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Chapter 15 _ 221B Paw Stories

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221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


Chapter 15

For the gentle wind does move


Maybe this hadn't been a good idea.

They were standing a little way down the street of the house of Brad Campbell's wife, staring at said house. Or, to be more specific, Sherlock was standing, and John was in his arms.

In any other situation the doctor would have found little objection to that, but considering their current surroundings and goal, he found that he was far from satisfied with his friend's reasoning — "John, you are not a stray cat and have never set... paw on the London pavement before. Therefore it is only logical that I carry you until it is necessary you scurry off on your own. Don't act as if it were insulting."

Oh yeah? What exactly wasn't insulting about being treated like a bloody house cat — John did not dare think pet? And scurrying off? John almost bit Sherlock at that point, but decided that would be most undignified and settled for gritting his teeth.

He looked up at the consulting detective and caught his eye.

So now, what?

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well, I suppose you should get closer and see if you can find a way into Helena Whittaker's house. Then you will come and report to me, and we will decide on the best course of action."

John snorted. Report? Did Sherlock believe himself to be some kind of colonel? More importantly, how was John supposed to report in this form? This was just ridiculous.

But the thought of doing something on his own, even if it was very akin to obeying an order in this case, was appealing enough for the manul to nod stiffly and not snap at him. Sherlock nodded as well, a little too curtly for John's comfort, and let him go. As he crossed the street, he focused very hard on not doing anything that could even remotely be seen as scurrying, and let relief wash over him.

He blinked. Relief? What was there to be relieved about? He had no idea, yet he distinctly felt like he had been relieved of a weight. He blinked, then groaned as recognition dawned on him. This was wrong, so wrong. Since when was being held by Sherlock uncomfortable?

...the question might as well be reversed, though. Since when had cuddling with Sherlock not felt awkward? It had happened so naturally John didn't how to account for it. Sherlock's company had never been uncomfortable. Unpleasant, at times — rarely, if John had to be honest, and only because Sherlock was being overly irritating — but never awkward. Except that one time at Angelo's, of course. Now that really had been awkward, all the more so as John hadn't been aware of what he was saying at the time, truly hadn't meant anything by it; a Freudian slip, one might say. Except it wasn't exactly a slip. Still, he hadn't been hitting on Sherlock. That was preposterous.

It was as he entered the garden to the house that John realized why this situation was so foreign — apart from the fact that he was in love with a man and was currently a stupid cat: he had never flirted with Sherlock.

John wasn't always a romantic, and he certainly had commitment issues (although he would argue that this was beyond the realm of his own responsibility). But still, he always relied on codes. Approaching. Feeling the water. Courting, which usually involved a good deal of Making her laugh. Then invite her for a drink, or dinner. From then on, it could either turn into what one would call a one-night stand, although John had less control on those things, and hadn't been drawn into one for years; or develop into the other option, by far the most common one: dating. And then, shagging.

Those steps were easy enough, and most of all, they worked. John didn't have to rack his brain about it. He never felt awkward with a woman, except, maybe, when their first date turned into kidnapping and life-threatening encounters with the Chinese Mafia. Yep, that was definitely not an experience John would want to repeat, at least not with a girlfriend. With Sherlock, it would be fine. Sherlock was used to it. He was reckless and John often had to come to his rescue because the idiot was a bloody daredevil, but never could the consulting detective be considered a burden.

John froze as he stepped in the grass under one of the windows. Did I just think of Sarah as a burden? That was harsh. If not downright horrible. Again, he groaned. No wonder he couldn't sustain a relationship with anyone if his standards for a good partner were Sherlock. But this should no longer be an issue. After all, he had Sherlock. Didn't he?

It was surprising how little Sherlock had seemed disturbed by John's sudden profession of love – clearly it wasn't something the detective had anticipated in any way, considering he was the one to invite Maggie over for dinner. With a genuinely good intent. For somebody who claimed to be married to his work, his reaction had been mild to say the least. Of course he had looked stunned for a second, but then he hadn't asked John anything. Not what he meant by that. Not what it meant for them. Not how they should be dealing with this, if at all.

Clearly they weren't dealing with it. John now realized that he should have been the one to address all those issues. Sherlock had been honest, this wasn't his area. When they had met he'd made it clear that he wasn't interested in any kind of relationship and felt fulfilled with his job. What he had offered was a flatshare, which had turned into a friendship. Nothing extraordinary there. Except that this friendship had taken more room in their lives than either of them had ever intended.

There was the rub. They were friends and flatmates. They investigated together. They spent a lot of time together. And they enjoyed it. All of this was fine. But then John had to go and confess. It had seemed so right at the moment, so limpid in his mind. I am in love with Sherlock. He had said it just as he'd accepted to acknowledge it and come to terms with it, not realizing the long-term impact such a revelation could have on their relationship. They should have talked about it. They should have–

"Oh, look Alicia! A cat!"

For an insane second, John thought: a cat? Where? Then he was picked up from the ground by small hands and yelped.

He had just been abducted by a five-year-old; he would never live this down.


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


Sherlock was not nervous.

He would never apply the expression "nerves of steel" to his own person, mostly because it seemed irrelevant. But he still prided himself on having scarcer emotional responses than most due to his superior intellect which allowed him to regulate said responses.

Consequently there was no reason for him to feel nervousness at this point, and so he firmly told himself that he was perfectly calm. It had been approximately 45 seconds since John had disappeared under the hedge. From where he was standing, Sherlock could not see him proceed farther, and he grimly admitted to himself that it unnerved him.

Still, he was not nervous. Slightly frustrated and impatient, obviously. Never liked to wait. Especially in such a boring residential street where he was done deducing everything he could about the residents and their visiting friends from California and their sometimes exotic pets and their absolutely boring, uneventful lives in exactly 2 minutes.

Sherlock had been standing there with John for 3 minutes before he had finally let go of the manul and watched him cross the road and disappear under the hedge – 1.05 minutes now – which meant that for an entire minute Sherlock had to wonder why he was still holding John in his arms instead of telling him to go and get on with the plan. Or so John had called it.

Sherlock snorted. Not much of a plan. 1.10. But it was good enough. 1.12. It involved John participating actively in this investigation and, hopefully, would contribute to making him feel less insignificant and mediocre, two things he clearly was not, even according to Sherlock's standards. Perhaps particularly according to Sherlock's standards. 1.30. He stopped to think about this. What made John not insignificant and mediocre? 1.35.

Well, for one thing John was Sherlock's flatmate and colleague, so the significance he held for Sherlock was clear. 1.40. Then mediocre. Certainly John's intelligence was average, though perhaps slightly more than that, considering his education and training; still, to Sherlock, average. 1.47. But John was exceptional because he could deal with Sherlock like no one else ever could. 1.55. In fact he could deal with Sherlock, full stop. 2.00.

At least he had been able to until recently. What had happened the previous night for John to transform into a manul was gradually becoming clearer to Sherlock. Nothing specific, of course; one could not expect him to have extended knowledge on the matter. But he got the general idea. John had wanted him. The expression was a little too vague to Sherlock's liking, so he tried to be more precise. Last night John had desired to engage in sexual intercourse with him, had failed both to initiate it without words or to voice his wish, and it had resulted in him waking up as a manul.

Sherlock frowned. There seemed to be a step missing somewhere. From the data he had gathered to this date, transformations occurred when one of them was feeling miserable or lonely. His brow furrowed even more. That was hardly accurate enough a statement. He tried again.

Transformations were triggered by a sizeable cluster of negative and unpleasant emotions, all of which could usually be dispelled by the close presence of the other, as in cuddling. It was when they relaxed enough to fall asleep together that they managed to transform back.

So the missing step was how John had gone from a state of longing and possibly arousal to one of (at least mild) despair, when Sherlock had been right there in his arms for him to take.

The consulting detective's frown intensified. He had not observed any signs indicating that John wanted more than what they usually had when they slept together. Sherlock would have noticed if John's heart rate had been quicker than usual, if his body had been warmer and perhaps a little sweaty, and even more if he had had an erection.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance. Was John expecting him of all people to make the first move? Or was he not expecting him to do anything? The one thing that unnerved Sherlock the most was the lack of data on this issue. Was John restraining himself for his own sake or for Sherlock's? What had been his line of reasoning? Had there been a line of reasoning or had it all been about sentiments, in which case it was even more unlikely that Sherlock would understand what was going on in John's head?

The most logical course of action would have been to talk with John about it. However considering John's current form, i.e. one that did not enable him to speak, this would have to wait until John was a man again. And even then…

A yelp. Sherlock's eyes widened. John.


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


"Let me hold him, Danny!"

"No, it's my turn now!"

"Shh, mum will hear."

John was crouched in the shadows of a corner of the room – the children's bedroom, apparently, his chest fluttering with panic, wondering what he had got himself into.

"But I'm the one who likes cats, I know you like dogs!"

"I like cats too!"

And I'm not a bloody cat, John growled. The two kids blinked at him with round eyes. Scaring them was an option, but one John was not ready to choose – what if the adult in the house truly thought he was a threat to the children and beat him to death? No matter how much he hated to admit it, in this form he wasn't much of a danger for anyone. A man or even a woman could probably knock him out with a broom.

"Alicia? Daniel? Dinner's ready!"

Great. Dinner. That was good. Come on, kids. You're hungry. I know you're hungry.

"What should we do with him?"

"It's a she!"

"No, it's a he!"

"Shh! So what should we do with… it?"

John snarled. The girl started, but the little boy grinned mischievously.

"Let's just close the door when we go! We'll play with him when we come back."

"With her."

"How can you know? You just want it to be a girl because you're a girl!"

The little girl scoffed.

"Daniel! Alicia!"

"Coming!"

And with those words, the two kids left. And closed the door. John whimpered. Of course they had closed the window as well, and there was no way he could escape. He would have to wait. He sincerely hoped that he would get an opportunity to flee this house before Sherlock came to the rescue – for some reason, this was slightly more embarrassing than waiting to be saved when you were strapped to a chair in a tunnel with the Chinese Mafia.

Slowly, John moved towards the door and listened. He could hear people talk in another room, probably the kitchen as he heard the clatter of knives and forks. But they were too far away for him to make out what they were saying. He looked up to the door handle and searched the darkness of the room for some kind of furniture – a chest of drawer, a bed, anything that would allow him to jump on the handle and open the door. But there was nothing in the room to make this plan even remotely feasible.

Just when he was starting to accept the fact that he would have to wait in this room until Sherlock came to get him, John heard footsteps down the corridor and froze as they stopped in front of the room.

"Did you see Gus?" a male voice asked.

"No," the woman who had called the kids earlier replied, "but he should be inside."

Gus? A third kid? John swallowed uneasily.

"Don't worry, dear, he'll come to eat his mash when he's hungry."

"Let me just check the kids' room."

John barely had time to hide under the bed before the man opened the door and turned on the light. The manul tried very hard not to make a sound, and almost failed when he turned his head and saw a giant spider – his heart missed a beat, then he remembered he was a cat. He still crawled away from the eight-legged monster that must have been at least as big as his cheek. This was stupid. The moment the light was turned off he dashed out from under the bed. He was not scared of spiders. Hell, he'd seen much more horrible ones in Afghanistan. But as a cat that one had still been too big for his comfort. He couldn't possibly swat it properly with paws.

As the footsteps receded down the corridor – probably towards the kitchen – John realized the door had been left open. He grinned. Cautiously, he stepped outside the room, and looked around. At the end of the corridor he could see the kitchen. The boy – Daniel – was sitting back to him, and his mother was facing the stove, her back to John as well. Daniel was talking animatedly to his sister sitting next to him, but whom John could not see, and the man – stepfather? – was next to the woman, helping out with the dishes. This was the perfect time to take a look around.

Surreptitiously, John walked down the corridor the other way. There was the bathroom, which was of limited interest, then the couple's bedroom. Nothing special there – double-bed, computer, a giant wardrobe (or maybe a normal-sized wardrobe that only looked giant because of his size) and a full-length mirror. John stopped in front of it. He really did look ridiculous, didn't he? Like a cuddly toy. He swallowed.

Was this why Sherlock enjoyed cuddling with him? Because he wasn't hugged enough as a kid and never had a cuddly toy, maybe? John snorted. What was he thinking?

Sherlock's childhood was something he never thought asking his friend about. Their relationship had never been intimate enough for such inquiries – what guy asks his male friend if he had a teddy bear as kid?

In any case, he wasn't being fair, and he knew it. Sherlock had probably felt more comfortable approaching physically his cat form at first, but last night had clearly showed that he didn't mind hugging him as a man too. His embrace had been just has warm, just as trusting; John hated himself for not having been satisfied with it.

He flinched. No, technically he had been satisfied. But his body hadn't. His body had thought it was a marvelous idea to find Sherlock's warmth arousing, his trust intoxicating.

John sighed. Then heard another sigh. One that wasn't his. He looked up in the mirror with horror and saw, standing behind him, coming closer, a Rottweiler. He must have just entered the room, for John hadn't heard him coming. At all. He stood very still, trying to breathe slowly.

Could things get any worse?


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


When Sherlock reached the garden of the house, John was nowhere to be seen. As expected. Sherlock's gaze scanned the grass where John must have stepped, and stopped in front of a ground level window. His eyes turned to slits.

This is where the abduction must have taken place. There were no traces of a fight, so it was implausible that John had been attacked by some other animal. Sherlock let out a silent sigh of relief. It was short-lived. Soon his eyes had fallen on the kennel in one of the corners of the garden. It looked like a small house with a red roof. Trite. Sherlock swallowed. A kennel. Engraved on the wood, a name.

"Gus!" a voice called from another window Sherlock could not see.

"I told you, he's not outside. He'll come out when he's hungry. Come on, sit down."

The second voice was a woman's. It was strained and somewhat on edge. Clearly Brad Campbell's ex-wife. Covertly, Sherlock walked around the house and sidled up to the window where the voices had come from. It was still half open, enough for him to hear what was being said inside.

"Daniel, eat your vegetables."

Well, that was captivating. Vegetables, really. Sherlock repressed a groan. Could they make it any more boring?

"Honey, could you give me the gravy, please?"

They could. All that prevented Sherlock from walking away was the fact that even if the dog had already found John, at least no harm had come upon him; Sherlock (and everyone else, for that matter) would have heard them if they had been in the process of tearing each other to pieces.

Sherlock decided it would be enough to only half-listen and noted what could be of some importance. Stepfather, got along with the kids, who did not mention their father at all. In fact, nobody mentioned Brad Campbell, and they all seemed rather cheerful. Not traumatized in any way. Certainly not in mourning.

The only thing that suggested this was not the wrong house was the tension in the woman's voice. Apparently, she had not informed her children of the situation. This was rather illogical, but Sherlock did not dwell on it. He would have to tell Lestrade that this was not exactly what he would call a thorough interrogation of the family. But the children were young. They must have been in school when their father was murdered. And considering their height, it was impossible for them to have shot the man.

He almost heard John's disbelieving voice: considering their height? Are you serious? Well. Perhaps they were a little too young to know how to hold a handgun and shoot efficiently, Sherlock conceded. He focused on the stepfather. Obviously putting up a strong front. But he did not sound nervous or afraid. Concerned, maybe, and gentle when he addressed the woman. Exceedingly enthusiastic when addressing the children.

After exactly 4 minutes, Sherlock had had enough. As quietly as he had come, he left and went to the other windows, peeping inside, looking for John. The door to the children's room had been slightly open when he had looked. They must have closed it before going to dinner, but somebody else had gone into the room after that, and failed to close it. Therefore John must have gone to explore the house.

Sherlock saw no sign of him in the bathroom, and he could not have missed him there. But when he got to the other bedroom, that of Helena Whittaker and her new companion, he could hardly see anything at all. He frowned. This was where John was most likely hiding. There might have been a cupboard somewhere, but there was no study, and the living-room was lit so if John had been there, Sherlock would have noticed. So in all likelihood, this was the room where he must be hiding.

He squinted and scanned the darkness, but did not spot any furry ball. Under the bed, perhaps? Well, it did not matter. Sherlock would find him in time. He heard the children go back to their bedroom, turning on the light, and went to glance through the window. They looked devastated at the disappearance of the manul. Sherlock smirked. Discreetly, he made his way to the kitchen again. The door was closed, but the window was still half open. The couple was cleaning the table and washing the dishes, and the woman looked much more tired and fragile than previously. Interesting.

"Darling, let me take care of this. You should really get some rest."

"Some rest, George? Some rest won't start to cover it."

"Well, it is a start," he said gently but firmly, putting a hand on her shoulder. She shuddered and shook it off rather harshly, before throwing herself into his arms and sobbing. People never made any sense when they were emotional, did they?

"I wasn't there for him, oh George, he's still the father of my children, how could I..."

"Love, he was depressed, and he never meddled with the right sort, did he? He had a therapist, this wasn't your responsibility, and anyway the police think it's murder... Oh, darling. This isn't your fault, it's not your fault love. Shh, I'm here. It's all right. I'm with you."

Oddly enough, those truisms seemed to alleviate the woman's turmoil. Gradually her breathing became more regular and she dried her tears. He stroked her hair and kept whispering in her ear things Sherlock didn't mind not hearing. His eyes stopped on the fridge, where a few notes were stuck. On one of them, the writing was identical to that of the letters received by the police.

Just when Sherlock was drawing the various possible conclusions to his observation, he noted that the man's eyes were fixed on the fridge too, and as if he had heard Sherlock's silent inquiry, he said:

"Did the police talk to Henry?"

At this the woman stepped back and glared at him. "Why are you mentioning him now?"

"Well, I just saw his note on the fridge and thought..." He did not finish his sentence, probably regretting ever uttering that name— Henry, seeing as Helena Whittaker reacted to it.

"His note?" she said, voice blank. She turned to the fridge. Her eyes widened and she paled abruptly before sitting down as if her legs were giving way.

"What? What is it?"

"Oh God, George, that handwriting... I hadn't realized."

"What are you talking about?"

Shakily, she pointed at the fridge.

"The letters the police showed me... The letters they received... It's Henry's handwriting."

They looked at each other voicelessly.

Sherlock clicked his tongue. Henry. Not Brad. Who was Henry? He'd written on Brad's notepad next to the phone in Brad's house, so somebody close. Brother? Boyfriend?

"Should... should we call the police?" the man asked.

"I'll call them first thing in the morning."

"You don't think... you don't think Henry could be dangerous, do you?"

"How would I know?" she clipped. She sounded upset, something close to irritation quivering in her voice.

They fell silent. Sherlock waited for them to resume their conversation, but they didn't. They simply finished what they were doing in the kitchen and left, closing the window before turning off the light. Automatically, Sherlock walked around the house back to the children's bedroom window.

"Did you brush your teeth?" the mother asked them. They had changed into their night clothes but were still looking crestfallen. "What's with the faces?"

"Mummy, we—"

"It's nothing," Alicia interrupted. "Where's Gus?"

Helena shrugged. "Probably in our room. You know he likes to sneak under the bed."

"Can we play a bit longer?" Daniel asked, vaguely waving at the pile of toys on the floor. The woman nodded.

"All right. But after you've brushed your teeth."

Sherlock tried to think of the everyday conversations he had with John — not even conversations, just verbal exchanges. Were they as trite as this? Could you give me the sauce, brush your teeth, eat your vegetables? Sherlock blinked. He thought he remembered John telling him something similar once. Perhaps not vegetables, but something that had to do with food. Still, that was only one occurrence. It wasn't something John said to him every day.

Maybe because they were flatmates, they did not feel obliged to make small talk and thus avoided wasting their breaths over such mundane matters. Well, admittedly John did waste his breath over such matters, but with other people. Girlfriends, mostly.

Sherlock swallowed. Was he supposed to play that role as well now? Make small talk? Be considerate? Well. He had made considerable progress in this respect over the past few months, ever since the transformations had begun; and even before that.

Soon enough Sherlock had realized that he did not like upsetting John in any way. Always it elicited a complementary response on his part, just as negative: guilt, shame, embarrassment, annoyance. Always mild feelings, of course. But apart from Mycroft, who was unbeatable in the field of irritating Sherlock, John was the only one who could elicit such responses. Irene Adler had confused him. Mrs. Hudson was capable of making him feel sheepish, but it wasn't frequent. Lestrade could annoy him, but Sherlock knew how to retaliate, and often the D.I. relented because, after all, he truly needed his services.

But John could elicit a wide range of responses and not often did Sherlock felt like antagonizing him, if ever. In any case, he had got better at this living-together sociability. He had not put a head in the fridge again, because he had sensed John's slight (although completely unjustified) unease and disgust the first time. Then again, John used the refrigerator for personal nutritional purposes, unlike Sherlock who treated it as an instrument of science. It was to be noted that the consulting detective had been very understanding and had progressively allowed the doctor to use his laboratory as a kitchen, all for the sake of peaceful communal life.

All in all, it was only logical that each of them should adapt to a certain extent to the needs and habits of the other, so as to find a viable balance enabling them to continue their association.

Speaking of which, it was high time Sherlock went in to get John back. As he walked around the house again, he stopped by the couple's bedroom window. It was closed, so he could not hear what they were saying, but he could observe. And observe he did.

The man was sitting on the bed when Helena came in, and he stood as she turned to the closed door and started to strip to put on her night clothes. He walked up to her, interrupted her, and kissed her. To Sherlock's surprise, she kissed him back, but a few seconds later she did the logical thing and pushed him back, shaking her head. He did not give up and instead kissed her temple, then he chin, and down her neck. Gradually, after much fondling and kissing, he brought her to the bed and they lay down together. Sherlock watched with interest. So that was how you coaxed somebody into sex. Better start not too far from a bed, apparently. He blinked. Right. The bed. John.


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


John knew this was never something you should ask, not even yourself. Could things get any worse?

They always could.

It turned out the Rottweiler was harmless. Or perhaps he was just fond of cats and manuls in particular. When it had nuzzled John in the bedroom, he had tried very hard not to move. Not to breathe. When it had pushed him towards the bed, he had retreated gladly and hid under it. And then unexpectedly the dog had tried to join him under the bed and succeeded in doing so, despite its enormous size. Well. It certainly looked enormous to John anyway.

The dog was now lying next to John peacefully, its head resting on its front paws. John couldn't fathom why it liked to be squeezed under a bed when he could have gone just anywhere in the house, but clearly it did. John had waited for a while before trying to leave, and then it had been too late: the children were back in their room, and the manul realized that Gus's company was in fact much better than theirs. So far, so good.

But then of course Helena and George just had to come back to their room and start to make out on the bed. John had nothing against kinks, but voyeurism wasn't one of them, and when the couple started to pound quietly on the mattress above him, he glanced at the closed door desperately, then at his new friend lying dispassionately by his side. The dog just looked back at him, expressionless. It obviously did not mind the pounding above its head.

John stifled a mew. What am I doing here? And what in the world was Sherlock doing?

Just as he thought this, as if it had all been calculated, the doorbell rang. John's breath caught in his throat and he pricked his ears. Above him, the man groaned something and relieved the mattress from his weight.

"Who the hell can it be?"

"Wait, George! Check who it is before you open the door."

"You think it could be Henry?"

"I don't know."

The man left the room, soon followed by the woman who hastily put on her night robe.

"Wait a minute, don't come in!" John heard from down the corridor. "Who do you think you—"

"I believe your children have abducted my cat."

"What the—"

"Well, they're not your children, but it hardly matters."

"Sir, you must leave this house or I'm calling the police."

"Marvelous, say hi to them for me."

"Sir—"

Footsteps down the corridors, getting closer. And finally, Sherlock's shoes in the doorway. John glanced at the dog next to him, not sure of its reaction if he were to make a run to the door. The dog blinked. John blinked. Thankfully Sherlock, being Sherlock, was already bending down and looking under the bed. He smiled.

"There you are."

John growled. You sure took your time!

"You can't barge into people's houses like this!"

"I just did," Sherlock deadpanned as he picked John from under the bed and stood up, cradling him. "And this is my cat."

"Your... Daniel! Alicia!" the mother called angrily.

Apparently the children had already opened their door to see what the ruckus was all about, but had hidden behind it again when they heard Sherlock mention his cat.

"Please explain," she said curtly.

"Sorry, we didn't know it was somebody else's."

"It didn't look like a pet."

"Yeah, we couldn't have known it had a master already!"

John glared at them viciously.

"It does look wild," George grumbled, and John could have sworn Sherlock stifled a chuckle.

"Apologize immediately," Helena demanded.

"Sorry," they muttered in unison.

"...Right," Sherlock said awkwardly, clearly not having expected such a turn of events.

"Darling, he should be the one apologizing for barging in like this!" George protested.

"Will you kindly leave our house now that you have retrieved your cat?" she said, ignoring her companion.

"Certainly," Sherlock replied.

As he walked to the door, the children followed him, and finally before he went out Alicia asked:

"Is it a girl, or a boy?"

Sherlock grinned.

"A girl."

John bit him. Hard.


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


"Well, that was interesting," Sherlock declared as he dropped into the sofa. He glanced at John. "Don't glare at me like that, you know perfectly well that I couldn't have talked to you on the cab ride."

You used to talk to a bloody skull! How is that any better?

"So, your impressions?"

John kept glowering and made no move towards the laptop to type any answer. Sherlock frowned.

"What are you so upset about? You got in successfully, you did not come to harm, neither did I, and we managed to get some precious information."

John pouted. Sherlock considered commenting on how silly a pout looked on a manul's face, but found he rather liked it and did not want John to stop. A very small smile graced his face.

"All right. That's enough for today. Come here."

John scoffed and walked to Sherlock's bedroom instead. The consulting detective smiled. Perhaps it was a good sign if John chose the bed over the sofa without any incentive. Then again, he seemed to have been rather traumatized by the whole dropping-on-the-floor-covering-himself-with-a-pill ow experience.

Sherlock paused in the bedroom before stripping and putting on his pajamas. In the end, he decided against putting his plan into action tonight. He changed quickly and joined John in the bed, turning off the light.

"Stop being upset about it," he murmured, pulling the manul towards him and stroking his fur gently.

You did it to upset me! A girl, really?

Sherlock leant in and kissed his left ear, which quivered endearingly. He closed his eyes.

"You weren't useless. It was good you got kidnapped so I could see the interior of the house."

Great. Any time, Sherlock. Just tell me when you need to get into a house and I'll make sure to be taken in by a member of the household so you can come to the rescue.

"Stop being so difficult," Sherlock said quietly into the fur of John's neck, and his caresses were so gentle, his touch so soothing, that the manul wondered if for once he shouldn't give in. All the more so as he heard, perhaps mistakenly, something like a request, if not a plea, in Sherlock's tone. He was being difficult, wasn't he? Suddenly some stupid joke didn't seem to matter in the least. John remembered the sheer panic he had felt upon hearing about the explosion of Brad Campbell's house. A wave of joy and relief washed over him, and something else, the feeling that he was very lucky. Sherlock was alive. He was alive, and he was holding him, accepting his company, wanting it, seeking it, as if John was a necessary part of him. And John felt grateful for it. The way they now so naturally cuddled was precious. Gradually, he felt his muscles relax under the warmth of Sherlock's hands, and rested his brow against Sherlock's collarbone.

He realized with some surprise that Sherlock too relaxed in the embrace, his body slackening: first the shoulders then the neck, the arms... His breathing became slower and more regular. John was touched. Touched to see that, if anything, he could help Sherlock to rest and make him stay in a bed longer than he usually did. He blushed at the thought, cursing himself for the unintended meaning — and the images it conjured up. But thankfully, he did not get aroused. Soon all sensual images were replaced by that of Sherlock as a child, or how John imagined him to be as a child, and how lonely he must have been. God, we all hated him, Sebastian Wilkes had said. Despicable. They had missed out on so much. Sherlock was not "bound to live and die alone", as Maggie had so kindly put it; and John was determined to show it to him in every way. He snuggled up closer to him.

As he felt the soft purr against his chest, Sherlock smiled unwittingly.

People should never bother with sleeping pills. Manuls are so much better.


«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»


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tbc

A.N.: It's been quite a long time since the last update, but now they should be a lot more regular and frequent, as I have completed one of my ongoing works. Thank you for your patience! I know many of you got quite frustrated, feeling that I was neglecting this story because I had lost interest in it: that is not the case, and I intend to complete this story just like any other :)

This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz. Hope you enjoy reading it! Reviewers are loved.
Comments6
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rosariogirl54321's avatar
Wow.
This is just so . . .
. . . entertaining, fantastical, amazing, brilliant . . .
. . . yeah.
These are some of the most enjoyable stories I have read in a while.
Good job, you magnificent genius, you.
And why?
Why did it have to end just there?
With no continuation in the next five seconds?
Ahh, cruel world. How you wrong me so.
Anyway, just wanted to say, oh yeah, man.
My sister and I loved it.
Go on, you marvelous mastermind!
Be free, just as you're meant to be!
Free to roam, free to fly.
Free to write the next chapters at any given moment you like, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
If you get my subtle and well-hidden meaning.
Rock (or cotton-ball, whichever one) on like the wicked virtuoso you are, my brilliant one.
Rule the world!