Sherlock, was his first realization. A good one, too. He wanted nothing more than to annoy Sherlock to no end right now. And surely turning into a manul while he was on a case... God, the case. Sherlock was on a case. He wouldn't want to be distracted. It was very likely he'd just shrug it off and... leave John to figure something out while he goes back to see Emily and meet the brother. No. I won't allow this. I can still get to him when I'm a manul, since he's so strangely fond of it.

As he jumped off the chair and walked up to the door, he became aware that he was never going to be able to open it: the handle was just too high, and... Oh. Something quite crazy just popped up in his mind, but presently he was desperate enough to try it out. Next to the door was a chest of drawers, from which he could try jumping to fall onto the handle, thus opening the door... A wide grin spread to his fluffy face, and he trotted up to the bed, on which he managed to jump after three or four failed attempts. Then he succeeded in jumping on the chest of drawers, but not without smashing into the wall first, which elicited a pitiful pule from the poor cat.

After he'd shaken his head to regain some sense, he rubbed his brow and couldn't believe he was going to do this because he was jealous of his girlfriend's sister. Jealous because of Sherlock... I'm an idiot. But then he's an idiot too. God, we're both idiots. He looked at the door handle. This is crazy.

He jumped .

...and missed. Cursing under his breath (which sounded more like he was moaning), he jumped on the bed again, then on the chest of drawers, took a deep breath, and... considered what he was doing for a second. I'm trying to open a door by jumping on the handle. Jumping on the handle, for God's sake! And all that for what?

...Cuddle with Sherlock all night. His eyes twinkled unwittingly, and a silly beam lit up his overly plushy face.

He jumped again.

...and missed, again.

After the fourth try, he finally did succeed in falling on the handle, and the door opened at last as he crashed to the floor with a yowl. But soon he was back on his paws, gloating, looking triumphantly at the wooden panel. Slowly, he crept out of the room and hesitantly groped his way to Sherlock's room – where he remembered Sherlock's room to be, anyway. Things looked quite different in the dark, and from a manul's perspective. Fortunately, in that respect, his cat eyes proved quite useful, and he made it safely to his partner's door.

Only then did he realize fully what situation he was in.

We've quarrelled. For sure, he must still be mad at me. He's never sleepy during cases anyway, and so he'll be too aware to want to cuddle... God, what am I saying? I'm not here to cuddle. I'm here to...

John froze. What did I come for again? He'd just wanted to irritate Sherlock at first, but then he was forced to admit he really only wanted to see him. This is ridiculous. I'll just go back to my room.

He was already walking away when he remembered the remorseful expression in Sherlock's eyes the moment he'd made that obnoxious comment about John and Maggie and Emily, and him wanting to have both sisters. He'd snapped, and said something horrible, which wasn't anything unusual for Sherlock, but... John couldn't help but think that it was his own fault somehow. Everything was going so well until the unfortunate remark "Don't touch me!" escaped his lips, and he regretted it right away. Perhaps he'd hurt Sherlock in some way, even if it was unbelievable because it was Sherlock for God's sake, and Sherlock did not get upset over such trifling matters. But now that he thought back on it, John realized how insulting it may have sounded, especially since they had just spent the night together... Snuggling, just snuggling, mind you, but still. Touching.

John paced for about ten minutes back and forth in front of Sherlock's door, not realizing that every time he was reducing the length of his steps, until he was basically just hovering around it tentatively, and it was just a matter of time before he got in.

...Before he got in. Right. How would he get in? He groaned in distress, and bemoaned the fact that he was such a small feline, so useless and so damn dependent - he couldn't even open a door! There was the mewling option, of course, but he was still angry with Sherlock and even if he wanted nothing more than jump into his arms right now, he would never admit it, even to himself, and even less mewl to gain access to the git's bed. And hands. And caresses.

Damn him. Damn this all.

Well, he could always scratch at the door, he mused. That was an idea. But it still seemed too pathetic a way to make his presence known, and he just did not want to beg. Not for this. And not Sherlock. The twat would be too happy about it.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he did not realize at one point that he was in fact walking straight towards the door, until he actually did walk into it and hit his head quite violently on the wooden panel. That was the first thump, and Sherlock didn't hear it, for he was still asleep. John, on the other hand, once he was done cursing and complaining about his own idiocy (in other words, hissing and meowing), thought it was a brilliant idea, and repeated the move several times, hoping to catch Sherlock's attention. It didn't cross his mind that his friend might be asleep, because it was a case day and Sherlock didn't sleep on case days – he barely ever slept, really. John greatly enjoyed the fact that Sherlock, whether in tiger-form or human-form (provided John himself was in manul-form), would sleep like a baby in his arms (or holding him) when they cuddled. As if it actually made the whole sleeping thing interesting to him, and fun enough to bother with.

As it was, though, Sherlock was sleeping, because he'd been trying so hard to turn his gigantic brain off for once, just to get rid of the looks John sent him during the day. When the door finally opened, John was too excited – and too anxious to hide his embarrassment, too – to notice the look of painful disappointment on Sherlock's face as he saw that no one was standing in front of the door. But soon the sense of loneliness was replaced by hope as the manul dashed off towards the bed, brushing against his friend's leg; John missed that too.

Sherlock turned abruptly as John made it to the bed, which, expectedly, was cold and hadn't been slept in. As he curled next to the pillows, he also missed the detective's unwitting smile.

Slowly, as if unsure whether he was dreaming this or not, Sherlock walked up to the bed and sat on it, observing John closely. The poor cat was trying to repress a shiver under the intense stare, and so shifted a bit to the side, so as to signify to his flatmate that he could lie down too. Sherlock obliged quite heartily.

He seemed surprised at first that John wasn't running around all panicked, as he usually did when he'd just found out that he'd transformed into a weird fluffy cat. But the doctor had been sleeping, and very much wanted to resume this in Sherlock's bed, possibly pressed against the detective's chest. He had the excuse that it was night time and wouldn't have to face things the next day: he could just blame it all on the sleepiness. Sherlock, on the other hand, appeared to be very much awake, and his lingering gaze on him prevented John from relaxing back into sleep.

Sherlock raised a hand and was reaching towards him when he suddenly froze and brought his hand back to his chest, a look of perplexity in his eyes. He just lowered his head onto the pillow and looked, fixedly. He seemed utterly lost, and quite frankly John found it refreshing, and relished the way he kept his eyes on him, but didn't dare touch.

The manul did, however, crave the touch, so after a few minutes of Sherlock's staring he got tired of it and moved imperceptibly closer. And closer. And closer, until his fur was almost brushing the detective's face. Sherlock might be quite oblivious sometimes, but he wasn't stupid, and a candid smile spread across his face. John had never been so glad cats could see so well in the dark.

This time, when the man reached out again towards the manul's fluffy form on his mattress, his gesture seemed more confident, and John quivered when he felt the hand on his back.

His back. He'd never thought of it that way, but obviously when they petted each other, it was as if they were caressing the other's body as a man. They were giving pleasure in the same way. Now John was ridiculously glad that humans did not have such a good night vision, because he was starting to become all flustered, picturing Sherlock stroking his hair when he was in fact just stroking his fur between the ears, picturing Sherlock fondling him when he was in truth only fondling a plushy cat... But really, John mused, who was he to complain? He was lucky enough that for some unfathomable reason, Sherlock appeared to like manuls enough to cuddle with them. Of course he couldn't expect him to do as much in human form, because he might feel awkward.

Really? Isn't that your problem, and not his? a little voice murmured in the back of his head. John frowned. It was true that he wasn't too keen to embrace Sherlock when they were both humans, for the obvious reason that he would be pushed away. But hadn't he been the one to push Sherlock away in the morning, and not in the most diplomatic manner either? Perhaps Sherlock wouldn't mind. He wasn't one to care much about appearance or what people said, right?

He was suddenly brought out of his thoughts by Sherlock picking him up and holding him closer, locking their eyes.

"Hey. What's on your mind?"

John blinked. He just pictured Sherlock at night in an inn, actually lying down on a bed and talking in all seriousness to a cat, and it was so absurd and silly he couldn't help but break into a fit of giggle – and a manul giggling sounded very much like a hen clucking, which only made the matter worse, since John heard himself laugh and was mortified. The fact that Sherlock would only hold him when he was a stupid, ugly but entertaining cat was really pathetic, but the fact that he knew it and still enjoyed the embrace and craved it was even more pathetic, to such an extent in fact that he kept laughing, and laughing, until his eyes were filled with tears out of laughter. Out of laughter only, of course. God, he must have been tired.

Sherlock seemed to notice something was slightly wrong, though, and instead of scowling at him thinking he was making fun of him, appeared to conclude too that John needed sleep badly.

"Just stop thinking already if it puts you in such a state, John. Sleep."

It was so much like Sherlock to order him around when he was in fact trying to be nice. So typical, John mused as he snuggled up closer into the embrace. But it was fine. If he could stop being so stupid about all this, and act rationally, they could probably come to an agreement: they both needed some good quality sleep after all, and only seemed to get any when they were lying together. It was on this optimistic thought that John fell back to sleep, purring softly in Sherlock's arms.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

When he woke up in the morning, the first thing John saw upon opening his eyes to the world was Sherlock's face mere inches from his. His breath caught in his throat, and he stiffened noticeable, but Sherlock was not awake to notice. He was sleeping, really sleeping, and John realized it was the very first time he saw him do so. He knew Sherlock slept, obviously, but having him so peaceful and quiet in his bed upon waking in the morning was such a lovely thing John wished he could open his eyes to such a sight every day for the rest of his life.

Then he became aware of what he was thinking, and slapped himself mentally. What straight man secretly wishes he could wake up in his male flatmate's bed every morning? But this is Sherlock, John thought, as if that explained everything. And Sherlock isn't a man, perhaps? asked the snide little voice in his head. John frowned. Of course he is a man. But... But what? He had no excuse. No excuse whatsoever.

And why would I need an excuse?! He thought heatedly. I'm in love with him!

He froze. God. I'm in love with him? A despondent groan escaped his lips, and he buried himself in what he thought was the pillow, until he realized it was the duvet that Sherlock held against his chest: in other words, he'd just snuggled up to the very source of his impending headache. John took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, but he breathed Sherlock's scent in and it only made his head spin even more. He'd been a soldier, though, so he had some self-control. And he wasn't known to be a wimp either. But what he was doing was quite cowardly, and he was quite aware of it. Running away from things had never been in his habits.

And so he decided to face this once and for all. Slowly, and very gingerly, he moved closer, closer, closer... until his body was pressed to Sherlock's and he could actually feel his warmth through the sheet and blanket. He breathed in deeply, rested his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck, and hugged him. It wasn't a tight embrace, but it was enough to snap the detective out of his slumber, and make him start in surprise, then freeze in shock, and finally just lie there, still and disbelieving. John did not let go.

"Good morning," he said simply, as if he'd been sitting in a chair in the kitchen having breakfast and Sherlock had just walked in.

Sherlock blinked.

"G... Good morning...?"

The doctor just ignore the uncertainty in his tone, and just kept holding him tight, not squeezing, not stroking him, but keeping his arms wrapped around his flatmate securely.

"Um, John?" Sherlock finally said.

"Yes?"

"What are you doing?"

John did not even blink as he answered most seriously:

"Giving you a friendly, manly good morning hug."

"...You're naked in my bed, John."

At this, the doctor's cheeks turned crimson, and he jumped back at once, covering himself up to the neck with the sheet nervously. He perfectly knew that he'd been naked, but hadn't wanted to go and get dressed, for fear of waking Sherlock – and spoiling the moment. Well, it was spoilt now anyway. Hugging in human form really did not work after all.

"I'm sorry, I..."

He couldn't finish his sentence and let it hang in mi-air, frozen on the spot because Sherlock had sat up too, and his right hand was now pulling down gently the sheet that was covering John's torso.

"Wh... What are you doing?"

"I already saw it, you know," Sherlock told him quietly. "Your scar."

John was so shocked by the whole situation that he let go of the sheet, and let Sherlock's eyes roam his now exposed shoulder. He averted his gaze.

"It's horrible, isn't it?"

"It must have been painful," Sherlock concurred, not getting at all what John meant by 'horrible'.

"I meant ugly, Sherlock."

The detective considered the word for a second, then shrugged it off.

"I don't know," he simply said, and John felt something break inside him. Never had he been so touched by one of his friend's indifferent comment.

But Sherlock's eyes were still fixed on the scar, and his hand quivering already.

"Can I touch it?"

John's eyes widened considerably at the unexpected question.

"You can," he answered in a trance, fascinated by the long, pale fingers that seemed to be trembling with anticipation. He could feel his own heart hammering in his chest, as if he had been in imminent danger, and looking in the eerily clear eyes of his friend, he stopped breathing altogether.

However, when Sherlock's slender hand brushed against his scar, he let out a little gasp and closed his eyes.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock inquired.

John just shook his head, terrified of what he'd say if he were to open his mouth now – terrified of how his voice would sound, because he was so strongly moved by the touch it was almost painful. He'd had several girlfriends touch his scar before; usually, the war hero side of him was rather to their liking. But Sherlock's touch was different. He wasn't trying to soothe John or to give him pleasure. He wasn't trying to convince him that his scar wasn't disgusting. He was just... touching. Almost palpating, sometimes stroking, and John knew, he just knew that he was memorizing all of it, engraving it in his mind for some incomprehensible reason, because why would he want to crowd his hard drive with such rubbish? It made John want to cry.

At one point it became unbearable, and he was about to say 'Enough.' when Sherlock removed his hand. John opened his eyes, and caught the worried look on his friend's face.

"John."

"Y... Yes?" the doctor mumbled, transfixed by the gaze Sherlock was laying on him.

"Do I repel you?"

John was dumbstruck by the question and just gawked, rendered speechless by the absurdity of it.

"Repel me? You?" he repeated, flabbergasted. And since Sherlock was still staring at him expectantly, he added precipitately: "No, God no! Quite the contrary..."

Then he realized what he'd just said and his cheeks that had paled down to a light pink turned back to crimson.

"I... No... Just..." he faltered. Then, he forced himself to get a grip, for Sherlock's sake: "You don't repel me. At all."

The hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips for a moment, and John wished his friend had a scar too, which he could ask to be allowed to touch.

But Sherlock was already turning away, standing, and John averted his gaze as he stretched.

"Why do you think I turned into a manul so suddenly, and at night to boot?" he asked.

"We always transform at night," Sherlock pointed out, "but you probably woke up in the middle of the night, and so realized it earlier than usual. Then since you came here, you're already back to human this morning."

"Because we cuddled?"

"Because we cuddled."

John sighed.

"This is ridiculous. Surely you must realize it too, Sherlock."

The consulting detective walked up to the window and opened it, just to have a countenance and do something, instead of just standing there dumbly.

"Well, you should be thankful that we found a way to turn back, at least."

"But are you willing to provide this every time it is needed?" John inquired, his tone rather provocative.

"Of course," Sherlock replied as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

John highly doubted it, but loved him for saying it anyway.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock had been ridiculously happy to have John come at his door in the middle of the night, and even happier when the fluffy cat had been so willing to snuggle. But waking to John hugging him in the morning had been the best treat so far. Sherlock had berated himself for saying something stupid (even though he was only stating the truth) instead of just hugging him back and playing with his silly tuft of hair and his long nose and his tanned skin...

Whether in manul form or in human form, Sherlock found out that he would never get bored playing with John. It didn't cross his mind that his approach to it might be somewhat belittling for the poor doctor, treating him like a pet. John was so unbelievably human and stupidly heroic that Sherlock could not for one second consider himself superior to him in anything but intelligence, and John was brilliant in a different way. He made Sherlock brilliant by being the most perfect conductor of light, and reflected his brightness with eyes full of wonder and admiration. He was the perfect partner for Sherlock, and the consulting detective would not mind having him as one in every sense of the term.

Of course he had felt compelled when they'd first met each other to make it clear that romance was not his area, and that he wasn't looking for anyone in that domain. And it was true. Sherlock just did not understand romance and found it profoundly dull. But John wasn't a romantic interest. He was his friend – his only one, one who would kill for him, and give up his own life to save his, – his doctor, who reminded him when he was supposed to eat so his brain and body would keep functioning, his colleague for the Work, and his flatmate. In other words, someone who was unconditionally loyal to him, whom he cared for and who took care of him and watched his health, who shared his Work and his flat and so, his whole life. John was everywhere now, and Sherlock really didn't have any objection to having him in his bed either.

After the hug and treat n°2 (getting to touch his scar, finally!), Sherlock suddenly realized why John wasn't getting out of bed.

"Would you like me to get some clothes for you in your room?"

John blushed imperceptibly, and nodded. Scratching his head, he chuckled uneasily and replied:

"That'd be great, actually..."

So Sherlock did. Getting the underwear was a little awkward (for John, that is – Sherlock didn't see why anyone would be embarrassed about underwear, since he wasn't when he ended up not wearing any in Buckingham Palace), but other than that, everything went smoothly. John picked his clothes and ran to the shower to wash and to change, while Sherlock pretended to look out of the window, repressing a giggle at John's naked figure dashing to the bathroom like his life depended on it, and having the idiotic idea to hide his genitals, which were obviously in front of him, and not his bum, that was far more exposed to the detective's possible gaze. Sherlock just looked and took in all he could, memorizing the shape, and wondered why people made such a big deal out of two morsels of bulging flesh.

They waited until the afternoon to go back to Emily's house, and the young woman seemed a little too happy to see them again to John's taste. But he'd had a much better day, with Sherlock moping around and hating it, because Sherlock hated waiting, and they didn't have much choice if they wanted to meet the brother.

James Oakshott was a tall man with the blonde hair as his sisters and a strong chin. He looked nothing like the description of the man who lost his hat – or what Sherlock had deduced about him, anyway. John was fairly disappointed (not in his friend, of course, but it meant James wasn't the thief, and they had wasted their time).

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Oakshott. I am terribly sorry to intrude on your holiday, but you'll understand that the case is of significant importance to our client, who was robbed of their precious blue gem."

"Of course, Detective Inspector. Please do sit down, and ask me whatever you'd like."

Sherlock nodded in contentment, and John had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. If Lestrade ever heard of this, he'd be appalled, he thought. Or laugh his head off.

"Ms. Oakshott told us yesterday you were coming with your wife Catherine..."

"Oh, yes. She's my girlfriend, not my wife. She got delayed in London, and should be joining me in a few days – perhaps tomorrow, even!"

He was trying hard to sound cheerful, but the nervousness in his eyes was quite obvious, even to John. And probably to Emily, too, for she stood up and offered promptly:

"Would anyone like a cup of tea? Coffee, perhaps?"

"No, than–" John began.

"With pleasure," Sherlock interrupted, sending Ms. Oakshott a winning smile. "Coffee would be great. Black, two sugars." She blushed very slightly, and went off to the kitchen. John looked away so as not to glare at his friend, but Sherlock noticed anyway.

James, on the other hand, was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he didn't see anything.

"So, tell me, Mr. Oakshott," Sherlock resumed, "did you leave the goose you were supposed to give to your sister Maggie somewhere at one point, and do you think someone could have had access to it without you noticing."

"Well, I came with the train, last time, so I did leave it sometimes with my luggage when I went to the loo... But other than that..."

"I see. And you did not put the gem yourself in it, did you?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed forcefully as his sister re-entered the room with coffee.

"Naturally. And may I ask, what do you do?"

"My job, you mean? I'm a carpenter."

"And Catherine?"

At this, James furrowed his brow.

"What does she have to do with anything?"

"I don't know. Nothing, maybe."

James shrugged, but his right hand was quivering and he took the cup of coffee Emily was giving him with his left hand, hiding the right one. John noticed, and frowned, rather puzzled.

"She's a cleaning lady," he says finally, and John wonders if he is ashamed of his girlfriend's job, for he doesn't seem very keen to expand on the subject. But Sherlock doesn't insist, and after he's drank his coffee, stands and thanks the Oakshott for their cooperation.

"I will be sure to let you know once we have caught the criminal," he said. Then, turning to Emily pointedly, he handed her a name card.

"Here is my number. Please call me if anything else comes back to your mind, or if anything new happens. Who knows, maybe you'll find another gem in one of your geese soon!"

"Hopefully not, Mr. Lestrade," Emily retorted, her cheeks pink. This time, John glared.

"Why did you need to leave her your umber? Is it your real number?"

"Of course it's my real number, John. Just not my real name."

"But obviously James Oakshott isn't our man, so why..."

"Yes, indeed! We must go back to London right away to find that man. His testimony will probably be necessary to expose James Oakshott."

John jumped.

"To expose him?! But I thought he wasn't the criminal!"

"Oh yes, he is."

"But yesterday you told Emily..."

"...that I would do everything I can to prove that her brother was not guilty of a crime he did not commit. He did commit this one."

John grinned.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

The train journey back to London wasn't as horrible as when they'd gone to Brixton, but was still very quiet. They were sitting face to face in a private compartment again, and the other seats weren't reserved. Sometimes, John suspected Sherlock of buying all of them, just so he wouldn't have to bother with people sitting next to him.

In this instant, however, John wanted very much to sit next to him. And possibly to fall asleep and unintentionally rest his head on his shoulder.

He looked away and tried to concentrate on the scenery. That was something else, he thought. Even if Sherlock did care for him, he wasn't one to be affectionate. At all. And John liked tokens of affection. He always enjoyed holding his girlfriends' hand in the street, to kiss her good morning or good night... He wasn't a romantic, so to speak, but he still liked the attention. And surely that was the kind of silliness Sherlock would never indulge him.

"I'm just going to take a walk," John suddenly said, standing. Sherlock stared.

"A walk? On a train?"

"Yes. I need to stretch my legs a bit."

"...Right." But he did not make any other comment, and soon his gaze was lost out of the window again. John repressed a sigh, and walked out, sliding the door behind him morosely. Better get out now than blurt out something stupid while he was in there with Sherlock, he thought decidedly as he marched away.

In the end, he spend the whole journey away from the compartment, and only went back ten minutes before the train was to arrive in London. His eyes were cast down as he entered the compartment, and so he did not see what was lying on the seat before he'd closed the door behind him. When he did see it, though, his jaw dropped, and he was about to run away and shout for help when he remembered that this was Sherlock.

Oh God. He was stuck on a train with a tiger, and supposed to get off at Victoria station in less than ten minutes...

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«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

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tbc

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