Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A/N: This is the continuation of my story Sherlock Holmes's Paw stories. You really should read it first if you want to get what's going on here ;) Hope you enjoy reading, please tell me what you think ! Reviewers are loved :)
P.S.: if you can't picture exactly what a manul is, just google it... Really, it's worth it xD
Edit: This chapter was betaed by Salsify, Tigzzz and Anbessette. All my thanks!

John was late coming down that morning. Sherlock had been up most of the night, as usual, and was now checking his website to see if there were any new cases. There were none. He sighed.

9am. What was John doing? He hadn't gone out last night, and he habitually got up around 7. Sherlock hadn't even heard him shower this morning. In fact, he hadn't heard anything at all coming from the upper room. His thoughts suddenly grew uneasy. What if John was ill? A fever perhaps? But he was a doctor, Sherlock wouldn't be useful with something like that. Would he? No, definitely not. There was no point in going up to check on him. No point at all.

Five minutes of finger-tapping on the kitchen table later, Sherlock went up.

Knocking on the door, he tilted his head and tried to catch the slightest noise. Nothing. Gingerly, he pushed the door open and popped his head in.

"John?" he said softly.

The curtains were drawn and the bed had been slept in, but there was no trace of his flatmate. Sherlock was getting more concerned – and more curious – by the second. He hadn't heard John go out at all, even though he'd been up most of the night. John could have walked down the stairs while he was taking a nap, but it was highly improbable that the unsleeping detective would have missed the telltale creaking of the steps... Sherlock observed the crumpled sheets for a minute before leaving thoughtfully. He was half-way down the stairs when he stopped dead in his tracks. Hadn't John cut his hair recently?

Oh.

He smirked gleefully. In a second he was back into the room examining the sheets again. He shook his head. John, John, always so careless... Kneeling down and bending until his head almost touched the floor, he looked under the bed. His gaze was met by a steely, slit-eyed glower staring directly back at him.

"Hello, there," he greeted, grinning triumphantly.

The manul opened his mouth wide and hissed venomously, showing sharp little teeth.

"Oh, don't do that, it only makes you look cuter."

The poor cat squealed and crouched as if he were ready to pounce – or just to hide further away, Sherlock wasn't sure.

"So this is where you've been hiding all morning. I'm not going to hurt you, you know. I'm not the one who shoots about randomly first thing in the morning."

The feline yowled throatily in what was probably meant to be a frightening way. Sherlock sighed.

"Don't be stupid John, you're not going to stay here all day."

Yes I am, screamed the incandescent eyes. But all that came out was a snarl.

Sherlock extended a hand under the bed in an attempt to catch the stout and plushy animal, pulling it back again with a cry of protest as the ridiculously sharp teeth bit him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, John? Get out of there right now!"

A low growl was the only answer he got.

"Fine", he grumbled. "Have it your way, then."

Standing back up, he dived onto the bed and ran his hand under from the other side, catching the cat's tail with a firm grip, and pulling forcefully.

A wild screech filled the room as the manul scratched the floor with his claws, desperately trying to resist. In vain. But Sherlock knew it would be too painful to go on holding him up by his tail – even though mostly fur, he was undoubtedly heavy as well – so he soon had the cat pinned to the bed.

Oh all right, maybe he just wanted to hold him down, to feel the soft fur, and to have the pleasure of overpowering the ex-soldier. It was something he'd probably have a much harder time doing were he in human form.

"Come on, kitty, stop struggling," he whispered with a wolfish grin that made the manul shriek. He carelessly hovered too close, however, and the frenzied cat lashed out at him, scratching his cheek and drawing blood.

"Ow! Oh, so you want to play? Maybe I should just experiment on you to find out more about this whole transfiguration mess, um? Splitting you open would probably help, or examining your brain, perhaps? Since you understand me when I speak, there must still be something human that enables you to be receptive to speech, even if you obviously can't use it yourself..."

The manul now lay very still under Sherlock's arms, apparently persuaded. The glint in his flatmate's eyes was enough to tell John that he was only half-joking, and that maybe he would just be crazy enough to dissect him for the progress of science. Of course, he was wrong there. Sherlock was merely enjoying his newly-found dominance. He smirked smugly as the poor cat went even limper in fear of becoming his guinea pig.

"Good, now you're listening. Breakfast?"

When John had woken this morning, he'd known something was wrong straight away. For one, his pillow didn't feel right. It seemed excessively large, and, on second thought, so did his bed. Then there was the fact that he felt like he was wearing a night gown, or might have been wrapped in a sleeping bag, perhaps. Finally he saw a paw on the white sheet before him, and groaned in desperation. Not again.

And it was morning to boot! Last time it'd been at night – and with Sherlock, too, always at night. Which was a good thing, since John had no idea how he'd hide a tiger in their flat during the day - especially if said tiger was in fact an infuriating consulting detective who couldn't keep still in one place and was bored to death the moment the Work was on hiatus.

… which was in fact the case presently. Oh God. There was no way he was going to face his flatmate while in this form on one of his I'll-shoot-the-smiley-face-on-the-wall-until-I-get-a-case day. No bloody way.

So he stayed in his room and jumped to hide under the bed the moment he heard the door to their living-room open and the first steps leading to his room creak. Naturally Sherlock had still found him, and John absolutely hated the way he treated him in manul-form.

Not that he treated him very well as a man either, for sure; but at least he didn't call him cute or adorable then. It was all so unfair. Why did Sherlock get to be a tiger, and he, John Hamish Watson, ex-soldier, army doctor, only got that daffy cat, some poor excuse for a felid?

He whimpered miserably as Sherlock opened the fridge to find something edible – for a cat, that is.

"What do manuls eat, John? Small mammals and perhaps birds, I presume?"

As if I was going to eat that! he hissed back ferociously.

"Don't be daft, John. You can't just eat any sort of human food. You could get sick."

John froze. Had he just guessed that or could he really read a cat's thoughts as well as a man's?

"I don't guess!"

Oh great. John banged his head on the kitchen table dramatically.

"Don't do that, your face if flat enough as it is."

John ignored him and refused to look back up.

"You know, I've been thinking, it really suits you, doesn't it? Pallas's cat. Pallas, one of Athena's epithets. The goddess of heroic endeavour. Well, actually it was named after the German naturalist Peter Simon Pallas, they would never have named such an odd-looking cat after Athena after all, but still I think... Come back here! Oh, don't sulk John, you are ludicrous after all. But somehow you're so ridiculous it's quite adorable. And I was trying to compliment you."

Oh, so you meant "ridiculous" in a nice way, then?

"Yes, I did. You're not dull."

John stared with wide eyes. Sherlock caught his gaze and froze. They stood there for a few seconds, and time seemed to have stopped.

"John," Sherlock murmured...

… before he broke into laughter. John blinked. What?

"Oh John you should have seen your goggling face! Your eyes are so round to begin with, it was just hilarious... Won't you do it again?"

The manul snarled and jumped off the chair he'd been sitting in. He'd had enough.

"Where are you going? You haven't even had breakfast! You always want breakfast."

Why should I? You want to feed me bloody birds, you wacko!

"Fine, fine, I'll make some toast, all right?"

Surprised by the relenting tone, John looked back at his friend. He never thought he would see him prepare breakfast. Maybe he wasn't trying to be insulting – no, John amended, he surely wasn't. Sherlock was terribly tactless, but his rudeness wasn't a sign of spite, just of candour. John jumped back onto the chair and smiled hopefully.

Some tea, too?

Sherlock grinned back.

"All right, but only if you drop the Cheshire-Cat expression."

John's smile fell and he sent him a sullen look, which Sherlock regally ignored.

"Two sugars, was it?"

"Hello boys!"

The manul jumped as Mrs. Hudson bustled into their living-room with a package.

"Someone delivered this for you just now, I was surprised – it's quite early isn't it?"

Only then did she notice that Sherlock was alone in the kitchen.

"Oh, I thought I heard you talking. Isn't Dr. Watson with you?"

"Always," Sherlock replied with an amused wink.

What are you saying, you idiot!

"Ah! What's this?" Mrs. Hudson asked, pointing at John, who had frozen on the spot when she had entered their flat and was now awkwardly reaching towards the toast on the kitchen table.

"Oh, it's the neighbours' cat."

"The neighbours? But they don't have a cat. Mrs. Turner's allergic."

"The other neighbours, then. Or maybe just some alley cat. He comes once in a while because John had the stupid idea to feed him once."

"Are you feeding him toast, Sherlock? Cats don't eat toast!"

"Really?"

John could hear the teasing irony in his voice and glared at him.

"He doesn't seem to like you very much," Mrs. Hudson commented.

"Oh, he'll come round eventually," replied Sherlock with a wide grin.

"I'll just get you some cat biscuits at the supermarket, I was going to do my shopping this morning anyway."

"I don't think that will be necessary, Mrs. Hudson, but thank you very much."

"Oh, you know what? I think I may have some leftovers from when my niece came by with her Siamese! I'll go and check."

"Mrs. Hudson, that's-"

But she was already running down the steps. He shrugged.

"Oh well. Guess we can always keep them just in case."

John hissed and glowered at him – and a glowering manul was so adorable in Sherlock's eyes (to be fair, goofy specimens had always had this effect on him - apparently he'd once wanted to hug a dugong he'd seen at the aquarium as a child because it looked funny, or so Mycroft claimed) that he leant in and in a flash gave the cat a peck on the snout. The manul's hair stood on end, which made him look even sillier in that he already was a giant fluffy hairball. Sherlock gave him a boyish grin that threw John off balance – he blinked, twice, and forgot to snarl.

Mrs. Hudson had indeed brought the biscuits, which were now laid out in a plate next to the toast on the kitchen table.

"It would be wiser not to eat the toast, you know. You're the doctor."

I am NOT eating cat food! And I'm not a veterinarian!

Sherlock chuckled. The manul was looking at the toast pitifully, obviously dying to have some but completely unsure whether a cat's stomach would react well to it or not. Sherlock petted him between the ears and John whined miserably, putting his head on the table, his tail lashing.

Get me tea at least. That should be fine, right?

Sherlock ignored his request and kept stroking his fur, observing him closely. He actually found the weird cat quite beautiful, with his ochre fur and dark vertical bars on the torso and forelegs. He liked the black rings on his tail and the dark spots on his forehead, and most of all those fluffy white cheeks with narrow black stripes running from the corner of the eyes. The manul was so unusual he was entertaining. Sherlock found he enjoyed petting those cheeks and the silky fur of the white chin and throat where it turned greyish on the underparts.

The fact that the manul looked so goofy contributed greatly to Sherlock's affection and interest. Cats were okay, but they were dull. A manul was nowhere near ordinary. Sherlock found everything about the animal so endearingly odd: his round eyes circled by concentric white and black rims, his very short legs, his low and widely set ears and his unusually short claws. Just priceless, he thought. If he'd believed in God, he would have thought that God had created the manul to boost every other animal's self-esteem. Or maybe so people like Sherlock, so practical and who never bothered with plushy toys, would finally understand their appeal. For some unfathomable reason he loved the flattened face and shorter jaw, which had fewer teeth than any other cat's – it was all so silly for a feline that it cheered him up every time his eyes met with the manul's. With John's.

Maybe that was why Sherlock found it so endearing in the end. Because the fluffy, stocky cat was so much like John in a way, triggering warmth and a fluttery feeling of sheer mirth in his chest, akin to bubbling laughter. It made him want to chuckle like an idiot. And cuddle the cat.

Cuddle? Since when have you been wanting to cuddle with your flatmate? his brain asked. Sherlock frowned. That was purely metaphorical of course. I don't cuddle!

He was brought back to reality when John nuzzled his hand away. Sherlock looked him in the eye and grinned at the indignation he could read there: My tea! You're drinking yours already, what are you waiting for to give me my cup?

"You can't drink in a cup, John. I'll put it in a bowl for you."

Even though John couldn't speak, Sherlock knew exactly what he would want to say: he knew he'd say "cup" because he'd never think of himself as a manul, and was too proud to act like one. Wittingly, anyway. Sherlock grinned. This was the most fun he could've hoped for today, and he was glad John had picked a time when he didn't have a case. Well, not that John actually did pick it, he supposed.

They hadn't mentioned those bizarre events after the day when Sherlock realized – much too late – that he'd been admitting to John's manul form that he hadn't dreamt the tiger episode at all. It was all so absurd that Sherlock had eventually decided not to think about it. Not exactly to delete it, because he couldn't quite bring himself to do so; but there was nothing his rational mind could conclude from his observations. He had racked his brain for two days and finally he had given up, as it just didn't make sense. Maybe, he'd thought, it would never happen again.

Except it had. And looking down at the stocky feline now eagerly lapping his tea, he couldn't help but think that it wasn't such a bad thing, after all.

John spent the day reading the newspaper, mewling every time he wanted Sherlock to turn the page or to fold it, watching TV and drinking tea as Sherlock conducted experiments (John didn't know he'd managed to pluck a few of his hairs and was in fact analysing him). John had been appalled to find that he'd rather have Sherlock petting him than staring, and had tried his best not to look too cuddle-friendly. He was hungry, but he knew he shouldn't risk human food, no matter how appealing the toast sounded. He categorically refused to be fed cat biscuits.

It didn't cross his mind that filling his stomach with Earl Grey-flavoured caffeine, milk, and sugar, mightn't be the best idea either. It wasn't much later when he began to feel heartburn and retched, that he knew something wasn't sitting well. Again. Sherlock was playing the violin, but his eyes were fixed on John's reflection in the window – he never seemed to stop looking at him. Feeling suddenly very nauseated, John tried to rush to the bathroom without his flatmate noticing.

Of course he had no such luck.

"John?" Sherlock called, interrupting his playing and following the stout fur-ball speeding off into the bathroom, "Is something wron–"

The image of a manul gripping the lavatory bowl with his front paws to throw up neatly would have been hilarious if said manul weren't John being sick. Sherlock was at a complete loss as to what he should do. He rushed to the feline's side and held him gingerly but firmly as the cat emptied his stomach of the irritating liquid, caressing his back clumsily with what he hoped were encouraging strokes. He wasn't good at this kind of things. Why did John have to be so stubborn and drink so much tea? Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that he'd been just as responsible in refilling the bowl each time. It wasn't his fault. He didn't feel guilty. Not at all.

He jumped as the cat went limp and fell back in his arms. What the... could a manul pass out?

"John? John!"

He lay the cat down onto the bathroom floor in a recovery position, hoping it were the same for felids as for humans, and took his paw in his hand, palpating, and wondering where he could find a pulse amidst all the fur. John whimpered.

"John! Are you conscious?"

Another moan answered his question. Sherlock sighed in relief.

"You idiot."

He kept massaging the paw gently, soothing himself more than his flatmate. 

John was slowly coming back to his senses, mortified by the situation. His throat and oesophagus were burning and he still felt rather queasy. Groggily, he rolled and stood back up, his legs wobbling as he staggered to the washbasin and scratched at its base weakly. Sherlock got the message and picked him up carefully before turning the water on and holding him where he could take some in his mouth and spit. He must have looked foolish – disgusting and laughable at the same time, John thought. He couldn't help but be surprised by his flatmate's gentleness; even though he was obviously quite awkward, Sherlock was trying.

Having rinsed his mouth, John felt slightly better, but the nausea and dizziness kept weighing him down. He mewled, and he hated how weak that sounded.

"I'll help you up to your room."

John shook his head and wriggled his legs to signify that he could still walk, thank you very much. Sherlock considered this for a moment, debating whether the ex-soldier's pride was worth risking his health. No, Sherlock's eyes said, definitely not. But you're an idiot and you're feeling miserable now. We can't have that: you'll be pissed off for days after this. So he put the manul down and followed him up the staircase, watching closely lest he pass out again or miss a step. Once in his room though, John was too wobbly to jump onto the bed, and he knew his stomach would have lurched dangerously had he tried. He didn't want to mewl and beg for help, though, so he was very grateful when he felt a pair of awkward, slender hands pick him up without his needing to ask.

But he was bewildered when Sherlock didn't just drop him on the bed, and instead stretched out on the mattress himself, putting the cat in what looked like a recovery position, and spooning him. John blinked.

"I can't leave you alone. What if you're sick again? You could pass out and choke on your own vomit," the deep baritone voice grumbled above his head. Sherlock's lips brushed against his ear. John shivered.

It was such a blatant lie he would've laughed, had he not felt so queasy. He wondered briefly what a laughing manul would sound like. They both knew he hadn't eaten today and his stomach was certainly empty now, so he obviously wouldn't be sick again. John allowed himself to relax in the embrace, a smile on his feline face. Maybe Sherlock too had been wanting to cuddle all along. Somehow they always managed to end up like this, exhausted and snuggling until they both fell asleep. And after all, why not?

John couldn't stop himself from purring as Sherlock began to caress his underbelly with regular strokes, running his long fingers through the abundant fur. Sherlock pressed his own chest to John's back with his chin resting on the nape of John's neck. Yes, John thought sleepily as he allowed himself to melt under the touch, surely there is nothing wrong with this. It would never come up in their conversation anyway; they seemed to have reached a tacit agreement that their strange feline adventures should remain unmentioned. Cuddling as a manul would change nothing.

… would it?

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz and Salsify. All my thanks!

.

When John woke up that morning, the first thing he did was sigh in relief as he could feel perfectly human limbs. He'd taken up the habit of checking this first thing in the morning, because he was terrified it would happen again.

Last time had been dreadful. He'd been sick and Sherlock had made fun of him, treating him like a pet and not like the man he was – because he was a man even when for some unfathomable reason he turned into a bloody cat! A manul, John. It's a manul. I mean, you're a manul. Sherlock had laughed while John had glared.

The petting had been nice, though, and so had the cuddles. John would never admit this out loud and he knew Sherlock wouldn't either. He'd hoped the detective would have been all flustered about his finding out that Sherlock had been the purring tiger John had tamed. But when he had come back from the clinic that day, Sherlock had acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Last time John had checked, turning into a tiger wasn't one of his flatmate's habits. But then he himself had turned into a manul again. What if it were to become a habit? They'd have to talk about it. They'd have to discuss the petting and the cuddling too...

He shook his head and jumped out of bed, stretching his back. Every time he woke up after his transformations, he felt stiff, his back aching. It was so easy to consider it all a dream, having never woken up with his friend by his side, and he wondered if Sherlock felt the same way. Except that it wasn't a dream: he checked the calendar and a day had indeed passed. John smirked as he pictured Sherlock waking up while he was cuddling him on a bed. Obviously the detective would make a run for it. John was just surprised he hadn't screamed or jumped the first time, effectively waking him up.

As he walked down the stairs a thought hit him. When Sherlock had awakened those three times there had been a transformation... had they both been in human form? He froze on the last step. He recalled well enough that when he had woken up, he'd been lying stark naked on the mattress. He groaned as he pushed the door to their living-room open.

… and froze on the spot. Sprawled on the couch as if he were in his natural element, a tiger was gazing at him lazily with a look of boredom.

"What. The. Hell. are you doing here, Sherlock?"

The tiger growled in response and broke eye contact, apparently finding it very dull and preferring to focus on one of his paws as though it were the most admirable thing in the world. Well, perhaps it was, John amended, when it was actually your hand you were supposed to be looking at, and all you could see and feel was... a paw.

He rubbed his temples as he considered the situation. He was expected at the clinic this morning, but as things were, leaving Sherlock alone in 221B in tiger form really wasn't an option. Especially if the idiot was so oblivious as to be lying slumped on the couch in the living-room where anyone who burst in unannounced (and that happened a lot) could see him.

"You're completely clueless, aren't you?"

That wasn't something Sherlock liked to hear – in fact, it wasn't even something he was used to hearing – and it caught his attention. He looked back at John, frowning, and his pout instilled a fluttering feeling in the doctor's chest. Adorable, he thought, and he had the urge to see the tiger vulnerable and purring under his hand. He shook his head, trying to get a grip. What was wrong with him? The normal reaction to seeing a tiger getting pissed off was 'I should run. Now.', not 'Oh God, I want to tame him.'

Him? Him? Of course, John thought. The tiger. A tiger. In general. A tiger in general. He blushed, avoiding Sherlock's gaze that had been fixed on him, probably analysing his every expression, trying to deduce him. John prayed that he wasn't succeeding.

"You can't stay here, Sherlock. Anyone could come in and see you. What am I supposed to say to explain the presence of a tiger in our flat, huh?"

Sherlock shrugged, his scoff clearly conveying that he couldn't care less. Really, John. What else am I supposed to do? I'm already stuck in the flat and I'm bored. BORED. Do you really expect me to stay in my room?

"Yes, I do," John retorted as he went to the kitchen to fix himself some breakfast. This was all so unfair. He couldn't tease Sherlock with food, because the detective wouldn't mind not eating for a day – he probably wouldn't even notice. He couldn't make fun of his ridiculous appearance, because he wasn't ridiculous. He glared as Sherlock came to the kitchen and put his head on the table next to John, looking up at him smugly. Inferiority complex, is it?

"Shut up. Why in the world does this keep happening to us anyway?"

Sherlock shrugged. Would it change anything if they knew? It was tedious, but life was tedious. Except this wasn't very logical. He'd examined John's hair (his manul hair, of course) the last time there had been a transformation, but had found nothing peculiar. It was just like any other manul's hair on earth. Except that this manul was host to a human being – in this case, John.

It didn't make any sense at all. There was no pattern for the transformations, no possible way to explain them. So Sherlock had done the only sensible thing: he'd giving up racking his brain about it. He had looked, but there was nothing whatsoever in his mind palace that could help him shed any light on the situation. If he ever managed to explain it, it would be through the input of new data, and so there was nothing he could do for now.

Hence the boredom. He didn't even have a case to occupy his mind, and he knew John was going to the clinic today. It would be a very, very long day.

John was thinking exactly the same thing as he sat down at the table and started eating his toast.

"Okay, so rule number 1: no roaring."

Sherlock pouted haughtily.

"Oh, don't give me that look. You know you roared a lot last time, and I absolutely do not want to have to deal with Mrs. Hudson's comments in the morning – not to mention the neighbours."

The tiger rolled his eyes and John was all the more annoyed.

"Do you even know what I'm talking about?"

I don't even know the neighbours, conveyed the bored face. John sighed.

"Whatever. Just don't roar. Actually, don't make a noise."

Then he added as an afterthought, a smirk playing on his lips:

"Purring is fine."

If a tiger could have blushed, John was sure Sherlock's cheeks would've burned at the comment, and he realized he'd never seen his friend blush in human form. Not even with Irene Adler. He'd have to try and mention it one day, to see his reaction. Maybe Sherlock could really read his thoughts, for he frowned comically.

"Rule number 2: you are confined in your room for the day. No discussion."

This time his flatmate's reaction was much more dramatic. His eyes widened and he stepped back in disbelief before sending him a death glare. John glared back. They had a staring contest for a few seconds before Sherlock changed his strategy and went for the puppy eyes.

"Do you really think you can coax me with that pleading look when it doesn't work on me even when you're in human form?" John asked.

Oh yes, I do, thought Sherlock, but he was clever enough not to betray any self-confidence or insolence, and enhanced his imploring stance by sitting back like an obedient cat, swinging his tail and putting a paw on John's thigh.

"Ever the comedian," John said, averting his eyes, "even as a tiger you're good at acting. We should put you up for a talent show or something."

Sherlock had the sense to be a little patient with the doctor – it wasn't that hard, because he knew that he'd get what he wanted eventually. John was melting before his very eyes, and he wouldn't last much longer. Sherlock put a little more weight in his paw and accentuated the supplicating gleam in his eyes.

"Oh, all right. But you can't go into the living-room – no, that's definite. I don't want to have to find some crazy excuse for your presence if anyone were to come up."

But we hear people coming up, John!

"Ah, there's your real face. Snide and haughty."

But the doctor's tone was fond, and he was about to cup the tiger's cheeks when Sherlock nuzzled his hand insistently. John blinked.

"You want tea? Sherlock, you know how sick I got last time!"

That's because you drank at least four pots, John.

"That's a no."

Sherlock made a long face, and went to sit sulkily in a kitchen chair, resting his head on his front paws, half-sprawled on the table.

"Sorry, Sherlock, but I'm not having a sick tiger in the bathroom."

Two hours later, they were both still seated at the kitchen table, John checking his emails and Sherlock drinking tea. Of course, Mr. Genius had managed to hold the cup between his two big paws so that he wouldn't have to bend and lap from a bowl. John was sending him half-amused, half-annoyed glances every now and then.

I'm having tea with a tiger, he thought dazedly.

Sherlock frowned, and his glare seemed to say: You're having tea with me, John.

The doctor shrugged.

"Yeah, and for now, you're a tiger. Wait, how come I can read your thoughts?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Because we know each other. And maybe because you're not too stupid.

John blinked, then tilted his head to the side.

"Wait, what was that?"

…nevermind.

They ended up staring at each other, observing. John noticed that the tiger had especially prominent cheekbones, even though his face didn't look thin with all that fluffy white fur. The tiger's coat was truly beautiful - it was silky and the colours were bright and finely defined with black lines striping his whole body strikingly. His limpid eyes were rimmed with black, making them all the more luminous. And the whiskers... John blushed and averted his gaze. What was it with paws and whiskers anyway? Did they make everyone dotty about felines?

Sherlock smirked slightly as John looked away. He could read him like an open book – anyone would've been able to quite easily, really; John was just so obvious. Well, not all the time, he admitted. Sometimes Sherlock just couldn't make sense out of his reactions, couldn't predict what he'd do or say, and those were truly the best moments. John had the ability to surprise him, and that was something the consulting detective wasn't used to. Sometimes corpses, victims, criminals surprised him, and that was why the Work was so thrilling – he had to solve the case, make sense out all of those disparate elements, link the dots to get the final picture. Through his deductions and his logic, he could shed light on anything.

But John resisted logic. Every time Sherlock tried to put him into one category or another, adding traits to his portrait, John did something that messed up the whole picture. Every time Sherlock thought he'd seized him for good, he'd do something unexpected, and the detective had to reform his views all over again. Maybe it was because John was fundamentally illogical – not to say paradoxical. He liked "mundane" and was ordinary in so many ways, yet he craved danger and would drop everything to rush to Sherlock's side. He was fond of his routine, but needed the 'adventure' Sherlock could provide. He was just so contradictory that it made, all in all, for a very interesting flatmate. A priceless friend, too, a little voice murmured in the back of his mind.

They were both so intensely focused on the other that they didn't hear the staircase steps creak until the very last moment. John's eyes widened in panic and he jumped to his feet, ushering Sherlock into the corridor towards his room, hissing: "Bathroom!" at the very moment Lestrade burst into their living-room. John turned and smiled at him.

"Hello, Greg. What brings you here so early in the morning?"

Lestrade blinked.

"Were you just talking to someone?"

"What? Oh no, I was reading the news online, and you know, sometimes there are such unbelievable reports."

"...Right. Well, I was coming to talk to Sherlock about a case, but... he's out?"

His tone was disbelieving. John was usually the one out, working or buying the groceries, or just taking a walk away from his maddening flatmate because he needed some air. But Sherlock was always there when he wasn't working on a case. He wasn't one to go out on a stroll, or to museums, theatres or whatnot.

"So he's got a case already?"

John had learned a few things, living with Sherlock. Not becoming flustered and knowing when to lie, for instance.

"Oh yeah, I think he's got something on. He didn't tell me much, though, and just stormed out early this morning. You know how he is."

"That, I do. Can I just leave you the file? If he's got a case to play with already, he probably won't answer my calls. But if it comes from you, he might just take a look at it."

John laughed wholeheartedly.

"I think you overestimate me greatly, inspector."

Lestrade shrugged, a smile playing on his lips as he put the file on the kitchen table and turned to leave.

"And I think you underestimate your influence on him a lot, John."

Lestrade tipped his head in parting as he turned back towards the door. John stood there dumbly for a second, not sure how he should react to that. But since the D.I. was gone anyway, he just shrugged it off. When he turned back to the kitchen, Sherlock was already looming over the file, a Cheshire cat-like grin splitting his face. A kid on Christmas, John thought. He snatched the file away from him swiftly, and glared. Sherlock glared back.

"See? I told you this was risky!"

As if 'risky' weren't one of your favourite situations, John. The tiger snorted.

"You are not reading this here. If you want this file, you're going to your room, and not leaving it until you transform back. Am I clear?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he considered for a second jumping on his flatmate, snatching the file back and just ignoring the protests and commands. What could John do anyway? He was a tiger, not some house cat one could easily manhandle. Of course, John had his gun. But Sherlock was confident he wouldn't use it on him now that he knew he wasn't just any tiger. However, when he saw the determined look on the ex-soldier's face, he gave up and padded off to his room with a scoff. Fine. Let him have his little "I'm-the-captain-here" fun, he thought. It wasn't like John could really act all domineering and order him around when he wasn't in tiger form. And he'd stayed home for Sherlock, after all. He hadn't gone to the clinic.

John followed him to his room with a satisfied smirk, and spread out on the bed the documents Lestrade had brought him. Sherlock would have liked John to stay with him and study the case, read some things out loud maybe, but he concluded that his friend would more likely be returning to the living-room to gloat that he had confined Sherlock Holmes to his room. He snorted. Idiot.

He complied nonetheless and started reading the file sulkily as John closed the door on him.

As he sat back at the kitchen table, John had the decency to recognize that he was enjoying this far too much.

Three hours passed and Sherlock had long solved the case. It wasn't very difficult, really. From the file alone he'd already got an idea, and he only needed to confirm it – which he would've done already, had he been in human form.

Young florist Brenda Tregennis had been found dead in her flat above her flower shop that morning, fully clothed, sitting in the entrance, staring at her own reflected face in the large mirror on her wall with an expression of terror. She'd been found by her brother Mortimer who was supposed to pick her up in the morning to see off a mutual friend, Leon Sterndale, in Plymouth. Sterndale had of course cancelled his trip and was staying for the burial. He was a traveller and a botanist, specialised in exotic species. He'd met Brenda at uni and intended to propose to her upon his return from South America in a few months. Well, that wouldn't happen, Sherlock thought idly. The brother, Mortimer, was never fond of his sister, according to Sterndale's testimony. Mortimer had tried to convince Sterndale, a week before his sister's death, not to propose to her. They were both at a pub drinking at the time; Sterndale was quite drunk but had gathered that the man's bitterness was based upon his own bankruptcy at a time when his sister's flower shop was thriving. Such a trivial reason, Sherlock thought. But aren't they always?

Now, the Met was out of their depths – and this time it was all the more ridiculous since they had all the necessary elements to solve the case. The victim had been found in the entrance to her flat. She was still wearing her shoes and coat, so she must have died upon entering her home. The cause was a complete mystery – to the police anyway. Sherlock however had learned at a very young age not to trust shoes, and concluded that the fact that the victim had been staring at her own reflection in the mirror was completely irrelevant. What was relevant was that she had been sitting, obviously trying to take her shoes off, and had died before she could manage to do so, her back to the wall, her eyes on the mirror. But young adults rarely sit down to take off their shoes. So she must have been feeling dizzy already – or perhaps she had known, even before dying, what was killing her.

All Sherlock needed to check to confirm his theory was the victim's shoes. No trace of poison had been found on the body, but not all poisons leave traces. The shoes, however, might still hold the evidence. Now, the only one who could have introduced some novel foreign poison was Sterndale – but he had intended to propose to her. The brother, however, had motive. So how did he get his hands on the poison? That was easy to deduce. Sterndale had said in his statement that they had gone drinking and that Mortimer was quite drunk when he told Sterndale not to marry Brenda. But if they had been drinking together, it was very likely that Sterndale too was drunk at the time. Consequently it wasn't improbable that he'd started blabbering about his passion – plants, and his latest discoveries.

The last element which confirmed Sherlock in his deduction was that Lucy Porter, Brenda Tregennis's assistant at the flower shop, had given a quite long and very boring statement, in which she described her boss and friend as the sweetest and kindest person on earth, so simple, not vain at all, etc. If Sherlock hadn't been bored to death and stuck in his own room, he wouldn't even have bothered reading her statement. One detail, however, struck him – one tiny detail that made all the difference: Brenda Tregennis's flower shop had a very home-like feeling to it, said Lucy. She even wore slippers inside the shop; she wore her shoes only when she arrived in the morning and when she closed the boutique at night to go home.

It had taken Sherlock less than an hour to read the documents and deduce that Mortimer Tregennis had used Leon Sterndale's poison to murder his own sister. Since his deduction, Sherlock had been pacing the room, feeling like it had turned suddenly into the worst possible cage.

He had thought that John would've at least paid him a visit after an hour or so, but no, he was probably too busy with his silly blog and whatever other hopelessly mindless entertainment he had at hand. Sherlock wondered absent-mindedly what title he'd give that case. The Poisoned Slipper, perhaps? Probably something even sillier.

Sherlock was so annoyed after two hours of pacing that when he heard Mrs Hudson's voice along with John's from their living room, he just couldn't resist getting his little revenge on his flatmate. Opening the door without too much difficulty – the handle wasn't that high, for a tiger – he walked leisurely down the corridor and burst in on the pair, a lazy expression on his face.

Mrs. Hudson, who was facing the kitchen, was the first to see him, and she stopped in mid-sentence, freezing on the spot, a look of horror dawning on her face. Sherlock could imagine John blinking, twice even, before he caught up. By that time though, she'd screamed.

"Oh dear God what's a tiger doing roaming around in your flat!?"

John turned, and, seeing the falsely innocent look on Sherlock's face, exploded.

"Sherlock, for God's sake!"

Now Mrs. Hudson was staring at him as if he'd gone mad and was more frightening even than the very large feline presently pacing their kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

"Um... yeah... Sherlock's new pet. He just brought it and vanished. I can't believe he just left it for me to deal with."

"He got a tiger? As a pet?"

"Right..."

"Oh, I see!"

"What? What do you see?" John asked, obviously lost, and certainly not seeing anything.

"He probably got jealous!"

"Jealous?"

"Well, you know, you take care of that weird stray cat that looks like a giant feather duster, so maybe he just felt the need to find a bigger cat to take care of."

"That's preposterous!" exclaimed John, clearly vexed. A giant feather duster? He became even more irritated when he saw Sherlock giggle like the twat he was before sitting on a kitchen chair to finish his tea.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes went wide.

"Dear me, he's tamed it quite well, hasn't he?"

"Yes, well, it's still a tiger," John retorted moodily, ignoring the triumphant grin on the bloody cat's face.

"Well, as long as it doesn't bite... Still, I wish you'd tell him I don't quite approve, dear. Eccentricity has its limits."

"Sure, Mrs. Hudson. I'll tell him."

The good woman left, thinking of what Sherlock's childhood must have been like if he and his brother always reacted so disproportionately – one getting a tiger, when the other got a cat...

Once their landlady had left, John turned to Sherlock, furious.

"I told you to stay in your room! Was it really so hard to listen, for once?"

Yes. said the tiger's sullen face as he drank his cup of cold tea pitifully.

"How are we going to explain it if the tiger's not there next time she comes, but then you transform again and she sees it once more? You can't just listen to me, can you?"

Oh. So that's what this is about. I wish you could hear yourself speak, John. The logical link between your sentences is more than dubious.

"And will you please stop looking at me like I'm an idiot? It's insulting enough when you're a man, but when you're a tiger?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It's not an insult, John! Everyone is.

"You... oh, just go back to your room."

What? She's seen me now, and Lestrade isn't coming back! Oh I've solved the case by the way.

"Sherlock, just go back to your room! Don't make me repeat myself."

You just did.

"I'm serious Sherlock. Go. Back. To. Your. Room."

The peremptory tone wasn't to Sherlock's liking at all. He'd had enough bossing around for the day, and he'd been obedient enough till now. He'd waited three hours, like a punished kid sent to stand in the corner, in his own bedroom. Wasn't that demonstration enough of his good will?

Obviously not, he mused, as John marched up to him, determination in his eyes, his stance firm.

"Sherlock, if I have to carry you to that room myself, I will."

You're joking, right?

But his eyes were dead serious. Sherlock snapped, and snarled. John ignored him completely, and circling the tiger's body with his arms, lifted it from the chair and began to manhandle him towards the corridor as if he were merely a very big, unwanted cat.

Sherlock was so bewildered he didn't react at first, but when he did, he couldn't hold back. Hissing, he struggled and scratched John's arm in the process – but the ex-soldier refused to let go of him and they ended up grappling on the kitchen floor, fighting tooth and claw. This should have been a good way to release the stress and tension that had built between them during the day as they'd gradually grown more annoyed with each other. But Sherlock wasn't used to being a tiger and had little idea of his strength. He managed to roll their two bodies so he could loom over John, growling threateningly, snarling into his face, his sharp-toothed jaw frighteningly close to John's jugular. John abruptly stopped struggling. He didn't make a move to defend himself. He only looked Sherlock in the eye, calm and firm. Stoical.

"Are you really planning to kill me, Sherlock?"

The tiger's eyes widened and he snapped back to reality. He flinched, whimpering and stepping back, hanging his head. He hadn't realized. He just wanted to play, not be confined in his bedroom alone and with an already solved case. But with just one look and those few trusting words, John had managed to subdue him completely.

Sherlock moved back to his room without a sound, not even daring to catch his friend's gaze, and quietly nudged the door closed behind him.

As he stood back up, thoughtful, it dawned on John that Sherlock hadn't meant to hurt him at all: in that instant, the doctor realized that the first time Sherlock had transformed, he had not attacked him, although he could have easily overpowered him.

John looked at the closed door.

He would rather have been shot than attack me.

Sherlock remained obediently in his room for the rest of the day, frightened of what he might do to John – or John to him. Overly dispirited, he was lying meekly on his bed, and just wished for the day to end, so he could fall asleep and put it all behind him.

When he heard John turn off the TV, relief washed over him with the knowledge that his torment would probably end soon. Closing his eyes, he tried to will sleep to come. He was so intent on numbing his awareness that he didn't hear John walk down the corridor. He only felt John's presence when he was already pushing the door silently open, peeking into the room.

Just to check on him before I go to bed, John told himself. Nothing more.

When he saw the sleeping figure though, he couldn't resist and walked up to him, sitting quietly on the bed besides him. Sherlock's breathing was regular, but the expression of pain and submission hadn't left his face, which was slightly frowning. John smiled fondly, and unwittingly started petting him, trying to soothe away the frown. Sherlock, who was only faking sleep, felt the warmth spread from the doctor's hands to his body. Those hands weren't smooth, but rather rough. The petting itself was much like John himself, affectionate yet firm, generous and resolute. Sherlock felt all his tension melt under the caresses. We're idiots. Next time we should do that from the start. 

A wave of tenderness washed over John, who could feel the huge silky body relax under his touch, and on impulse he leant and kissed the furrowed brow. Sherlock's eyes snapped open in surprise and John started, flustered. Sherlock didn't give him time to get away and jumped into his friend's lap, snuggling up against him, giving him a spontaneous and completely irrational hug.

He almost immediately realized what he was doing, and how it could be interpreted. Panicked, he jumped back and crouched on the floor, whimpering what he hoped sounded like an apology. John had been nonplussed by the sudden burst of affection on Sherlock's part, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he hadn't jumped back out of shame, but because he was scared of having upset John. He was deeply moved by the unexpected gesture.

"Oh, Sherlock... Come here."

Uncertain at first, Sherlock finally crawled back onto the bed, attentive to giving John enough space. He was confounded when his friend closed the distance between them, gathering him into a cosseting embrace.

And so they didn't break the pattern but ended up cuddling, Sherlock nuzzling John's hair, John pressing his head against Sherlock's heart, revelling in the soft fur and the priceless pulse. 

'Are you really planning to kill me, Sherlock?" by nose-to-the-wing

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz and Salsify. All my thanks :)

…

By the third time John woke up as a manul, he was no longer appalled. Very annoyed, yes. Luckily Sherlock did have a case this time, and probably wouldn't bother with him too much – which was a good thing, considering he only made fun of him and manhandled him. What a prick, really, taking advantage of his smaller, more vulnerable form. John frowned, glaring at no one in particular since he was alone in his room. Vulnerable. He had to admit that he was, and that was why he found the whole ordeal so exasperating. He couldn't hold his handgun since he didn't have hands, but paws. He couldn't run very fast (at all...), couldn't defend himself like bigger felines. He looked ridiculous and was completely useless.

It made him wonder sometimes if there was some meaning to it. Him, turning into a manul, and Sherlock, into a bloody tiger. Right. As if any of it made sense. It didn't of course, but it still bothered him. John knew Sherlock was a genius and much superior to him, but as for physical strength, even if he did know how to fight, John could overpower him. Although he'd probably find some devious, cunning way to trick me and win in the end. Sherlock really was the kind of man you had to shoot right away if you wanted him dead, because if you gave him a chance, even the slightest, he'd definitely find a way to get out of it. What am I thinking? I don't want to kill Sherlock. He hasn't even done anything yet today!

Yet being the key word.

Sherlock did have a case indeed, and had gone out very early in the morning to investigate a bride who vanished on the day of her wedding, albeit after the ceremony. He already had a few ideas on the matter but wanted to see the wedding hall. When he came back around 11, he wasn't surprised to see John wasn't there, since he was supposed to work at the clinic today. Sherlock gone out before the doctor even woke up so he wouldn't feel the urge to bring him along and make him lose his job – again.

He was surprised, however, to see that his shoes and jacket were still there. He toyed with the thought a second before a wide grin spread over his face. Perhaps the case could wait a few hours, after all. He'd deduced everything he needed to know and the rest could wait until morning. The young bride was in no danger whatsoever, of that he was certain. Her husband could wait another day before hearing what had become of his wife.

Sherlock had better things to do – and by better, he meant more fun. He went to the kitchen and prepared bacon and eggs. He would have preferred to avoid cafeine altogether, considering what five and a half pots of tea had done to John the last time, but John liked having tea in the morning and Sherlock determined that one bowl should be fine. He had pondered the matter very seriously and had planned what meals he could make for John if he ever turned into a manul again.

OK, so he hadn't done the grocery shopping himself, he'd asked Mrs. Hudson as she was on her way to the supermarket but he was the one who had written a shopping list just for John's sake. He'd done research too, and had even contacted zoos to be certain. Even if he would never admit it, he'd had the scare of his life when he'd found the poor cat throwing up in the bathroom. Admittedly, John as a man was exposed to mad consulting criminals, and so to a certain amount of risks; but one couldn't say the ex-soldier was weak or fragile. As a manul, however, it was quite different. He was just a cat. A big, stout, fluffy cat, but a cat nonetheless. Sherlock found it adorable, and he couldn't explain why: he certainly wasn't one to ooh and aah over pets – or anything else at all that could be considered within the realm of "cute".

He found it adorable, but even if he loved seeing John vulnerable, he didn't want anyone else to see him being so.

And perhaps there was in his approach more possessiveness than protectiveness against criminals than he thought. He'd decided since the last time he transformed that they had been wasting too much time bickering instead of cuddling, and that cuddling was much more pleasant for both parties. It was just an assessment, and he didn't read further into it. Cuddling felt better than bickering, so they shouldn't waste their time bickering this time. There was nothing more to it.

But persuading John was another matter entirely. John was too stubborn for his own good, he'd definitely make a fuss...

… and so Sherlock devised a scheme to pre-empt him.

On the bed in his upstairs room, John was sprawled on his back, bored and miserable. He'd walked around his room, drunk water from the sink, rolled on his bed and stopped right away when he pictured how ridiculous he must look, and examined his paws and tail. Now he was left with nothing to do, and was staring at the ceiling morosely. He was so bored he almost wished Sherlock would come upstairs to bother him. He himself couldn't go downstairs: he was too small to reach the door handle. He was was stuck in his own room.

In other words, John was lonely.

What was even worse was that he'd heard Sherlock come back about half an hour ago, and still his flatmate hadn't come up. It was unlikely that he hadn't noticed his shoes were still there, because even when he was focused on a case, Sherlock never stopped noticing things. John pouted. He probably wasn't entertaining enough today to be of any interest to Sherlock. And he couldn't even participate in the case. He sighed pitifully. Who was he kidding anyway - sure, Sherlock always noticed things, but then again he kept talking to John when John wasn't even in the room. Or, you know, the country.

Fine, John sulked. He'd just keep rolling around on his bed all day, then.

And so he rolled, and rolled, and rolled. The bed was squeaking and he didn't hear the steps creak just outside his door. Sherlock burst in while he was in mid-roll and at the sight, almost dropped the tray he was carrying. John froze. Their eyes locked. Sprawled on the bed, legs up, completely dishevelled, John wished he could just disappear into the mattress and escape Sherlock's sparkling eyes that were gazing at him amusedly and fondly. If a manul could blush, John's fluffy cheeks would have been crimson by now.

Sherlock knew he shouldn't laugh. He'd come up to butter John up, and if he laughed now, he'd definitely spoil everything. But he couldn't help it. His laughter was bubbling and candid, so much like that of a child, full of wonder and mirth, that John couldn't feel offended. He stared, fascinated, as his flatmate came up to sit on the bed and gave him a peck on the forehead.

"Hello, there. Having fun?"

He was smiling widely, but his smirk was more loving than mocking. Loving? John felt his cheeks burn even more. What am I thinking?

He sat up, and only then did he notice the tray. His eyes widened. There was bacon and eggs, a bowl of hot tea, and even a small piece of toast. John looked up at Sherlock, blinking. For me?

Sherlock's smirk widened. John probably had no idea how silly he looked with his round eyes and his plushy face. Blinking didn't make him any less ridiculous.

"I added milk and sugar to the tea. I'm not giving you more than two bowls today though. If you're thirsty, you can just drink water. As for the piece of toast and the egg, I checked. Such a small quantity should be fine."

John was now goggling. You checked? He looked down at the plate and noticed that the eggs and bacon had even been cut in small portions to make it easier to eat. What in the world had got into him?

Who are you? What did you do to Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock pouted.

"Oh thank you, John. That's what I get for making you breakfast in bed. Fine, I'll just throw it away."

John jumped to his feet and put his two paws on Sherlock's hand, sending him a pleading look. No! I'll eat it. Let me eat it.

This time, Sherlock conspicuously swallowed his smirk.

"All right. Eat, then."

He didn't have to tell him twice. As he devoured the meal, John slowly realized that this meant Sherlock had expected his next transformation and so had planned everything this time. John hadn't even been aware that they'd had bacon, although he had noticed some unidentified items in the freezer. It could've been frozen human body parts for all he'd known – and he really hadn't wanted to know. Sherlock had said he'd "checked", though. So he had done research, and he had cooked for him on a case day to boot! He never ceased to amaze John.

When he was done eating, John went to Sherlock and nuzzled the palm of his hand in thanks. Not expecting the gesture, Sherlock froze. He averted his gaze and so missed the suspicious look John shot him. The manul tapped on his thigh with his paw insistently until he turned back to him.

Did you have something to eat? the wary eyes were asking.

For once, Sherlock couldn't read his thoughts. He had no idea why John should be suspicious of anything.

"I really did call the zoo!" he exclaimed somewhat indignantly. "I assure you that everything you'll eat today will be perfectly fine. You won't be sick."

John blinked. When it came to himself, Sherlock could be so clueless. He'd probably deleted from his hard drive the fact that people could care for him and his welfare. Or maybe it just didn't make sense to him why people would care, and it didn't even cross his mind. Shaking his head, John shrugged it off and jumped off the bed, walking to the door and turning to Sherlock. Let's go downstairs?

Sherlock's face brightened, and he followed the fluffy cat out of the room.

Sherlock turned the telly on for John, washed the dishes, opened his laptop and scrolled down the pages for him. He made a mental note to buy him a keyboard with larger keys.

John was nonplussed by his attitude. He was very suspicious at first, wondering what Sherlock wanted from him and would ask in return for his care, but the detective seemed to be enjoying himself quite genuinely. It made John feel rather guilty about his own behaviour the last time Sherlock had transformed. He hadn't tried to prepare any food for him, considering not eating for one day would be nothing unusual for Sherlock. He had completely ignored him and hadn't tried to find occupations for him. Even when Lestrade had come with a case, John had sent Sherlock to his bedroom and had driven him out of the living-room.

Of course, having a tiger around was more problematic than having a manul, who could pass for an ordinary if plushy cat to anyone who wasn't a specialist. Still, he'd been snappy and bossy all day. Sherlock was being considerate. Obviously he was getting his own fun from it, John could tell, but he was still putting a case on hiatus just to take care of him.

"Stop thinking so hard, John. I've already solved the case anyway."

Well, you're still putting off your moment of glory, when you'll expose the whole thing to everything and gloat about it.

Sherlock smiled smugly.

"I won't sound any less brilliant if I show off tomorrow first thing in the morning. Lestrade and the husband are so clueless they certainly won't find out what's going on any time soon – if ever."

John tilted his head to the side, unwittingly adorable.

And what exactly is going on?

Sherlock's smirk widened imperceptibly and he walked to the kitchen.

"The bride was already married."

John blinked. What?

Sherlock took out some food from the freezer and started to prepare lunch. John was so caught up in the vanishing bride – who'd been a double bride! – that he didn't even notice his friend was cooking for him again.

"Her first husband had been reported dead, and she found out he wasn't just after she got married again. As simple as that."

But why didn't she say anything to her second husband? He deserves to know!

Sherlock chuckled at John's outraged expression. It was so comical on the flat, plushy face, and it made the manul look even rounder.

"I think she just took off on her honeymoon. With her first husband, that is. Divorce papers can be tedious, I suppose."

John smiled, amused. Sherlock had no idea as to the motives of the woman, then. The consulting detective glared.

"We'll find out tomorrow anyway."

The manul sniggered but his giggles put him off balance and he fell off the chair he was sitting in and landed with an audible thump. Sherlock turned from the kitchen frowning.

"What are you doing, John?"

The fluffy cat whimpered and slinked to the kitchen.

"You shouldn't drag along like that, your fur is so long you'll just wipe the floor and be all dirty."

Looking him in the eye with a smirk, he added:

"You look like a walking dustmop."

John glowered and was about to turn back haughtily when a delicious smell hit him. That's when he realized Sherlock had been cooking. Curious, he jumped onto a kitchen chair and tried to see what was being prepared.

"Roast quails with bourgogne marc," Sherlock declared without looking at him. "It's a French recipe."

John goggled, stunned.

"Oh don't look at me like that," Sherlock muttered, slightly annoyed, "of course I can cook. It's just chemistry after all. And before you ask, yes, you can eat quails. That was the whole point."

The whole point? John felt himself melt. Sherlock was being ridiculously sweet. Breakfast in bed, and now this? If he hadn't known better, he would've thought that he was being wooed. This was Sherlock though, the gorgeous bastard who claimed to be married to his work. It made the attention all the more touching.

Sherlock put the meal on the table and served it. The mere sight of it made John's mouth water. He couldn't believe Sherlock never bothered to cook when he was so good at it. He glanced at him and Sherlock caught his eye.

"Why should I bother? You've never complained about take-outs and restaurants."

John shrugged, glad that his face couldn't show his blush. Now that he thought about it, they actually acted a lot like a couple. Sherlock always paid for the both of them in restaurants and coffee shops, save when he suddenly would dash off in pursuit of a criminal - in which case, John paid for them both, anyway. They exchanged texts all day long when they weren't together – or even when they were together but not in the same room. They bickered a lot, but it never tainted their partnership. To be quite honest, John couldn't picture himself living with anyone else.

The food had been exquisite and John had dozed off in front of the telly, full and content. Sherlock had done some experimenting in the afternoon, but managed to not blow up their kitchen, which was, in itself, quite a feat. Despite this, John caught himself wishing that his flatmate would just come and sit next to him. Not that he wanted to cuddle, but...

It was probably the burgundy that made him so sleepy, John guessed. Even if it was just in the sauce, he'd eaten a great deal of the quail after all. Around seven, Sherlock emerged from the kitchen without his goggles on, looking his crazy self but not some mad scientist.

"Shall I prepare dinner?"

John turned a drowsy gaze to him and shook his head. Not hungry. I'm going to burst if I eat any more.

For some reason, Sherlock seemed very happy about this. He grinned broadly.

"Good. Well, then, your room or mine?"

The words snapped John back to reality and suddenly he was very awake. What? He honestly doubted his own ears, but Sherlock repeated impatiently:

"I said your room, or mine? I don't have any preference."

The manul squealed, alarmed and flustered. What in the world was he suggesting? Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"Cuddling, John, cuddling."

John blinked. Twice. Then he broke into a fit of giggles. The whole scene was just so absurd! Sherlock standing there so seriously, making propositions full of innuendos completely unawares and then clearly suggesting something as silly and ordinary as cuddling as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"Fine, then, we'll just stay here. But don't complain in the morning."

Picking up the manul from the armchair he was sitting in, Sherlock lay down on the couch, curled up, holding the cat against his chest. John mewled frantically in protest as he was grabbed without warning, but stopped when Sherlock embraced him like a beloved plush toy... or a pillow. The analogy wasn't very flattering, but feeling the beating heart of his friend under his paws, drowning in his scent, John thought that, perhaps, it was just fine. Sherlock found sleep boring, so his offering to cuddle suggested that he enjoyed it for what it was, and not just as a way to fall asleep. This in itself was flattering enough for John, who nuzzled up against Sherlock's collarbone and purred as a hand stroke him between the ears.

John couldn't see Sherlock's face and so he missed his triumphant grin. This was the earliest they'd ever started cuddling during a transformation day. The wine had been a good idea after all.

221B Baker Street, 7am. Everything was quiet and peaceful in the flat. The pale light of dawn was falling on a lovely scene in the living-room, of a man holding a cat against his heart. A sweet, peaceful picture.

That is, until the cat suddenly turned into a full-size, naked man, and instantly fell from the couch which was too small for two people to lie on – even if they were cuddling. A loud thump and a cry of surprise broke the serene ambiance as the poor man crashed to the floor.

John, groggy and bewildered, looked around him while he rubbed his head. He blinked as he saw the sleeping form of his flatmate before him. What in the...

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and they locked with John's. The doctor suddenly realized he was sprawled naked on their living-room's floor. Panicked, he jumped to his feet with a yelp, grabbing the Union Jack pillow to hide his genitalia. He pointed his finger at Sherlock and cried in outrage:

"YOU! You knew this would happen, you did it on purpose!"

Sherlock pouted sleepily.

"I asked you to pick the room. And I told you not to complain in the morning."

"You always wake up before me when we... Oh God did this happen every time?"

And by this he meant the turning back into a naked person in the arms of his male flatmate. Sherlock shrugged.

"You're being ridiculous, John. Now I'll have a mental picture of you, nude in our living-room, every time I see our Union Jack pillow." He added with a grin: "...probably every time I see the Union Jack, in fact."

John cursed and hurled the pillow in his face, storming out of the room. Sherlock smirked and held the pillow to his chest, drowsing back to sleep with a smile on his lips.

"Snuggle Times", by MakaniValur 

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz and by Salsify.

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

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

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

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

"You're avoiding me."

"No I'm not."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

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

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

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

"You're not staying here tonight?"

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

"But it's Christmas Eve."

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

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

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

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

"Look, Sherlock-"

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

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

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

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

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

Sherlock scoffed, but didn't turn to him.

"Why would I need anything from you?"

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

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

"No reason. Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Cheers!"

"Cheers! And a Merry Christmas!"

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

Trying, trying, trying... and failing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

John shifted a bit on his feet, awkward.

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

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

"That's not–"

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

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

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

"Maggie–"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sherlock?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Illustration by Ami-Cat

Chapter Text

A/N: Slightly longer chapter this time round! And a cliffie, but you'll love me for it ;) Hope you enjoy! As always, reviewers are loved :))

Many thanks to BritChick101 and to Salsify for betaing this chapter.

In the first-floor room of 221B Baker Street, a man was blowing hot air from a hair dryer onto a very wet tiger, who was sitting obediently on a towel spread on the floor.

"Really, Sherlock... I know tigers enjoy bathing, but couldn't you have waited until you turned back into human form and had hands?"

The tiger emitted a grumble and sulked. He already felt ridiculous; now he was rather mortified to be reminded by John of all people of something he should have known – that naturally tigers liked water. Of course he'd known it. He just hadn't thought and had gone to do the first thing he'd thought of because boredom was positively killing him without John around. You take away my knowledge of the inconsequential when you're not here, Sherlock mused moodily. Why do I need to take up my hard-drive with tigers and manuls at all?

"Hey. Stop sulking already," John chided fondly, a smile playing on his lips as he blew warm air on the tiger's fluffy face. Sherlock grimaced, wrinkling his nose and shutting his eyes tightly. His pout was so adorable John felt the urge to kiss him between the eyes. And he did, before he knew what he was doing, startling Sherlock. Tigers don't blush, and Sherlock was so morose and frustrated already that the kiss could hardly add to the embarrassment he felt in front of his flatmate. On second thoughts, though, he would rather be seen like this by John than by anyone else.

John on the other hand could blush, and did, suddenly turning his head to avoid his friend's indignant expression. God, Sherlock blinking in confused vulnerability just made him want to kiss him again. The poor doctor shook his head, desperately trying to dispel the thought. He turned off the hair dryer.

"There. You're all dry and fluffy now."

Sherlock stared, and John froze. Did I just call Sherlock fluffy"? Out loud? His cheeks burnt and he fled the room under Sherlock's mocking sneers. Reaching the kitchen, he tried to adopt a dignified, military stance, and to ignore the fact that he found even a bloody sniggering tiger endearing.

Said endearing tiger joined him and leapt onto a kitchen chair, observing the ex-soldier closely. He felt that John owed him a whole afternoon – and possibly the evening and night as well – of cuddling, but he was well aware that the situation was still rather delicate. His friend had come back to him because he was worried. Sherlock made a mental note that if he ever wanted John to run to his side no matter how important what he was doing was, he should just stop answering his texts.

He scoffed. As if what John had been doing had been important. He'd only just met the stupid girlfriend and he was already meeting her family? Her sister, a voice corrected in his brain, but he was so aggrieved he paid it no heed. Sure, John had met Mycroft not even a day after their first meeting, but he'd been kidnapped, which was entirely different.

"What are you still brooding about?" John suddenly interrupted him, putting two mugs of tea on the table between them. Sherlock felt a warm sense of home replace his pique.

He grinned broadly at his flatmate, Cheshire cat-like, and John chuckled. Sherlock's facial expressions were priceless at any time – but as a tiger, they were just too much. Too much indeed... A shiver ran down his spine and he shrugged. Maybe Sherlock had been right; maybe he just liked cats and had never realized.

"Should we get a cat?"

Sherlock blinked, trying but failing to make sense of this non sequitur. He arched an eyebrow, and John felt very silly.

"Sorry, don't know what I'm saying," he mumbled.

Obviously, tiger-Sherlock thought, and John averted his eyes to avoid his friend's hilarious contemptuous-feline-look, contemplation of which would only lead to more teasing or hugs.

"So... What do you want to do today?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in amazement at the question, and John scoffed.

"Oh, don't look at me that way. I can be considerate even while you're a tiger."

The consulting detective smirked and thought that grumpy-John, whether in manul form or in human form, was definitely in his top five favourite expressions he'd ever seen his flatmate wear. And since when have you been doing a top five?

"Sherlock?"

The tiger snapped back from his musings and glanced at the old battered hat still lying on the living-room table. John stood up, mug in hand, and walked towards the hat to see what it was. He chuckled.

"Decided to change your press image a bit?"

Sherlock scowled, looking offended, then sent John an obvious look.

"A case? You mean this old rag of a hat is a case?"

The tiger nodded gravely, and John ruffled the top of his head.

"Don't try to look so serious. It really doesn't fit a tiger," he teased, in payback for all the remarks he suffered when he was a manul. "So what do you want to do? You can't exactly tell me about the case, unless you have a case file somewhere."

Sherlock went to pick up his mobile with his teeth and bring it to his friend. John took it, tilting his head with a puzzled expression, and sent the tiger a questionning look. Sherlock forgave him his slowness because John-tilting-his-head was also in his top five.

Look at the history, he thought fervently, as if he could communicate the idea by repeating it emphatically in his own mind. John looked at the phone, scanning all the unanswered texts he'd sent, and abruptly said in surprise:

"Oh, you've got a text from Molly. Would you like me to read it to you?"

Sherlock nodded furiously. John sent him one of his "sometimes-I-really-think-you're-crazy" looks (top ten) before he started reading:

" 'Hello Sherlock. Merry Christmas! So did you find the man with the goose? :) Well, he doesn't have it anymore, I guess ;) ~molly' "

John frowned slightly, bemused; then out of the blue: "Maggie found something weird while cooking yesterday."

Sherlock glared. He hadn't forgiven the doctor for abandoning him yet, especially for a woman he'd met not even a month before. John petted him between the ears in an attempt to assuage him, but Sherlock turned away sullenly. John shrugged briefly, regretting the loss of contact, before continuing:

"It was a blue gem. She found it in a goose – think it's got anything to do with Molly's "goose man"?"

He took the gem out of his pocket and instead of showing it to Sherlock, he put it on the table so the tiger would be lured back closer to him to look at it. Sherlock did come back, and John went back to petting him casually, a wide smile spreading on his face when Sherlock, too engrossed in studying the gem, did not rebuff him. John was ridiculously happy, obviously a silly response when he should have been annoyed with his infuriating flatmate who'd decided to turn into a bloody tiger on Christmas day and ruin his romantic weekend in the countryside. Still, all he felt was an immense sense of relief and a great deal of fondness.

Both are most probably linked, yes, the tiger conceded. Then he turned his gaze to John and waited. When John didn't seem to get the message, he glanced at the phone, and blinked. John looked at the phone, then at Sherlock. Finally, he asked:

"You want me to call Molly to get the details I missed?"

The tiger nodded.You certainly took your time. John scowled, but didn't complain and complied, dialling Molly's number.

"Hi! Molly. Yes, it's John. I'm fine. We're fine. Merry Christmas to you too. Look, Sherlock just ran off talking about a goose– he was in a hurry and didn't tell me much about it, but I gathered he got the case from you. Um. Yes, well... care to tell me a bit more about it?"

John listened to Molly's explanations and his face froze when she said she'd invited Sherlock over yesterday night, but naturally he'd refused, telling her that he was to spend Christmas Eve with John. Molly laughed a little nervously, and said something like 'I didn't know things had got serious between you two', but John was too consumed with guilt to correct her. So Sherlock had refused an invitation just in order to spend the evening with him and he had stood him up at the last minute. What kind of friend was he? Wait, that's not exactly it, he suddenly realized. Sherlock hadn't listened to him the previous week when John had told him that he was to go away for Christmas Eve with Maggie and would only be back on the 27th. It wasn't his fault if the detective hadn't remembered and had turned Molly down and, truth be told, John doubted Sherlock would've accepted Molly's offer, even if he had known that John wasn't going to be around. He had no real reason to be feeling so guilty.

"John?"

"Mm? Yes, sorry Molly, I was just... Anyway, so you cooked that goose and you found nothing weird in it? No, I mean, something unusual, like a gem or some sort of jewel?"

Sherlock could make out Molly's puzzled tone over the phone and snorted. John, John... such a stupid question. Of course Molly hadn't found anything in the goose, it wouldn't make sense. The man who had the goose, on the other hand, and his pursuers, probably thought that there was a gem – the gem – in it. But it had been in Maggie's goose. Now, the real question was–

"All right. Well, I'll get back to you once I've found Sherlock and he's figured everything out. Yes. Thank you, Molly. Yes. Merry Christmas."

He hung up and sent Sherlock a look of regretful dismay. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and then, since John's expression wasn't changing, glowered heatedly.

Look, we don't have time for this. Now call Maggie and ask her where she bought that goose of hers – that's probably where the key to the mystery lies!

But John was too absorbed in his confounding thoughts about his flatmate to pay attention. So Sherlock went up to him and nuzzled the palm of his hand, deciding that a bite was unfortunately too risky – he didn't want John to finish the day in hospital. Especially since John wouldn't want to take him along, and he'd just be left all alone – again. Startled out of his musing, John looked at the tiger, and a tender smile lit up his face. Sherlock stared.

I know, I'm being sweet; now could we please focus on the case?

John played with the tiger's ear absent-mindedly. Sherlock was considering biting him after all, when the doctor suddenly said:

"But I don't get it. Maggie said she got the goose from her sister. How could both birds be related?"

How indeed? Sherlock wondered, but his eyes were sparkling. He cocked his fluffy head at John, giving him an adorable mien that he knew his friend couldn't resist. Please let's go there?

For once, John got the message just fine. He grimaced, even though he felt himself melting already.

"I can't take you to Maggie's sister's place! Hell, I can't even go there myself after the fight we had – because of you, just so you know. Besides, you're still a bloody tiger, in case you've forgotten."

Sherlock scoffed and walked away, deciding to sulk in a corner of the room. Or possibly on the couch, as it was more comfortable. John sat at the table in silence. Eventually, he said:

"Either way, we can't go there as long as you're a tiger. But I know her address, and we've got the gem. We can always go there incognito once you've transformed back."

The tiger stared a few seconds, wondering if John seriously thought that they'd be able to remain incognito very long – it was certain that poor Maggie would complain about them to her sister, and said sister would surely recognize them the moment they walked in. Sherlock was about to work on figuring out how to convey that thought to his friend, when he realized it wasn't necessary: if John really wanted to save his relationship with Maggie, Sherlock could always go to the sister's alone and leave John at the hotel. He was confident enough in his acting skills: if he didn't want to be recognized, he wouldn't be. The same couldn't be said for John, but again, if he really wanted to come, Sherlock would gladly let him spoil his relationship with Maggie irreversibly.

"I can check whether there's a train going there tomorrow morning if you'd like, but that shouldn't be a problem. In the meantime, I'm afraid we're stuck here."

Sherlock gave him a sullen look and tried to ignored the fluttery feeling in his chest at John's words. We're stuck here. "We", he'd said, not "You".

"Yep. There's a train tomorrow morning at nine. Then eleven. We'd have to stay at the hotel or a B&B and rent a car, because she really lives in the countryside. Why do your cases always cost so much money? And this one isn't going to bring in anything, if I'm correctly understanding the situation."

Wrong. Whoever lost that gem, I'm sure they'll be quite grateful we found it for them. Speaking of which...

Sherlock jumped off the couch and went to get the latest newspaper, which he brought to John's knees, mewling – another thing he knew John could hardly resist. The doctor blushed visibly and looked away, taking the newspaper and opening it.

"Right. Looking for someone who was robbed of a gem in the past few days, yeah?"

Sherlock smiled almost proudly, enjoying how they could be on the same wavelength sometimes and understand each other perfectly without a word. He was training John well. 

John was still scanning the papers and Sherlock was lazing around the room when they heard the door downstairs. They froze. It was Mrs. Hudson's steps on the staircase, and all at once, it was a frenzy.

"Hide!" John hissed, panicked.

Their landlady burst into the living-room just as Sherlock jumped and crouched behind the sofa.

"Oh, hello dear, isn't Sherlock with you? I thought I heard you talking."

"I was just on the phone," John lied smoothly, but she didn't seem convinced. "Merry Christmas!" he added joyfully, giving her a hug. "Weren't you supposed to be at your sister's?"

"Weren't you supposed to be at your girlfriend's?" she retorted, a knowing spark in her eyes. John stammered.

"I... We... Well, you see..."

"Oh, it doesn't matter to me, dear. I'm sure Sherlock is delighted. Where has he gone off to on Christmas? Don't tell me he's got a case."

She headed for the kitchen and walked dangerously close to Sherlock, who lowered himself even closer to the floor. But at the last moment Mrs. Hudson turned and began:

"Oh by the way John, do you–"

She froze, then blinked, and only then did she cry out. John groaned, burying his face in his hands and rubbing his temples.

"Look, this is just–"

"A tiger! It's a tiger! I told you I didn't want Sherlock to keep it! Oh dear, oh dear..."

She didn't seem overly scared – only very worried that this would get them into trouble.

"Why did I ever come back early? The kids were making such a ruckus there, but it had slipped my mind that I had such children out here too."

"This isn't–"

"Don't tell me there's been a tiger up here all this time!"

"No, please listen to me."

"Why, why must Sherlock always overdo things?"

The tiger whined, pouting, and John couldn't repress a chuckle.

"Mrs. Hudson, this isn't actually Sherlock's pet."

"Don't tell me he stole it from a zoo to experiment on it!"

John smiled.

"No. In fact–"

The tiger growled threateningly, baring his teeth to John. Don't tell her! Obviously she wouldn't believe you. Who would?

"Oh, don't give us that attitude, you overgrown moggie!"

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise and he turned a disbelieving gaze to his landlady. She was pointing her finger at him with a motherly scowl.

"I know you must feel very out of place in a flat, but that's no reason to be so snappy – I'm sure Dr. Watson is taking very good care of you, so don't you even think about repaying him with a snarl!"

John burst out laughing at Sherlock's thunderstruck expression.

"You haven't been training him properly, dear," she told the ex-soldier as if having a tiger as a pet were like having a dog. "He seems awfully temperamental, doesn't he? Just like Sherlock."

"Well, you see–"

This time the tiger mewled pleadingly, begging him with his eyes. If John had seen the look, he would have completely lost it and done whatever Sherlock was asking of him. But he missed it, and went on:

"This isn't Sherlock's pet. It's Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson stared at him. Worry filled her face.

"John, dear, are you all right?"

"I know this sounds crazy, but you must believe me. We're not keeping a tiger, and you can't call the zoo or the RSPCA or the police. This is Sherlock, and he'll be back to normal in the morning, I can assure you."

"Have you hit your head somewhere, dear?" she inquired, walking up to him and touching his brow, checking for a fever. John stepped back, becoming irritated.

"I'm fine! Listen, I'm not mad. I know it sounds mad, but it's the truth. Sherlock, please help me convince her instead of just sitting there like a lump."

Sherlock gave him an offended look and scoffed, turning his head haughtily and closing his eyes in contempt. Mrs. Hudson blinked, then glanced at John doubtfully.

"Sherlock!" he scolded, now clearly annoyed.

"Dear, I think it would truly be better if we called–"

"See? Did you hear that, Sherlock? If you keep being such a prick, I'll just let her call whoever she wants and they'll come and get you."

The tiger sent him a bored look. No you won't. You'd be too scared of what they'd do to me once I transform back. Perhaps John didn't get the full idea, but he obviously understood Sherlock wasn't taking him seriously. He sighed.

"Fine. I'll call Mycroft, then."

At this, the tiger jumped and sent him a horrified look. You wouldn't.

"Oh yes I would. You know I would."

From outraged, his expression soon became imploring. Don't call. I'll be good. John smiled smugly. He just loved that expression on Sherlock.

"Good. Come here."

The tiger obeyed grudgingly.

"Sit," John ordered.

Sherlock glowered at his flatmate, but complied.

"Now. How many years ago did you meet Mrs. Hudson?"

Sherlock sighed, manifestly sulking, but raised his paw and tapped the floor four times. Curious, he mused. It'd been a year already. A year since he'd met John.

"Did you ensure that her husband was executed?"

"Oh dear..." Mrs. Hudson murmured as she sat down into a chair, her legs giving way.

The tiger nodded.

"Really? You didn't stop his execution?"

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. You're making me look like an idiot, John. I hope you realize.

John did realize, but didn't care. All he could see was that Sherlock was being obedient, and it was so refreshingly unusual that he enjoyed it greatly.

I'm not a dog, Sherlock whined, but it came out as a growl and startled Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock," John said, a warning in his voice. "You know, that scowl may get stuck on your face forever if you don't stop it."

The tiger just glared, and didn't stop scowling. Chuckling, John knelt down and wrapped his arms around him, rubbing his cheek against his warm fur, stroking his back. Sherlock kept frowning for a few seconds, before a soft purr resonated in the room.

"Oh dear..." Mrs. Hudson repeated, and John thought she'd say something like 'Now I know it's not Sherlock.' "Now I know it's Sherlock," she commented.

Both John and the tiger frozer.

"Well, of course. As much as I might believe you capable of taming such a beast, I don't think anyone but Sherlock would feel so strongly against Mycroft and so positively about you."

The boys stared at her, then at each other. Sherlock was embarrassed and averted his eyes, but John broke into laughter.

"Surely no tiger would be so terrified of Big Brother," he concurred.

I'm not terrified! Sherlock snarled in displeasure.

"Now, now... Be good. I'll give you a treat. Speaking of which, have you eaten at all in the past two days?"

And that's your treat? the tiger scoffed. Mrs. Hudson looked appalled.

"And why shouldn't he have? Have you been away for so long?" she asked, as if it were perfectly obvious to her as well that Sherlock wouldn't eat if John weren't around to remind him to.

John's ears reddened and he looked away, feeling a bit like he'd been caught red-handed.

"No, I just left yesterday, but I haven't been home much lately."

Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything futher but the look she sent the doctor was clearly one of rebuke. She got up and walked to the door.

"Well, either way, I expect this tiger to have disappeared from the house tomorrow morning, young man. And please don't make a racket tonight – I've had a long day, and I intend to go to sleep early."

"Wait! You didn't tell us why you came back so early."

She gave him a somewhat wistful smile, but her expression quickly turned cheerful again.

"Well, I was there for Christmas Eve and for today's lunch. That's quite enough, don't you think? Besides, I couldn't leave one of my boys all alone for Christmas, could I?" She winked and then was gone. John watched the door she'd just closed, speechless, then turned to Sherlock. "This woman's a treasure, I tell you. A treasure. She really does care about you."

The tiger pouted. Unlike a certain someone.

John gave him a look.

"Come on. I'll fix something for you to eat and then we can watch crap telly. I think they're playing one of the James Bonds."

Sherlock scowled. Didn't we already have a "Bond night"? I've had quite enough, thank you. But John ignored him and went to prepare some of the red meat he'd found in the freezer.

"Did you buy that in advance for one of your transformation days?" he asked, dumbfounded to find real food in the flat for once.

The tiger just nodded, not bothering to specify that he'd bought it for manul-John, and not for himself.

And so John fed Sherlock and made him watch crap telly with him for the rest of the afternoon and the evening. Sherlock didn't complain too much, for he enjoyed the petting and the general pampering. He'd thought he should keep his distance at first, sitting on the other end of the couch, not nuzzling John's hand for caresses. But quickly the doctor himself had started to stroke him, probably unwittingly at first. He'd relished the strokes and savoured how naturally John had started to pet him again, as if he'd never stopped – as if he hadn't been avoiding him for the past few weeks.

Sherlock was dozing off already when John suddenly stretched and said.

"Well, I'm going to bed. Should I leave the telly on for you?"

The tiger blinked in surprise, and John misunderstood. He shook his head, smiling.

"Right. Why am I even asking?"

He turned the telly off and got up from the couch. Sherlock sent him a forlorn, pitiful look, and for a second he thought John would give in: he seemed very sorry – and very tempted.

"No, don't give me that look. I don't want to wake up in the morning with a naked man in my arms. Even if it's you." Especially if it's you, he added mentally, leaning in and kissing the big cat on the brow. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

The tiger watched him leave and slouched back onto the couch depressedly. Well, it wasn't too bad, he mused. John had come back. He'd dried him and fed him – even if that meant little to Sherlock, John had still gone through the trouble for him, this time, – he'd stayed with him, and petted him most of the day. Nonetheless, the detective hadn't expected his friend to suddenly flee to his own room and leave him to spend the night alone.

And why should it be any other way? Flatmates don't cuddle. Only couples do. Sherlock groaned morosely. Then we should just be a couple, he concluded, completely oblivious to the implications of such a concept. He fell asleep in the living-room, lulled by those rather foreign thoughts.

When Sherlock woke up the next morning, he had a definite sense of déjà vu. The silent flat, the couch... the paws. He whimpered. Why?

Feeling entitled to wake John up and whine about the situation, he stretched and stood lazily, pushed the door of their living-room and walked up the steps to John's room. He'd thought at first of just bursting in, but remembering how he wound up the last time he was so daring, he settled for a discreet rattle at the door. No answer. Frowning, he insisted a bit, then growled and, slapping himself mentally, mewled. To no avail. Sherlock had never been a very patient man, and being a tiger didn't change that at all. 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.

Chapter Text

 A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz and by Salsify. All my thanks!

Illustration by MakaniValur

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.

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. 

This gave Sherlock pause. 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's 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. 

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. In addition, John was 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 onto 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. They did puff up some more, though. It made Sherlock want to kiss them. What?

John moaned pitifully and lay flat on the bed. He was 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. Admittedly, he could overpower him, 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 when he was a human, he would be even more likely to do so while he was 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 snorting, 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.

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 at having been ignored, Sherlock scoffed 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're–"

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. 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 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 up 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 fair?

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.

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 in the scene, 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. Sure, he'd have John. But John could as well pass for 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?" Mrs. Hudson 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.

"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 Sherlock, 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 leapt 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: a 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 now 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 contemplate that he might have 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 – 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 at his flatmate, he gave him a dazzling smile that, on 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.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 7

… There's a land that I've heard of...

When he awoke in the morning, Sherlock was surprised to wake up in a bed – a piece of furniture he didn't use much, for he never slept a lot at night - and on top of that, one that wasn't his own. Then he saw John's naked form under the sheet beside him, and everything came back to him all at once: the double transformation, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, the failed experiment in the living-room, the keyboard... He blinked, and held his hand in front of his eyes, checking that it wasn't round and yellow and covered with fur.

It wasn't.

A triumphant grin spread across his face. He had been right! Cuddling had been the answer.

That just sounded utterly stupid, he thought.

Shifting a bit so as to have a better view on his flatmate, he observed him with curiosity. The sheet only covered his body up to the waist, so the first thing the consulting detective noticed was, obviously, the scar from the bullet wound. Anyone would have sincerely admitted that it was an ugly thing to see, except a lover perhaps, who would have found it the most beautiful scar in the world.

Sherlock, who was neither anyone nor a lover, just studied it closely. The scar was a hypertrophic one, with keloids: the tissues had taken the form of red bubbles surrounded by rubbery growths, giving it a rather angry and disgusting aspect. Sherlock found it neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but only memorized mechanically the shape, the colour, every cluster of scar tissue and collagen fibre... He memorized all of it, as if it had been some useful London backstreet map which would come in handy in a chase. He even felt the urge to touch it, to palpate it, in order to remember the feel and the texture of it as well. The more data, the better. Why? a small voice whispered in his mind. How could such data be of any relevance?

Well, he mused in all seriousness, because it's John, naturally. Wasn't it obvious that everything concerning the doctor would be, by definition, relevant?

For the first time, too, he realized how long John's nose was. To be fair, he had never cared enough to pay attention to it before. "Long nose" didn't mean anything, it could not help to make any applicable deduction. Sherlock was not presently being deductive, though: he was only observing, and accumulating information, almost automatically. But he also started to make some judgements, which was a much more dangerous thing.

He indeed noted that he liked John's skin. Admittedly, he hadn't touched it, and certainly wouldn't for fear of waking John up. But he liked the roughness of it, the very slight tan, the not so well-shaven chin... Of course, John hadn't had time to shave the previous morning, since he had turned into a manul.

Sherlock chuckled softly as he pictured the fluffy cat attempting to shave his overly plushy face, and the doctor groaned in his sleep. Sherlock froze, persuaded that he'd been too noisy and had managed to wake his flatmate, but John only stirred and did not open his eyes. The detective repressed a sigh of relief, then blinked in fascination as he saw a tuft emerging from John's morning hair. It was funny, he mused. His friend hadn't moved too much during the night, and there had been no nightmare that would have caused agitation. Yet his hair was dishevelled, and now that he'd turned Sherlock could make out on his cheek the mark of a sheet fold. It was so endearingly comical the taller man couldn't help it and this time, just had to touch.

Reaching out his hand slowly, he was about to brush the entertainingly mesmerizing tuft of hair when suddenly John's eyes snapped open and Sherlock stopped his move in mid-air, staring in shock: not so much at John waking, but at himself, for wanting to touch his hair because it was funny.

"What... Where..."

"Us. In your room," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly, casually removing his hand. Then, since John seemed frozen on the spot, he deemed necessary to specify: "In 221B, Baker Street."

"What the hell are you doing in my bed, Sherl-"

It seemed to suddenly dawn on him, for he fell silent and gaped, mortification filling his face.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I... I forgot. Just... oh, damn this, it's barely morning..." he moaned as he buried his face into the pillow, refusing to get up – or to acknowledge their current situation.

"Indeed. It is, thankfully, just morning. We still have time to get to Brixton."

"Brixton?" John mumbled from his pillow.

"Yes, Brixton," Sherlock repeated impatiently. "You know, you girlfriend's sister's place?"

At the words, John jumped.

"Right. Maggie..." Then, at Sherlock, suspiciously: "What were you trying to do with your hand?"

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed by his flatmate's incoherence and by how annoyingly cute he found that damn tuft on his groggy head.

"I was about to wake you up", he lied smoothly. "The sooner we get there, the better, after all."

And he stood up to stress his point, stretching. John looked up, but averted his gaze just as soon, confused by the effect Sherlock just stretching had on him. The poor doctor fell back, grumbling something incomprehensible.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You don't need me, do you?" John repeated lethargically.

Sherlock frowned. "You don't want to come?"

"It's not that I don't..."

John jolted as his friend sat back on the mattress and tried to pull him out of bed.

"What are... Don't touch me!"

Sherlock stopped dead, and stood back stiffly. Realizing his blunder too late, John slapped himself mentally, and tried to make up for it.

"Of course I want to come. I'll be right down."

Then he became aware that this was just another way to convey 'get out', and felt like hitting his head against the bedpost. I'm such an idiot.

"Look, I–"

"I'll see you downstairs in ten minutes, then," Sherlock interrupted curtly, before turning and leaving the room.

John hit his head against the bedpost. Then he noticed Sherlock had gone with the sheet, and felt like hitting him instead.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

The cab ride was quiet. The train ride was even worse. The bond John and Sherlock shared was one that usually allowed them to spend comfortable silence together, Sherlock thinking or experimenting, John reading or typing. But this wasn't one of those intimate moments. The air was heavy with unresolved tension. Sherlock did not appear to be thinking, but on the contrary, seemed to be trying very hard not to. He was staring at the scenery, a slight pout on his mouth, which gave him an aristocratic air. John, on the other hand, was trying very hard to think.

Ever since his fight with Maggie – and could that even be called a fight? She was the one who had just snapped at him. Then again, he'd done nothing to make it better... – John had been racking his brain and trying to figure out the situation. He was evidently falling in love with Sherlock – but not quite there yet, hopefully. Hopefully? Well, yes, hopefully. Because Sherlock wasn't a good person to fall in love with. Not that he wasn't gorgeous and fascinating and vibrant and just so damn addictive. But he just wasn't interested. And according to John, that was something to be respected. The detective seemed to be surprisingly fond of cats, though – of manuls only, perhaps, most likely because they were ridiculous, and so it boosted his ego. But John couldn't possibly remain as a cat forever just to get the cuddles and the hugs. Moreover, he must admit he liked to pet Sherlock too. An entire existence of snuggling wouldn't be satisfying. John needed it all. The thrill of the chases, the easiness of the clinic, the fun of the blog... He didn't want to spend his whole life as a weird, fluffy cat.

But you'll get to sleep with Sherlock every night... whispered an evil little voice. You'll get to see him all the time, even when he strips or dresses up, when he showers... think of all the possibilities... Soon he found himself goggling like an idiot, and smashed his face into the windowpane to get some sense back into his brain. John Hamish Watson, you're becoming mad, raving mad. Then, as an afterthought: Such an existence would be hell: I couldn't even touch him like I'd surely want to.

As realization about what he'd just thought dawned on him, he blanched. What he'd surely want to do? And what would that be? Certainly, he couldn't possibly consider having s... He couldn't even formulate the word in his own mind. He looked up at his partner with some curiosity in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't handsome. His features were rather angular and pointy. The protuberant cheekbones could resemble that of a skull, and the pearly whiteness of the skin could be considered quite cadaverous. The eyes were so blue they were eerie, and the lips too fleshy for such a face. Yet, John couldn't deny the attraction. Perhaps the eyes were scary, in an ethereal kind of way: but they were no doubt mesmerizing, and John found himself entranced by them. He loved how they twinkled for the most peculiar reasons (a fourth victim, a challenging criminal... and, more recently, a weird plushy cat in the flat), how demanding they were of him, when Sherlock asked a question or just checked if he was following: it felt as if the clear pupils were sucking his soul in. And even if it was frightening, we all know how the ex-soldier felt about danger. Then there was the skin: pale, indeed, all the more so as Sherlock wore mostly black, and dark coloured shirt, making him look rather undertaker-like... or like some old high nobility lord who never left his castle, and never exposed himself to sunrays. Either way, it only made him come out more on the street, John thought. Sherlock's stance, his gait, his gestures,his deep voice, all of this contributed to the classy image, and not to the vampire-freakish one. Sherlock looked like a twelve year-old that had grown too fast, not like some Halloween monster. A twelve year old? John thought with shock. Then what does that make me? Since when am I attracted to twelve year old males?

Well, that was something else, too. Sherlock was a man. John averted his gaze and fixed it on the scenery like his friend. The detective had been especially cold since the morning. John knew he'd been tactless when he'd rejected his touch so bluntly, almost violently... But Sherlock didn't understand. John wasn't gay, of that he was sure. ...right? He loved women, and never had any feelings, even the most basic, the most feral, for a man. Even towards Sherlock, he didn't... It's not like he felt the urge to shove him against a wall and take him then and there. The whole thought seemed utterly absurd to him, even if it made him blush in shame to actually picture it on a train with Sherlock sitting in front of him. But it wasn't out of lust. It wasn't sex, he thought; only that he wanted to possess the man completely. To envelop the porcelain body and never allow it to break. To stroke and play with the black curls, kiss the white face and perhaps make it pinker...

Flustered by his own musing, John blushed and looked away, grimacing in disgust. He was despicable. Sherlock was sitting there innocently, obviously still upset from his rash reaction in the morning, and here he was, imagining he could kiss him... Sherlock's cold eyes met his, and his blush deepened as he avoided the icy stare. He stood no chance, absolutely no chance: he should really give it up after all.

Or find a way to remain a manul forever, so at least he'll get the hugs. Appalled at this recurring thought of his, John groaned and pressed his brow against the window in despair, hoping the coldness of the glass would bring some sense back to his overheated brain.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

The train ride turned to be hell for Sherlock. After the tensely quiet cab ride, he thought things couldn't possibly get worse, but he was soon proven wrong. John had looked horrified in the morning when he'd rejected his touch, but now, as he glanced at him not so discreetly, apparently very deep in unpleasant thoughts, he looked positively disgusted. Sherlock had never felt like he was particularly attractive, of course – being called Freak every once in a while helped to remind him that he was nothing like the perfect prince charming figure of the fairy tales – but he didn't know anyone could find him physically repulsive. Usually, people hated him for what he was, not for what he looked like. And it was clear that John couldn't possible be repelled by his personality – if he had been, he would have been long gone.

Sherlock had never identified himself with any hero from a picture book or a film as a child – in fact, he had never identified himself with any character at all, because the identification process required a capacity to sympathize, and that was something he did not quite possess. Not in the way others understood it anyway. In any case, he had never believed nor hoped, even as a boy, that he would grow to obtain a world full of sweetness and light. For one thing, he did not care much for sweetness and light. Furthermore, such a world did not exist, and if it ever did, it would undoubtedly bore him to death, like the stupid lullabies the nannies used to sing to him to try to make him fall asleep (usually they were the ones falling asleep, exhausted, in the process): Sherlock kept asking what this or that meant, why in the world there would be anything behind a rainbow, which was just an optical effect that could be explained with simple physics, and why, why, why... More often than not, they got tired of it – and of him – and so gave up on the lullabies, leaving him to himself in the dark, with nothing but his own devices to find a way to fall asleep.

But even then, Sherlock did not imagine his ideal world full of happiness – what he wished he would have some day. This wasn't something he could hope to get. He knew he was too weird, too out of place – too special, perhaps – to get anything as other people did. Something as fluffy and warm and meaningless as happiness was part of it. No one could define it scientifically, and it was a completely subjective matter. It was something stupid to seek, for sure. There were much better goals in life: thrill, for instance; jubilation, excitement, pride, gloating... Pretty much the same feeling under a different aspect every time, naturally, but still, that was something worth living for. That would chase the boredom away. Happiness was such a strange and empty concept – not empty in the "has been emptied" sense, but in the "without any definite content" sense. It was just fulfilment, some kind of lasting joy. Well, the thrill didn't last, but it was still worth it. Something as trite and void as happiness should not be bothered with.

Then there had come John and Sherlock had wondered if that couldn't possibly have been considered, perhaps, a chance at happiness: even when there was no case, when he was with John on a non-case day and his friend was in manul form, or he in tiger form, and he was being taken care of, or they were just cuddling and snuggling, it was somehow okay. There was no thrill, and no excitation whatsoever: Sherlock certainly did not feel fulfilled, but he did not crave the Work either, nor anything else more radical, like the terrible white powder... He felt... content, perhaps. Good, for sure. A little bit more than all right. Warm, and warmth was good, for some unfathomable reason – the kind of warmth that made you smile unwittingly. Sherlock found he enjoyed it greatly.

But then John had started to avoid him, and he should have understood. That he was clearly pushing him, and that someone like him, so cadaverous and lanky and probably repellent in the eyes of his friend, should not permit himself to be so touchy-feely. He had, very dumbly, got used to it. It was quite unfortunate, but most of all, very idiotic. He should have known. This wasn't only because John wasn't gay and was having personal issues as to his absolute straightness, but because he, as a human being, just did not have the same cuddle appeal as he had as a tiger. John had called him fluffy once. There was definitely nothing fluffy about him in human form. John liked his fur, and enjoyed nuzzling up to him: but was it so surprising that he wouldn't be so attracted by such a hairless, eerily white skin? Especially since Sherlock had such an angular body, nothing like that of a woman: no round, generous shapes where John could bury himself, just... bones, and skin, and tendons, and more bones...

No, Sherlock concluded and confirmed in his mind as he saw yet again a look of disgust on his partner's face while he averted his gaze to the window, shared warmth and lands beyond rainbows were not meant for him.

He was relieved when they finally got to the hotel.

"One room, please," John said. Then he turned crimson and faltered: "Two! I meant two..."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, wondering what could possibly be going on in his mind for him to make such a blunder, but he was quite fed up himself, and so brushed it off.

Once they had got their rooms, they met at the bar, and at last started to discuss the case at hand.

"So... Maggie should be leaving in the day," John began tentatively. "I guess it would be wiser to wait a bit, just to be sure..."

"Or I could just go, while you wait here. She doesn't know me."

"I've talked about you enough for her to recognize you right away, Sherlock."

The consulting detective rolled his eyes.

"Come on, John, you know how I work. You know how I act."

"Right. Still." He looked away. Sherlock stared at him intensely. All of a sudden, it dawned on him.

"You showed her a picture of me."

John sighed.

"I did."

"You're an idiot."

"I could't have known... Oh, scratch this! How was I supposed to-"

"Nevermind. Tell me more about her."

"Excuse me?"

"Maggie. Her family."

"Well... Her sister, Emily, has a farm and lives mainly from goose business. Don't snort, she seems to be quite well-off! She also has a bed and breakfast I think."

"Why didn't you say so before? We could've just stayed there."

"Maggie is probably still in, Sherlock."

"Right. Go on."

"Maggie has a brother, too, James. I'm not quite sure what he does, and I don't think Maggie knows much either. And as you know, Maggie is a public accountant."

"...Right."

"You'd forgotten."

"Of course not, John. I remember everything about your numerous girlfriends."

"They're not numer–"

"Have you met her brother?"

"James? No, why?"

"The man who dropped the goose as he ran into Molly at Covent Garden also dropped his hat... The hat is three years old, but a rather expensive type, so the man must have had money then, but not much since then, and so hasn't renewed his wardrobe. There is the possibility that he liked the hat, too, but since he did not pick it up, nor declared anything to the police – yes, I checked – it is highly doubtful. If you examine the lower part of the lining, you can conclude that he is middle-aged, his hair is grizzled, most likely recently cut, and he uses lime-cream."

"Amazing! ...And?"

Sherlock blinked, baffled. This was the first time John acted as if there was no point at all to his deductions. As if it was all fine and brilliant, but just useless rubbish. He stared in shock, not knowing what to say, not even finding the words to explain that it was in fact very useful, and that if Maggie's brother fit the description by any chance, then...

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Let's order a cab to go to the sister's house this afternoon."

As he turned away, engrossed in his thoughts, the consulting detective did not notice the hurt gaze on his partner's face.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Hello Ms. Oakshott, police, may I ask you a few questions?"

As he stood there in the entrance way, showing Lestrade's badge to poor Emily who couldn't fathom what someone from the Met was doing at her door, Sherlock looked as gorgeous as ever, John thought. As cold and distant, too. Much colder and much more distant, in fact, he rectified.

The look of shock and disbelief on his face when he'd ask him to expand on his deduction about the man with the goose was still engraved in the doctor's mind, and not as a good memory. Sherlock had looked at him a number of times already in such a way that made John feel like he was the most idiotic man on the surface of the earth. In fact, Sherlock gave most people such a look. But in that specific gaze today, there had been something else. There had been disappointment, and like a sense of betrayal. As if John hadn't proved good enough. As if he hadn't been up to Sherlock's expectations. And that had hurt more than anything else in that already messed up day.

"Investigating a robbery?" Emily repeated dumbly, and only then did John realize a whole conversation had been going on while he was deep in thoughts. He coughed a little to regain some countenance, and straightened up. Maggie and him hadn't taken any picture together, so there was no reason Emily should know his face; yet John didn't feel quite comfortable in her house, and truly hoped his girlfriend had gone back to London already. He took the cup of coffee that was being offered to him and sat on the couch next to Sherlock.

"This is a classified case, and the victim insisted on our discretion. The media hasn't been informed yet, so you must understand I cannot reveal much about it. I need to know what provider you sell your geese to in London."

"To Breckinridge at Covent Garden," she answered.

John glanced at Sherlock, hoping to exchange some kind of knowing look, but the detective was staring straight at Emily. The poor doctor repressed a sigh and took instead a sip of bitter black coffee.

"I see," Sherlock said. "And could you tell me, was there more than one goose that had a black bar on its tail?"

She tilted her head at the question, evidently surprised by the oddity of it.

"Indeed, now that you mention it. There were two. But I sold only one."

"What happened to the other?"

"I kept it for Christmas."

"Did you cook it yourself?"

She arched an eyebrow, perhaps considering such questions were private, but Sherlock looked D.I.-like enough to convince her, and she replied:

"No. I gave it to my sister who lives in London. She celebrated Christmas there with her new companion, and came here right afterwards – in fact, she just left this morning. I can give you her contact details, but I'm afraid she is in a terrible mood right now, and she might be a little... snappy."

"And why is that?" Sherlock inquired, smirking mentally, but showing a worried, compassionate expression to the sister, who appeared to be very touched by the concern. John stared at his friend, annoyed. Why was he insisting, when he knew perfectly why?

"Well... She had a fight with that horrible boyfriend of hers – a very silly man, if you want my opinion: he doesn't deserve her. I think he swings the other way, and she must think so too, but she refuses to acknowledge it."

Sherlock nodded gravely.

"That is a difficult situation, indeed. It must have been for you, too, to comfort her during a holiday that is supposed to be a happy time."

Emily nodded timidly. John was flabbergasted by Sherlock's attitude. What was he thinking, being so considerate? It was almost suspicious – and by that he meant, not to him, who knew the insufferable detective personally, but even to an outsider. A D.I. doesn't usually sympathize so much with anyone, especially when it is not a family member of the victim of anything of the like. It was almost as if he were chatting her up... Stop it, he thought. Stop it right now. You're being ridiculous.

"In any case,", Emily continued, "she is quite irritated at the moment, but if you want to talk to her–"

"We can find her easily. Thank you very much for your time, Ms. Oakshott." Sherlock sent her a charming smile and she blushed. John's eyes widened. They all stood. "I hope everything turns out well for your sister, and you have a great holiday. Just, one last question: did you give a goose to anyone else?"

"I did intend to give one to my brother, James, since he was here a few days before Christmas, and was actually the one who brought the one to Maggie – my sister. But he said he didn't care much for it."

"And, is he still in London? Your brother."

"He is. However, he's coming back here tomorrow with his girlfriend Catherine."

"I see. Well, we might come by tomorrow to see him."

This seemed to frighten her slightly, for her brow darkened and she asked:

"Why would you want to see him?"

"Do not worry, Ms. Oakshott. It is just that you said he brought the goose to your sister, correct?"

"Yes..."

"And since it is in that goose that your sister found a blue gem you omitted to mention..."

Emily brought a hand to her mouth.

"Dear God, is that the stolen item you were referring to? I thought it was a fake, just some kind of joke my brother played on h-"

She froze.

"He couldn't have done it. My brother isn't a robber, Mr. Lestrade."

"I never said he was. But you understand I must talk to him."

She nodded stiffly, and forced a small smile as she walked them to the door. Before going, Sherlock turned to her, and in a surge of false affection, took her by the shoulder gently and looked her in the eye:

"Do not worry, Ms. Oakshott. I will do everything I can to prove that your brother is not guilty of a crime he did not commit. You can trust me."

Emily's cheeks turned pink and John frowned, more and more nettled by the second.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"I hope I wasn't too much of a bother," John said dryly once they were back at the inn, in Sherlock's room.

The detective looked up at him in surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, I don't know. You always do so well by yourself, and you were quite getting along with Emily."

"What is wrong with you?"

"With me? What is wrong with me, Sherlock?"

"Yes, I don't see the problem!"

"The problem is that I just sat there the whole time while you cajoled her and buttered her up!"

"She's our number one suspect's sister, John! Of course I was buttering her up, we don't want her helping him to get away now, do we?"

"Of course not," John replied bitterly, standing straight and stiff, hating Sherlock for being so oblivious, hating himself for being so foolishly jealous.

Sherlock was getting rather irritated with his flatmate's attitude, and thought it couldn't get worse anyway. And so as always when he was aggravated, he became vicious, and effectively did make the situation worse.

"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?" he inquired.

John just stood in shock, speechless in face of such an unfair attack. Sherlock felt a pang of guilt, but it was to late. Without a word, the doctor turned and left the room, not even slamming the door. Sherlock would've rather he had.

As he turned off all lights and sat in the armchair, not very hopeful to get any sleep tonight, he wondered how their day could have gone so wrong. When he had woken up in the morning, he had caught a glimpse of that strange land beyond the rainbow everyone talked about or aimed at one way or the other. When he'd seen John with that silly tuft of hair and his ridiculously peaceful sleeping face, it had been amusing and warm, and it been a pleasant feeling. A short-lived one, too, he mused gloomily. Now the room felt even colder than when John had left silently. Sherlock thought he'd had enough, and tried to occupy his mind with the case. But it was so overly simple it really wasn't enough to chase away the thought of John's disgusted look, of John's disappointed look, of John's hurt look. He almost wished he could turn into a tiger tonight just to see what John would do. Would he leave him to his own devices?

Sherlock sighed, and for lack of a better idea, decided to do what he used to resort to as a child when the governess had given up on him. The letter game, he called it. Now, it took much more time than when he was a child, because his mind palace was much wider. It didn't help him to sleep much anymore, but at least it could help him stop thinking about something annoying and pointless.

A. Alibi. Then he browsed his mind palace for everything that had to do with alibi. It was a lot. Too much. So when he got tired of it, either he picked a word he had come up with during his search (cinema, abroad...), either he kept the same (alibi), and took the last letter of it: I. From there, he picked the very first word that popped up in his mind: imbroglio, and repeated the same mental exercise. There were many variants, such as choosing words that only began and ended with vowels, or only with dental consonants, words without an E, words that had at least three liquid consonants, etc. He could also refine the search and pick only words from a definite domain: botany, geology, history of London...

He was startled out of his thoughts and looked at the time: 2.07A.M. He hadn't realized he'd been doing it for so long. The noise that had brought him back to reality was a repeated thump against his bedroom door, not exactly as if someone had been knocking, but certainly denoting some kind of presence. Puzzled, he slipped out of bed and walked up to the door. The noise kept resounding, relentless. Curious, he opened and looked... and blinked. For there was nothing to see. No one was standing in front of him, and he was met by emptiness.

Ignoring the sinking feeling and refusing to acknowledge the hope he'd had, he was about to close the door when suddenly he felt something brush against his leg, something soft and furry. He turned abruptly, just in time to make out a hairball jumping onto his bed, and curling next to the pillows.

He smiled unwittingly.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

Chapter Text

.

.

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 8

… Once in a lullaby

.

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 when he had gone for couple of weeks to 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 find 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 had fallen into slumber. 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 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, onto which he managed to jump after three or four failed attempts. Then he succeeded in jumping onto the chest of drawers, but not without smashing into the wall with a pitiful pule first. 

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, he jumped onto the bed again, then onto 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?

...Cuddles with Sherlock all night. 

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 onto his paws, looking triumphantly at the wooden panel. Slowly, he crept down the corridor 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. 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 to 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 throughout 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 down, observing John. 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 stroking him when he was in truth only stroking 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 appearances 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 noticeably, 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 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 already twitching.

"Can I touch it?"

John's eyes widened at the unexpected question.

"You can," he answered in a trance, fascinated with 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 giving him.

"Do I repel you?"

John was dumbstruck by the question and just gawked. 

"Repel me? You?" he repeated. 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."

A 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 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 up 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, 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 snort 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 same 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.

"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 wondered if he was ashamed of his girlfriend's job, for he didn't seem very keen to expand on the subject. Sherlock didn't insist, and after he'd drunk his coffee, stood and thanked the Oakshotts 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 girlfriend's hand on the street, to kiss her good morning or good night... He wasn't exactly a romantic but he still liked the attention, and surely that was the kind of silliness Sherlock would never indulge in.

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

"A walk? On a train?"

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

"...Right." 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 spent 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.

« (o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

Chapter Text

A/N:Hello readers! I just wanted to notify you guys that I am entering boarding school on September 3, and that I will be very busy with my studies. Serious health problems also prevent me from being very efficient and quick when I write, so my updates probably won't be as frequent from now on. I do intend to post at least one chapter every two weeks, but I cannot promise anything: I'll try. In any case, you can trust me for not dropping this story: I enjoy writing it even more than you enjoy reading it, and I'll do my best to keep the updates as frequent and regular as possible. More than ever, reviewers are loved!  ~¤Zoffoli

All my thanks to Tigzzz for having betaed this chapter!

.

.

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 9

Twinkle, twinkle, little star...

.

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.

"Sherlock! Wake up! Oh, damn this."

He ran to the window and pulled down the curtains. Then, grabbing the fluffy striped back, he shook the tiger.

"Sherlock! You've turned into a tiger and we are on a bloody train!"

The tiger's eyes snapped open, and he sent John a lost look. He blinked, gazed around him, and suddenly jumped to his feet on the seat, which only resulted in his slipping down and crashing onto the floor.

"Sherlock! What the hell are you doing? There's no time for your clowning!"

The tiger puled pitifully, and John had to look behind him to check the door. If anyone came in now...

"What did you think you were doing?"

Confused, Sherlock tilted his head to the side.

"A tiger, Sherlock! You're a bloody tiger!"

Sherlock pouted and gave John a sullen moue. It's not like I did it on purpose!

But John wasn't paying attention, and was now pacing in small circles nervously, completely panicked at the situation.

"What can we do? We can't possibly get off the train with you looking like this."

He was interrupted by the tiger coming up to him and suddenly putting his paws on his torso.

"What the... Sherlock! Are you stupid, or what? This isn't the time to play!"

Not playing! Sherlock snarled, miffed. Hug me, you idiot! It might just work!

John, however, was too preoccupied to get his message at all. He just glared, and his temper flared up.

"Do you even realize the situation we're in? You'll end up in a cage, in a zoo! And I... They'll probably bring me to the police for keeping a tiger on a bloody train!"

That's the third bloody, Sherlock noted grimly, staring at John pointedly.

The doctor looked around him, checking if there was anywhere Sherlock could hide for a while – under the seat, or on the luggage tray... But there was no way such a big feline could hide anywhere in such a small room.

"I could set the alarm somewhere so the train would stop. But then we'd still be stuck. It's not like we can hide on the rails or anything, not with you looking like this."

John sighed and rubbed his temples.

"Mycroft. We've got to call Mycroft."

At this, Sherlock jumped on him and growled threateningly. No! Never!

"Don't be childish, Sherlock! He's the only one who can come with a huge case or something, and guys built like a tank to carry you! Hell, he could even arrange a car and everything, and just say it's some secret government matter."

You are NOT calling my brother! the tiger snarled. Call Mrs. Hudson, or Molly, or whoever... But not Mycroft!

"Sherlock, there is no time! Get off me! NOW!"

The detective was so startled by his flatmate's outburst that he did get off at once, and sat in front of him with pleading eyes. John looked away and took his phone. Sherlock groaned.

"Enough! Or do you want to spend the rest of your life in a zoo?"

I don't want you to call him, Sherlock whimpered, giving John the most pitiful and adorable pout he could manage. It didn't work.

John was fidgeting as he dialled Mycroft's number, praying he would answer right away; he did.

"Mycroft? Oh thank God you're not ignoring my call."

"I never ignore your calls, Dr. Watson. What's wrong?"

The 'with Sherlock' didn't even need to be said, but suddenly John realized he couldn't possibly tell Mycroft about the transformation. Who knew what he could do to find out why, how, when? He cared for Sherlock, but for exactly that reason, he would certainly not be against using him as a guinea pig so he would never transform again. Into a tiger, that is.

"I..." John sent a panicked look to his friend, and the tiger snorted scornfully. I told you.

"I need your help," John blurted, and Sherlock's eyes widened. Mycroft's probably did, too, for the ex-soldier wasn't the type to voice such thoughts.

"I know," came the smug reply. "Now what about getting to the point?"

"I'm on a train compartment with a tiger and we're arriving at Victoria Station in less than ten minutes," John said precipitately. 

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me, Mycroft!" John snapped. "I'm on a bloody train with a bloody tiger and I need your help to get us out of here, or I don't know what will happen when we get there!"

"Are you saying you are on a train compartment alone, with a tiger on the loose?" the elder Holmes asked, disbelief in his voice. Even if he knew John wasn't really a normal man, since he stayed with Sherlock, he hadn't expected him to end up in such an insane situation.

"I... It's a long story, I can't tell you right now. This is urgent! Please, you really have to come and help – bring a box or some huge suitcase or... I don't know! But I need to get out of here with the tiger safely."

A pause. John waited anxiously, clenching his fists. Sherlock was glowering.

"And what will you give me in exchange, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft finally asked in a honeyed tone.

John froze. One should never answer "anything" to such a question especially when asked by Mycroft Holmes. So John said, gritting his teeth:

"What do you want?"

"I will think of something."

"What!? But I won't just do anything!"

"Well, that's too bad, then..." Mycroft trailed off, ready to hang up – or wishing to make John believe so anyway.

"No, please! All right, I'll do any–"

But Sherlock jumped on him and stopped his conversation short before he could promise anything. John let out a cry of surprise and fell, dropping his phone, which smashed to the floor. Just to be sure, Sherlock stepped on it again, and crushed it to pieces. John stared, bewildered.

"Sherlock, that was our only chance!" he exploded, furious with his friend's irresponsible attitude. "And you just smashed my phone! God, I should just leave you here and let you handle this alone, since you're so smart."

Sherlock whimpered pathetically.

You're the type of foolish man who has only one word, and you would abide by it at all costs! You really don't know Mycroft, what advantage he would've taken out of this...

But there was no way John could've understood all of that only through a lamentable moan.

"Stop it! Just stop it, will you? What can we do, now? Couldn't you have swallowed your damn pride for once?"

Sherlock pouted. But I don't want-

"Fine, it's the zoo, then. And I am not going to wait here so I can get arrested as well."

The tiger stared in shock. You're leaving me? Here? Alone?

John felt something break in him, and his resolve waver. He averted his gaze so he would no longer see the look of betrayal in Sherlock's eyes.

"I won't be of any help if I'm being interrogated and kept under surveillance, Sherlock! Can you imagine the type of questions I would be asked? How do you expect me to answer them, huh?"

But you still can't leave me! How will I ever turn back? the tiger whined.

John really wanted to answer 'Not my problem', but he couldn't bring himself to. It was, after all, his problem too. And not only because if he ever turned into a manul, he would need Sherlock to hug him. But because he couldn't just let Sherlock live in a cage for the rest of his life...

Wait... Need him to hug me?

John's eyes widened as realization hit him. He checked his watch – still five minutes.

"Of course!"

Turning to Sherlock, he fell on his knees and wrapped his arms around him, stroking his head and neck feverishly.

"If we cuddle, perhaps you'll turn back!"

That's what I was saying, but you weren't listening. Sherlock groaned, snuggling up closer.

In fact, he was well aware that this was very unlikely to work. For one thing, they could only hold each other for a few minutes, and it usually took an entire night for them to transform back. Then, there was also the fact that they were always sleeping when they became felines or humans again – and it was highly improbable that any of them would fall asleep now, considering the amount of stress and pressure they were under. Still, Sherlock did not complain, and decided against pointing out to John how futile his attempt was: if he was going to leave him there to be caught and put in a zoo, Sherlock might as well enjoy the petting while he could.

"Turn back, turn back..." John was murmuring like a mantra, oblivious to his friend's depressing thoughts. "God, why isn't it working? Turn back, please!"

The begging is nice, too, Sherlock mused absent-mindedly. He had been quite annoyed at John for begging Mycroft a few minutes prior, so he was glad to hear it for himself now. Even if that was a small consolation, considering his gloomy impending future.

So John petted him, hugged him, stroked him desperately for the few remaining minutes, mumbling prayers and whatnot. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore.

"Oh please, Sherlock, turn back now! I don't want to leave you here but I will have no choice! Please transform back."

Sherlock blinked in astonishment. He would never have guessed that John would be so concerned for such a silly thing. To be fair, even he wasn't very reassured, not knowing what would happen to him after his friend had left.

"Ladies and gentlemen. We will be arriving shortly in London. Thank you for travelling with us today, and-"

"No, no, no! Sherlock! Please...?"

Sherlock was never so sorry he couldn't do anything to assuage his friend. John stood and stepped back, his brow furrowed, worry filling his face.

"I promise I'll come back. I'll find out in what zoo you are, and come at night so we can..."

His eyes met Sherlock's, and all his soldier determination crumbled to pieces. He fell to his knees again and hugged the tiger in a surge of despair and affection.

"Why isn't this working when we need it to? Do you think you were wrong for the cuddling? Or maybe you have to hug me back?" 

The tiger shook his head, knowing John wouldn't understand his answer anyway, and just put his paw on his friend's back, squeezing lightly, embracing him and resting his head on his shoulder morosely.

The train had stopped now, and Sherlock could see the shadows of passengers queuing to get off behind the door. John was seeing other shadows too, abounding in the station, behind the curtains. He tried to ignore them, and shut his eyes as he tightened his embrace.

Soon however Sherlock did not see any more shadows, and the passengers were getting scarcer and scarcer on the platform. The tiger tentatively patted John's back with his paw, indicating that it was time to go if he didn't want to be found here with a tiger.

As he felt the touch, John knew he would never be able to leave Sherlock behind.

"I can't," he murmured, distraught. "I can't do it."

For once, Sherlock did not feel like telling John how stupid he was being.

So they stayed there, cuddling, unsure as to what was awaiting them when they were found. When they heard footsteps coming closer in the corridor, John unwittingly tightened their embrace, and Sherlock pricked up his ears. He growled.

"Shh! They'll think you're dangerous!" John whispered urgently.

Suddenly Sherlock had one of the craziest ideas he ever had: he thought that, perhaps, if John kissed him like in fairy tales, he might well turn back into human form. Before he could give it too much thought, he straightened up and tilted his head back so he would be facing John, and quickly leant in again, pressing his mouth to John's.

His flatmate froze, so shocked he didn't even have the reaction to jump back. At this very instant, the door was slid open, and the noise snapped John back to reality. He jolted, turned crimson, and looked up to the silhouette of the man who had just entered.

"Mycroft!" he exclaimed.

Sherlock groaned. He had recognized the steps already, but seeing his brother's face really was the last straw. Furthermore, the kiss hadn't worked, and it annoyed him that he'd even thought of something so ridiculous. 

"You... You came!" John stuttered, completely lost. I kissed a tiger. God, I kissed a TIGER! Wait... I kissed Sherlock. SHERLOCK!

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah... Thanks for coming."

Mycroft simply nodded, resting his hands on his umbrella. Only then did John notice the two huge business suit-clad men waiting by the door, carrying a very large aluminium case on wheels.

"Let's put the tiger inside, if you don't mind," the British government explained. "I have a car waiting for us outside, but first we have to get the tiger there."

"Thank you! Wait... How is this going to fit in a car?" John inquired, pointing at the huge case.

The elder Holmes smirked.

"It is a very large car."

Sherlock growled, but under John's death glare, he scoffed and went to stand proudly inside the case. Mycroft stared.

"Will he be able to breathe?" John asked worriedly.

As the two men closed the case and rolled it down the corridor, Mycroft arched an eyebrow and observed John closely.

"It will be fine. We can open the case once we are in the car. You seem awfully worried for this tiger's comfort, though. May I ask where you found it?"

John shifted nervously as he packed his things. He realized too late that Sherlock's clothes were still lying on the seat. He paled, jumped on them and quickly stuck them in his bag – there was no time to open Sherlock's suitcase.

"Is that Sherlock's coat?" Mycroft inquired innocently. "Is he with you?"

"No. He... He lent it to me," John lied with a very unconvincing smile. Mycroft looked at him pointedly. "Shall we go?" John added with a nervous little cough.

When they opened the case once they were in the car, the poor tiger was completely dishevelled, and glowered at John. Without thinking, the doctor looked at him tenderly and reached a hand towards him, petting his fluffy, disgruntled face.

"It is incredibly tame, isn't it?"

John jumped, remembering Mycroft was sitting just in front of him – and how could he have forgotten that? Cursing the stupid mirrors that allowed people to see everything in stupid cars, even what was going on behind their backs, John plastered a grin on his face and replied:

"He is. I mean it. It's tame, yes."

They remained quiet for the rest of the ride – Sherlock, sulking in his case, and John, trying not to squirm under Mycroft's scrutinizing gaze.

He was relieved when they finally got to 221B Baker Street, and the two men brought up the tiger into the flat, leaving with the case just as soon – not asking any question, as if they'd been doing that their whole lives. To be fair, whatever their official job was, they were probably used to dealing with such oddities, if they worked for Mycroft.

"Thank you," John told him sincerely. He had no idea what would have happened to them if Big Brother hadn't intervened, for once.

"Are you going to stay here with the tiger? In a flat? Alone?"

John laughed stiffly.

"I'm fine, really. It's not just any tiger, it's... useful for one of Sherlock's cases, and he'll be here soon anyway."

"Indeed, where is my brother? I would've thought you would turn to him first."

John slapped himself mentally for not having thought of that.

"He's busy right now. I can't even contact him. But he should be back tomorrow."

"So you're just going to spend the night in 221B with a tiger?"

"Yes. If worse comes to worst, I have a gun."

They held each other's gaze for a moment, before Mycroft finally turned away, dropping the staring contest.

"Fine," he said somewhat haughtily. "Let me know when Sherlock is back, so I can have a little chat with him."

"You'll know when he's back, Mycroft," John remarked. You have CCTVs in the whole city. Then he realized that Sherlock would not appear on any of those cameras. He shivered.

Mycroft simply smiled at him knowingly, and with those last unsaid words, left the flat. John waited for his steps to die down the staircase. When he heard the front door close, he let himself fall into his armchair, exhausted.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock was brooding in his room, still not coming to terms with the humiliation of having been transported in a case back home. Now that they were back, too, he wondered whether John would be cross with him, and refuse to cuddle tonight, just because he considered it was his fault for having turned into a tiger at such a bad moment – which truly was unfair, because John should know by now that Sherlock didn't have any say in it. At all.

He himself wondered what could possibly trigger those transformations. They hadn't quarrelled or anything this time, and John had just gone for a walk because the air was too tense in the compartment. Was that it, then? Unresolved tension? Well, then they were never going to stop transforming, Sherlock mused sullenly. John was so stubborn it was nearly impossible to resolve any tension at all with him.

Slouching on his mattress, he played with these thoughts for the rest of the day, not daring to make an appearance in the living-room, for fear of annoying John even more. When he heard him stop typing on his laptop and go to the kitchen to prepare what was most probably supposed to be dinner, he had a small flicker of hope that he'd call him to eat something. John had hugged him very tightly on the train, after all, so obviously he cared for his well-being.

So Sherlock was not surprised when his friend called from the kitchen: "Sherlock! Dinner!", but even though he'd expected it, he was very happy about it, and even decided to ignore how mother-like the call truly was.

Joyously, he jumped off his bed and joined John at the table, resting his head on it and sending his flatmate the largest grin. John smirked.

"You look so silly like that, you know?"

Sherlock scoffed and turned away, but John caught his tail with one hand, while putting a plate of grilled beef on the table.

"Hey, I went out of my way to cook something for you, so you'd better stay here and eat it all!"

Sherlock gave him a churlish pout, but gave in and came to sit in the chair majestically. John chuckled, and served him.

"Here, your highness."

The tiger frowned, which only made his face look fluffier and more adorable – but this time, John repressed his laugh. He did not think Sherlock would be the type to enjoy being considered cute – and to be fair, he could relate.

So Sherlock made an effort and ate the meat John had prepared for him, and John made an effort as well and tried to be pleasant without being too patronizing. Now that the troublesome events of the morning were over, he was in fact quite content to see Sherlock in tiger-form again. It meant the case was on hiatus for the day and the night, and John thought that, after all, those transformations were quite handy: they did not prevent them from doing cases altogether, which would've been boring and would've killed Sherlock, but they happened just often enough to make the cuddle times necessary, and more and more frequent.

That's right, he mused, how come we are transforming more and more often?

Because you're being so stubborn, Sherlock replied mentally.

Fortunately, he could not voice his thoughts, and so the atmosphere remained warm and peaceful. Sherlock lazed around the living-room while John was washing the dishes, pensive, and the tiger wondered what could possibly be on his flatmate's mind – well, what exactly, for he had a general idea of what was troubling him now: in one word, Sherlock.

Just in case John was stupid enough to freak out and change his mind at the last minute, the consulting detective thought this was a good time to go and be sweet and lovely. He certainly did not mind some coaxing, if it meant he could have John as a pillow for the night.

So up he went to his flatmate, nuzzling his hand and meowing softly, tilting his head to the side to point at his room. It was the most endearing and the most oblivious way John had ever been asked 'Please sleep with me tonight?' - the most disturbing, too, considering this was a tiger, and his male best friend. But precisely because of that, John told himself it should be fine. It was just Sherlock, after all. Even if he woke up naked in the same bed as John, he would probably be blissfully unconscious of any sexual or romantic implications, and study his scar for further possible use in cases.

"All right," he said with a smile. "Just let me shower and change, and I'll come to your room."

He tried to ignore how ambiguous such a statement sounded, too.

And so the tiger waited patiently – or not so patiently – in his room, until John came wearing his silly striped pyjamas, and he couldn't help but give his Cheshire-cat grin.

"Hello there," John said with a tentative smile. For the first time, he was rather self-conscious, and he did not like it at all. But once he'd got under the cover and snuggled up to the warmth of the tiger's plushy chest, all doubts vanished from his mind, and he fell asleep peacefully, lulled by the low, regular purring his presence elicited from Sherlock. Before he was completely gone in the land of dreams, John wondered absent-mindedly whether the tiger wasn't aware of it, or was now comfortable enough with him to not feel foolish purring in his arms.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

It was very early in the morning when Maggie finally decided to give up trying to fall back asleep, and thought it was high time she called John to solve their problem. Namely, Sherlock Holmes, which was, in fact, John's problem. She'd been thinking about it for days now, and had concluded that if the consulting detective was so important to the man she loved, she should make an effort. Either she dumped John Watson altogether, or she learnt to deal with Sherlock Holmes as well. Considering she'd been overly depressed these past few days, she picked the latter option.

And so she put on her most lovely dress, the one she knew John liked the best. She let her hair down, because she also knew that was how her boyfriend found her prettiest, and put on the lipstick he'd bought her for Christmas. It matched the dress perfectly. Satisfied with her appearance, she took her handbag and went to the bakery nearest her flat – a French one she'd gone to once with John to have cakes and tea. She bought three croissants, determined to befriend Sherlock Holmes in some way. He didn't strike her as the type to have a sweet tooth, but she still thought he'd appreciate not to be left out when she burst in on her boyfriend at their flat.

Happily, she hailed a cab and announced, cheerful: "221B Baker Street!"

Never had a cab ride seemed so long to her. She felt stupid for not having texted John earlier, and having wasted so much time brooding when it was supposed to be the time of the year for celebration. She paid the cabbie and jumped off the car before ringing the bell to the landlady's flat. She didn't have to wait long before the good Mrs. Hudson came to the door and opened it for her, a friendly smile on her lips and a question in her eyes.

"Good morning. What may I do for you?"

"Hello! I'm sorry to bother you so early. I'm Maggie."

This did not seem to ring any bell in the dear woman's mind, even though John had talked a lot to Maggie about his landlady – 'not his housekeeper'. Trying to ignore the slight bitterness at not being recognized, she gave a sweet smile and explained:

"John's girlfriend. I've come to surprise him... them, with breakfast."

It occurred to her that this wasn't very tactful, since she hadn't brought anything for Mrs. Hudson herself. But the landlady did not seem offended in the least, and stepped back so she could come in.

"Oh, that is a lovely thing to do! I'm sure he'll be delighted," she commented, leaving out what she thought Sherlock's reaction would be.

Maggie thanked her, and walked up directly to the second floor, where she knew John's room was. A bright grin on her face, she knocked on the door and pushed it open carefully, popping her head inside. She was surprised to see that the bed hadn't been slept in, and that the room was empty.

"John?" she called dumbly, for obviously no one was there. She closed the door and went back down to the first floor, entering the living-room. John wasn't sleeping on the couch either – and why would he have?

It seemed a little strange to her that the landlady wouldn't have known that her lodgers were away, but it appeared to be the most likely explanation. Still, Maggie could not shake off the sense of unease that had dawned upon her when she had seen John's empty room. Quietly, she walked down the corridor to the only door that was closed, and that could be nothing else but Sherlock Holmes's room. She paused in front of it, hesitating. Suddenly, she wasn't so sure she wanted to know.

Don't be silly, girl, she told herself. You've come all the way here to make up with him, and now you're imagining the worse? He did say there was nothing between them. Nothing at all.

Emboldened, she pushed the door open. Her eyes widened in shock, and she dropped the croissants to the floor.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

John and tiger!Sherlock, by Nefuraito

Chapter Text

A/N: All my thanks to Tigzzz, who kindly betaed this chapter, and to all Guest reviewers and Anons whom I may not contact via PM on FFnet. Hope you enjoy this chapter!

The very first thing John felt upon waking that morning was something soft clutching the front of his pyjamas, between the shoulder and the chest. It was a hand resting there, still holding the fabric in such a way that he dared not move, for fear of rousing the nude, innocent and slightly crowding man sleeping peacefully in his bed.

Now fully awake, John goggled at the oblivious figure that was lying next to him. A childlike expression was gracing the traits of his face, which was mere inches away from John's. The doctor gulped awkwardly, and shivered as Sherlock stirred in his sleep. His head was resting on the other pillow, and so there was a minimum distance between them; but their bodies were intertwined together, Sherlock's hand on his chest gripping his pyjamas like a little boy would grip the bottom of his mother's dress. His leg was curled around John's, calf against calf, his thigh delicately pressing against the smaller man's groin. John was very glad he was not at an age where morning wood was common – otherwise, the position they were in would have been even more embarrassing.

John was embarrassed enough as it was. But he was too fascinated with Sherlock's discreet, regular breathing, and with just him sleeping so calmly by his side that he forgot all about his own pitiful predicament. If being in the same bed as him at night allowed Sherlock to truly sleep and have some rest, then the awkwardness didn't matter. Well, as long as no one ever saw them, naturally – for trying to explain such a peculiar reasoning to a third party, unfamiliar with their relationship and the unique nature of their bond, would surely fail. No one could possibly understand.

Well, I don't either, John reckoned as he raised his arm and reached towards his friend's face tentatively, before pushing an inky curl back from his porcelain brow. John observed his partner's face closely. Sherlock truly was stunning. Not in a beautiful way, but in a dazzling, mesmerizing manner that John could not quite explain. He always thought it was because of the eyes, eerily blue and most conspicuous against the paleness of his skin, which contrasted with the darkness of his hair. Alabaster rather than porcelain, perhaps, he mused. Yet Sherlock's charming brow seemed so fragile right now... But John knew it contained hidden such depths of intelligence that the whole image of Sherlock lying here naked in bed, exposed and unaware, was strangely paradoxical. How could such a brilliant, superior mind be so juvenile and endearing? It would never cease to amaze John: this simultaneous impression of an admirable genius and of some difficult, capricious child.

As he gingerly traced the pearly chin and ear, John couldn't help but be overwhelmed by the trust this situation implied for a man like Sherlock. As a consulting detective, he was confronted to various destructive passions, and surely the intimacy between two people must have appeared in his brain as something of which one should always be wary. To be fair, Sherlock was capable of deducing John so easily that he must have been almost certain of his devotion by now, which explained why he deemed him safe enough to fall asleep with. 

Yet Sherlock could not be completely sure: he too guessed and shot in the dark – usually with amazing results, admittedly, but in this instance it meant he either accepted the risk, or truly was convinced that John would never harm him in any way. Perhaps such considerations would have seemed quite eccentric for ordinary people; why would anyone want to harm him in any way? But John, as an ex-soldier, perfectly understood why Sherlock, with his extraordinary mind and his everyday contact with criminals, was not the most trusting person. In fact, John had been quite surprised by how easily the consulting detective had come to be comfortable with him, as if they had always lived together. He also understood why Sherlock wasn't a very good sleeper. Not that he suspected him of having been traumatized by his experience of the criminal world; John's theory was rather that Sherlock could never stop thinking, and so even if he did eventually fall asleep out of physical exhaustion, he would keep on thinking, and thinking, and thinking... It never stopped. John wondered if he dreamt, sometimes, and what his dreams may be like.

Once in a while, he wished he could enter Sherlock's brain and see how it worked, how the consulting detective comprehended the world and others. He seemed so unreachable sometimes, so far above everyone else (including John) that the doctor craved to share his perception, even for just a day or two.

For instance, to understand what in the world prompted Sherlock to give him a bloody kiss while he was in tiger form and they were stuck on a train, hearing footsteps clearly coming towards them. With hindsight, John realized that his friend must have even been quite aware that it was Mycroft coming, hence his growls. Then why the kiss? It was so preposterous, not only as a gesture from Sherlock, but from a tiger to boot, that John could make no sense of it. All he knew was that Sherlock was undoubtedly just trying to find a way to transform back, and did not think of that kiss as a kiss at all – merely as a means to solve the tiger-on-a-train problem.

John, on the other hand, very much saw a kiss as a kiss, even with a tiger – no, rather when said tiger just happened to be his flatmate. His male flatmate. Sherlock did not ever think of sexuality as something that could possibly concern him or his personal life, so naturally this was not an issue for him. But to John, who was resolutely straight, every physical contact with Sherlock was meaningful. Cuddling was meaningful. Having his scar touched was meaningful. Kissing was bloody meaningful, even if that was the least sensual kiss he ever had. Thankfully, considering it was with a bloody tiger!

Right now, however, Sherlock was very much a man. A very naked man, too, and very much pressed to him, their limbs entangled. Yet he was still sleeping, completely oblivious, and when he would wake up he probably wouldn't even see the problem. Is there really one, then? John wondered.

He rolled his eyes. Of course there's one. You have a beautiful girlfriend but 90% of your thoughts are devoted to Sherlock – whether he be annoying, fascinating, worrying, intoxicating... Intoxicating?

Repressing a desperate groan, John did not dare bury his face into the pillow, but very much felt like doing so. I'm doomed. Positively doomed. But caring for Sherlock and being attracted to him were two very different things. Well, not fundamentally, since for the first time in his life John had cared for someone and given that person his unconditional loyalty before he even considered them as a potential romantic partner. Sherlock was his best friend more than his flatmate or colleague. He would always love him as such. Why did hormones have to come into the picture and wreak havoc?

Because that was the problem. Hormones. Sherlock didn't even seem to have any sexual desire at all, whatever the object. He simply wasn't interested; he didn't need such a dimension to his life, which was full enough with cases and experiments. He had been clear enough during their first dinner at Angelo's, and even if for some unfathomable reasons he agreed to such a relationship with John, the doctor was intimately convinced that he would be purely indulging him. It would be the conclusion to some outrageous reasoning such as:

John is physically attracted to me.
I am not interested but if we do nothing, he'll lose it and most likely decide to leave.
John is handy and he's better than the skull, so it wouldn't be good if he left.
Conclusion: let's sleep with John so he doesn't snap and go, and everyone is happy.

Except John wouldn't be happy. At all.

He was also quite sure that Sherlock wouldn't realize what sex meant in the slightest – wouldn't give it the same meaning John would. Because the other problem was that Sherlock wasn't just a girlfriend he could break up with. It was the one person – man, woman, in this instance it did not matter – for whose sake John would do anything. One may talk about a love, John guessed; but he had never felt the physical need to hold Sherlock until now, so it must have been rather platonic.

With their transformations, however, everything had changed. It was crazy and silly, but now they truly were dependent on one another, provided Sherlock's theory about cuddling was right. For a moment, John wondered whether cuddling with anyone would have the same effect, but then he dared not imagine Maggie's face if she fell asleep with a cat in bed and woke up with a man.

Sherlock shifted a bit and grumbled something in his sleep, scowling. Amused, John smiled and smoothed the adorable frown away. Really, what was he doing? Wasn't he being horrible to both Maggie and Sherlock? But neither of them wanted the same thing from him.

That's not the issue though, is it? The question is: what do I want from each of them?

Presently, he was much more interested in Sherlock's adorably sullen face. But he could not possibly want anything from him – a loving, romantic Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock after all. John could not even conceive him as a lover. He was already lucky the detective liked him enough to consider him his one and only friend. Yet John couldn't help but keep wondering: What are you to me? How did you manage to become so important in such a short period of time? What are you, Sherlock?

The kiss too kept intriguing John. He just couldn't let it go. A question was burning his lips, something he terribly wanted to find out but could only ask himself... and yet the consequences of the answer might be too much to bear for him. He wondered if he truly was attracted to Sherlock or not. Whether he really could imagine himself sleeping with a male partner. It was becoming clearer and clearer that he was most definitely in love with Sherlock, but that did not imply he could sleep with a man. Ever. Even if it was Sherlock.

And so John very much wanted to know if he would be disgusted by any close bodily contact with the detective in human form. Waking up all entangled with him was a first test, but as it was, Sherlock could have just been a very importune and clinging little brother. His grip, and the way he completely crowded John's personal space, were too candid and unconscious to hold any romantic meaning. Consequently, John had not many options left.

He swallowed with some difficulty as his eyes instantly fell to the fleshy lips. Kissing him when he was unaware was disrespectful, John knew, but there was no other way to see how he himself would react to it: with an awake Sherlock, the situation could become very difficult if John did indeed realize that he could not kiss a man – even if it was Sherlock, and even if he loved him.

So slowly, hesitantly, he leant in closer, and closer, and closer, closing the distance between their two faces. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's chastely, barely touching, his mouth completely still. The sound of something soft falling to the ground behind him made him jump in panic and jolt back. He turned, and saw Maggie. She was staring, in shock, a look of betrayal on her face. John couldn't bear it.

"Maggie, I can explain. Wait!" he exclaimed as she dashed out of the room. "Maggie, please wait!"

But she was not listening, and John only managed to catch up with her in the staircase. He was still in his pyjama, but fortunately he was fully dressed, unlike Sherlock. Perhaps it would be easier to justify himself, he thought.

... wrongly.

"I can explain."

"Oh really? What is there to explain, John? I think you could still have given me a call, you know, to tell me things were over because you'd finally admitted to yourself that you were gay?"

"But I'm not!"

"Oh please, John!"

"It's true. You must believe me."

"How?" she asked, and her voice broke into a sob as she could no longer hold back her tears. "How could you believe anything I said if I ditched you on Christmas and you found me in bed with a naked man a few days later?"

When she put it that way, it did seem awfully despicable.

"I... Look, Maggie, there's nothing between us. Sherlock... He has nightmares, sometimes! Very bad ones, too. I just serve as a pillow to help him fall back to sleep."

"You were in his room, John. Not him in yours."

"I heard him scream! I thought something had happened, but-"

"Just drop it. I've seen enough."

"No, please!"

He caught her wrist and made her turn to him again. He truly felt horrible, and wished to make it up to her in any possible way. Taking a deep breath, he looked her in the eye.

"We didn't do anything. We never had sex. You must believe me."

"John. You were kissing him."

"I wasn't!"

"For God's sake, do you think I'm blind? Maybe I was... Oh, I was so stupid."

And with those words, she shook his hand off and left, slamming the front door. John felt a pang of guilt and grit his teeth, walking back up to the flat morosely.

He decided not to go back to the room, falling gloomily into his armchair instead. With Maggie's unexpected arrival, he hadn't even had time to properly observe his own reactions to the kiss. In all likelihood, however, he hadn't felt any disgust. He hadn't been aroused either, but it had been so chaste and so tentative a gesture it wasn't surprising.

Maggie's words, and her anger, weren't surprising either. John realized his relationship with Sherlock was too ambiguous in everybody's eyes for any of them to take him seriously if he claimed not to be gay after having been found in bed with a naked Sherlock. He repressed a sigh. What could he do, now?

"John?"

He started and looked up to his flatmate who had just walked into the living-room draped in his sheet, looking as pompous as Julius Caesar. John couldn't help but chuckle.

"What?" Sherlock inquired, his tone slightly offended.

"You hair... It's dishevelled. You can't look cool like that." Quite cute, though.

Sherlock frowned and retorted with a regal pout:

"I wasn't trying to look cool, John. So how did it go?"

"Um?"

"With Maggie Oakshott."

John froze.

"You heard us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he fell back sloppily onto the couch, and John had to look away. The idiot just looked ridiculously eatable sprawled there only wrapped in a sheet.

"The contrary would've been difficult, considering you jumped and shouted right next to me."

John let out a sigh, but didn't answer. What was there to say anyway? He'd got himself into a fine mess.

Sherlock observed him for a second before standing up and disappearing down the corridor. John heard him put water to boil in the kitchen, but he was so engrossed in his own brooding that he didn't realize how peculiar it was to have Sherlock prepare breakfast when they were both in human form.

Soon however the detective was back, still draped in his bloody sheet, and he handed John a cup of tea and a croissant.

"Eat," he ordered, as if that hadn't been obvious from his gesture. "We're leaving as soon as you're done."

John blinked, confused.

"Leaving?" he repeated dumbly as he took the tea and the croissant.

"Breckinridge, at Covent garden!" Sherlock replied before going back to his room to dress up.

Right. The case. The bloody case that just had to involve Maggie's family as well. Why did she have to come this morning? Why did I have to be kissing Sherlock when she came?

It took less than ten minutes for the consulting detective to wash and put on his clothes. He came back into the living-room excitedly, already beaming with anticipation because the game was on!

However he found John still prostrated in his chair, having drank his tea but not even finished his croissant. Sherlock scowled.

"John, what are you doing? We're leaving!"

"You're leaving."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and turned back to John instead of opening the door.

"You're not coming?"

"I can't possibly go! Do you even realize how awkward this is for me? What if James Oakshott truly is guilty? I'll be exposing my girlfriend's own brother!"

"That didn't seem to bother you when we went to Brixton."

"I had no idea that Maggie's family could be involved in such a way at the time!"

"And of course this sudden burst of guilt has nothing to do with the fact that she saw you kissing me this morning."

John felt his heart miss a beat and stared at his friend in shock. It took him a few seconds to find his voice.

"Y... you... you were awake?" he stuttered.

"And I would've faked sleeping? Please. I wasn't awake. But having something pressed on one's lips does wake one up, you know."

No, I don't, John thought grumpily, wondering why the day was getting worse and worse with every passing moment.

"Look, I-"

"It is the first time I have been kissed," Sherlock mused, as if thinking out loud. "You could've waited until I was really awake."

This rendered John speechless. He knew Sherlock wasn't interested in the least and did not have much experience in the matter. He was still a virgin. But kissing? Just kissing? It seemed absurd to John to think that nobody had ever wanted to kiss Sherlock. There must have been tons of people more than willing to... Oh. Right. Sherlock was fascinating, but he was also so impressive it was almost frightening. He appeared to be so much above everyone else that even John hadn't dared try to kiss him when he was conscious – which was of course a horrible thing to do. But it just meant that John had been as intimidated as everyone else.

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine, but be quick now."

John gaped. "What?" Quick in doing what exactly?

Sherlock clicked his tongue in impatience.

"Go and dress up, John! I know you like dawdling over breakfast, but today we have a case!"

He was no longer smiling, rather frustrated with John's slowness; but his eyes were still sparkling with verve.

John, however, only got more upset.

"Can't you stop thinking about the damn case for one second?!"

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief at the outburst.

"What is wrong with you?"

"What is wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. I was just ditched because of you – again!"

Sherlock blinked, and John felt another pang of guilt. He knew he wasn't being fair at all, and this was not Sherlock's fault in any way. But the taller man just stood there, staring at him, apparently thinking very hard about something, and didn't retort the obvious: 'you're the one who kissed me.' It made John feel even worse.

"Do you want to invite her over dinner? I can tell her we were just cuddling, and-"

"Flatmates don't cuddle with each other, Sherlock!" John exploded.

"But we do," Sherlock pointed out, not understanding.

"And that's the problem."

Sherlock frowned with perplexity.

"Why is it a problem?"

John sighed in desperation. Could anyone be more oblivious?

"Because male best friends don't cuddle. Parents cuddle with their children, romantic pairs cuddle, but we are not any of those!"

"Does it matter? Surely Maggie would understand."

"No, she wouldn't. Look, Sherlock, just drop it. I... I just don't want to make things even worse."

Sherlock observed him closely.

"You know, you were quite perceptive on that one. I was so sure you'd be convinced that our 'mission' would be to prove James Oakshott's innocence."

"I know I'm stupid, but even I could see he sounded suspicious."

The detective snorted.

"Is that why, then? Because he sounded suspicious?"

What John heard as a scornful tone finally made him snap completely.

"Well, sorry for not being a genius who can tell the whole past of someone from their tan and wristwatch! I have other interests, you see? Interests that imply an actual interaction with people, and not just analysing them as if they were things."

The flash of hurt in Sherlock's eyes, very similar to the one John had seen when they were in Sebastian Wilkes's office, made the guilt unbearable.

"I'm sorry," he said precipitately. "I didn't mean..."

"Fine. I'll go alone," Sherlock cut in, his face now blank.

"No, wait, Sherlock!"

John caught his arm and was strangely reminded of the scene with Maggie. This time, though, he was much more desperate to be forgiven. With Maggie, he'd felt horrible as a man, from an outer perspective, because he'd been a dick. But with Sherlock... with Sherlock he didn't care about the outer perspective. He just couldn't lose him.

"Please forgive me," he said as their eyes locked. "I'm on edge, I don't know what I'm saying."

His grip on Sherlock's arm tightened. He regretted his words so much. Sherlock had been happy like a cat on a hot tin roof, and now the fire in his gaze had died out. John would have done anything to light it up again.

As he was staring in John's beseeching pupils, Sherlock was thinking. Hard. John truly did seem to be on edge, and the detective could see the desperation in his eyes. He must have cared more about Maggie Oakshott than he had thought at first, if this affected him so much. In which case, what could be done? Sherlock did not like the idea, but if John really was in love with Maggie, he had no choice: they had to find a way to make her understand. Sherlock hated that distressed expression on John's face even more than the idea of his leaving Baker Street. He tried not to think too much about how the flat would feel without John. He didn't exactly know why or how, but it would be different. Everything would.

He swallowed with some difficulty. He knew perfectly well what should be done, it was quite evident. But it would still be a huge sacrifice on his part, for he felt ridiculously possessive of John in manul form. However, if he indulged John and did not interfere in his relationship with Maggie, perhaps he would stay longer. Perhaps he would visit him more often, too, once he had moved out.

"If you want, next time you transform, I can call her and invite her over for the night."

"...What?"

"So she can spend the night in the room and see you transform back. She'll understand, then."

But John shook his head vigorously, appalled, as he let go of his friend's arm.

"I never want her to see me in that form!" he cried out. "This is such an absurd idea, do you think she'd wait the whole night watching you hugging an ugly cat?"

"You're not ugly," Sherlock protested.

"That's beside the point! I've never heard you suggest anything so absurd."

This time, Sherlock had enough.

"Fine. Just stay here and brood, then. I'm off."

And with those words, he turned and left. John just stood there, at a loss. The sound of the door closing downstairs snapped him out of his torpor, and he slammed his fist against the wall.

"Damn it!"

The cringing little man named Breckinridge whom Sherlock found at Covent Garden appeared to be more than annoyed with his questions.

"What is it with you people and my geese? I keep being pestered about the geese I sold recently! Would anyone care to explain what is going on?"

Sherlock internally scoffed and showed the man Lestrade's badge.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotland yard. I am currently investigating a theft that involved one of the geese you sold. One with a black bar on its tail."

"Do you think I look at the geese's tails?" Breckinridge snorted.

Sherlock frowned.

"I recommend you be a little more cooperative, Mr. Breckinridge. Do you remember a middle-aged man with grizzled hair and a hat to whom you sold a goose on Christmas Eve?"

Breckinridge gulped at the grave tone, not wanting to have any problems with the police.

"Yeah, that's a regular customer, Mr. Henry Baker. Don't know where he lives, though."

"Regular customer? Has he come since?"

"No."

"I see. Just another question: is this the man who came and asked questions about the geese too?" Sherlock inquired, showing the man a picture of James Oakshott on the screen of his phone.

"It is," Breckinridge answered, baffled.

"Thank you for your time."

Sherlock did not stay to listen to the little man's obsequious apologies and ran to the main road to hail a cab.

"To the Hotel Cosmopolitan," he announced.

His phone vibrated and he took a look. Three messages.

From Lestrade: The case of the Countess of Morcar is solved. Don't need you on it anymore.

Sherlock smirked.

From Mycroft: Back to London, my dear brother?

Sherlock scowled.

From John: Where are you?

Sherlock smiled – almost imperceptibly. As he was typing an answer, he received another one.

I'm dressed now.

Then a second later, before he'd even pressed the 'SEND' button.

I want to come.

This time, his grin broadened. Too bad John wasn't there to see he had managed to light up the detective's face again, after all.

"Why are we going in there?" John asked as they walked up the steps of the luxury hotel.

"Because this is where the Countess was robbed."

"Oh... And?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Hello," he said with a charming smile to the woman at the counter, showing her the D.I.'s badge, "I am investigating a robbery that took place on your premises a while ago. I am sure you know what I am referring to."

"Indeed," she replied with a stiff lip. "The police have already come several time, though, and the case was solved. Don't you know?"

"We believe that the inculpation of the plumber John Horner was a mistake," Sherlock replied evenly. John blinked in confusion. Who?

"Do you? Well, what can I do for you?"

"I would like a complete list of your staff."

She frowned.

"We already gave you one last week, and I believe everyone was cleared of all suspicion."

"Well, the situation has changed."

She did not seem very happy about it, but complied without a word. John's eyes fell on the list she handed them and widened as he read the name of James Oakshott: upper-attendant.

"Why do you now believe you have made a mistake, if I may ask?" she inquired a little sharply.

"You may not," Sherlock replied absently before turning and leaving. John stared, befuddled, stammered an apology to the woman, and ran after him.

"What was all that about?" he asked, having a hard time matching Sherlock's quick and huge strides.

"Read this," Sherlock commanded as he handed him his phone. It was an online newspaper article. John read.

Plumber John Horner, 26, was brought up upon the charge of having stolen from the jewel-case of the Countess of Morcar the precious blue gem. He had been led by the hotel staff to the Countess's dressing-room the day of the robbery so as to solder the second bar of the grate, which was loose. He was left alone there for a certain amount of time, and when the Countess's maid, Catherine Cucksack, entered the room later in the afternoon, she found the bureau had been forced open and the jewel stolen. She was the one who sounded the alarm. John Horner, who is the only one who had access to the room that day and has a police record for robbery, was arrested last night. The gem, however, has not been found, either on his person or in his rooms.

John groaned.

"Poor bloke. He got completely framed."

"Indeed. And did you notice the maid's name?"

"What about it?"

"Catherine, John. Catherine."

"Oh!" John exclaimed when realization had dawned upon him. "So James' girlfriend..."

"... was his accomplice in this crime. They must have planned it together, in fact. It was stupid of the police not to think that a plumber would have no idea where the jewellery was hidden: he would've had to rummage through the whole room in order to find it, but only the bureau had been forced open."

"They probably just wanted to find a culprit as soon as possible."

"Most likely."

They exchanged an amused, knowing smile, and John felt like everything was back to normal.

"So what do we do, now?"

"Send a text to Lestrade," Sherlock replied as he did so. "James Oakshott was an idiot. He let Breckinridge see his face, as well as Henry Baker, the poor man who was unlucky enough to buy a goose with a black bar on its tail."

"But what does he have to do with anything?"

"Nothing. James put the gem in a goose when he was at Emily's, remembering it was the one with a black bar on its tail. He probably did not notice there were two. He knew Emily sold her geese to Breckinridge, and did not think of the one she gave their sister Maggie: he just went to Breckinridge, and must have witnessed someone - Henry Baker - buying the goose. He ran after Henry Baker, surely scared him to death, but didn't catch him in time, and it was Molly who ended up with the goose. James must have thought the gem was lost forever, but then he was told the whole story by Emily. That is probably why Catherine did not come that day."

"You're brilliant," John laughed. "Really brilliant."

"Don't be stupid. This case was so easy to solve, anyone could've done it."

"Obviously, the police didn't."

"They lacked data."

John shook his head, smiling.

And so they returned to 221B, John deep in thought as to what he should do with Maggie, and Sherlock deep in thought as to what he should do with John. Consequently the cab ride was rather silent.

Soon they got to their destination and paid the cabbie. As they walked up the stairs to the flat, John finally mustered the courage to speak, and began:

As they walked up the stairs to the flat, John finally mustered the courage to speak, and began:

"You know, Sherlock, I-"

He stopped mid-sentence as he saw his friend hold up his hand, requesting that he keep quiet. Sherlock was frowning, a glare threatening to fill his eyes, which had turned to slits. John tilted his head to the side, confused. But when Sherlock finally pushed the door open, and they saw a tall man with an umbrella by his side leisurely reading a newspaper in their living-room, he understood and groaned.

"Hello, Sherlock. Dr. Watson. How have you been?" Mycroft inquired in an unctuous tone.

Sherlock glowered.

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz. All my thanks! Hope you enjoy  ~¤Zoffoli

As they walked up the stairs to the flat, John finally mustered the courage to speak, and began:

"You know, Sherlock, I-"

He stopped mid-sentence as he saw his friend hold up his hand, requesting that he keep quiet. Sherlock was frowning, a glare threatening to fill his eyes, which had turned to slits. John tilted his head to the side, confused. But when Sherlock finally pushed the door open, and they saw a tall man with an umbrella by his side leisurely reading a newspaper in their living-room, he understood and groaned.

"Hello, Sherlock. Dr. Watson. How have you been?" Mycroft inquired in an unctuous tone.

Sherlock glowered.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?"

"Why, just checking everything was all right with Dr. Watson. It seems his irresponsible flatmate left him with a tiger on a train and was unreachable for a few days... I see you're back in London, little brother."

"How perceptive of you," Sherlock spat.

John just stood there, very tired all of a sudden.

"I'll make some tea," he said before heading to the kitchen.

The two brothers' gazes followed his back, then turned again to each other.

"So... solved the case?"

"Yes."

"And got rid of the tiger?"

"The matter has been seen to."

"I hope you've planned to buy John another phone, considering his was crushed during this adventure."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze, but John was already back in the room and decided to put an end to the little battle going on.

"So, Mycroft. What did you come here for?"

A thin smile spread across the British Government's lips, and Sherlock scowled pre-emptively.

"Why, didn't we have a deal?"

"There was no deal. He did not promise you anything," Sherlock cut in sharply.

John, lost, looked up to him in confusion. Mycroft smirked.

"And how would you know that, brother dear? Were you there?"

Sherlock glared as John started to panic.

"He told me," the detective scoffed.

"Did he?"

"Yes. Now if you're done, will you please get ou–"

"Have you two become closer lately, perhaps?" Mycroft interrupted.

"Beg your pardon?" John stuttered.

"Well, I cannot remember any occasion in which Sherlock lent his coat to anyone. But you had it with you yesterday, didn't you, John?"

John paled. Of course. They'd been so worried about the whole situation once they got to Victoria Station that they did not pay any attention to Sherlock's clothes on the train seat. That, and the crushed phone, would have been suspicious to anyone... not to mention to a Holmes.

"I... I was cold, and he didn't need it..." John floundered.

"Nor did he need his underwear, I presume. Or perhaps he gave it to you as a keepsake?"

"Enough," Sherlock cut in, furious to see John being humiliated. "We don't have to justify ourselves to you."

"But you did call for my help," Mycroft pointed out smugly.

"No, I did," John interrupted, not liking where this was going. "Now if you want me to repay you in any way-"

"No!" Sherlock cut in again, determined not to let Mycroft have his way. "Certainly not. You don't owe him anything."

"But– "

"It was so very kind of you to assist John in this," Sherlock told his brother. "But he never gave his word that he would do anything in exchange – in fact, he did not even say anything on the matter. You came and helped nonetheless. So now please do go back to your own business and stop minding ours."

John gulped at the staring contest that ensued.

"Fine," Mycroft finally said with a smirk. "But you should take better care of him next time, Sherlock. Who knows what will happen if he is found anywhere in town with a tiger?"

Sherlock glared, and John frowned.

"He really does put you in terrible situations, doesn't he?" Mycroft went on, addressing John this time. "Well, please keep taking good care of him. I'm afraid you're quite irreplaceable. Who else would deal with him like you do?"

And with those parting words, off he went under the daggers of Sherlock's eyes. John blinked, surprised that they had got out of it so easily – and that Mycroft had basically sounded like he was giving them his blessing. He coughed a little to dispel his unease and went to drink his tea in his armchair morosely.

Sherlock was bored and had started experimenting in the kitchen while John desperately tried to distract himself by watching crap telly. Suddenly their semblance of serenity was disturbed by the entrance of Greg Lestrade, who did not seem very pleased.

"You could have told me!" he exclaimed in place of greetings. "Seriously, I've been contacting you about this case for days, and all of a sudden you go and use my identity without my consent, expose the true culprit and make us look like idiots again! Why didn't you text me back?"

There was something genuinely hurt in his tone, beyond the frustration, and John felt bad for him. Sherlock, however, did not appear very sheepish.

"You mean I made up for your stupidity, again."

"Sherlock!"

"Look," the consulting detective said, finally deigning to spare the D.I. a glance through his goggles, "I've been busy. I did not avoid contacting you, I just didn't have time. Also, if it helps you feel better, I had an element you did not have – you lacked data."

"What do you mean?"

"John's girlfriend found the blue gem in a goose she cooked for Christmas," he deadpanned.

Lestrade stared.

"What?"

"She's not my girlfriend anymore," John mumbled grumpily from his seat – but no one paid any attention to him.

"Maggie Oakshott. The culprit's sister."

"Oh boy, how is she?" Lestrade inquired, feeling rather sorry for the woman, and wondering if that was the reason John seemed so sullen. He was bound to be, if his flatmate had just exposed the brother of the woman he dated.

Since John wasn't answering, Sherlock replied in his stance:

"She'll be fine."

"Well, sorry it had to be your girlfriend's brother, mate," Lestrade said, addressing John again.

"Not my girlfriend."

"Uh?"

"She's not my girlfriend!" John snapped. Lestrade's eyes widened. "She dumped me this morning," John added tiredly.

"Ah, sorry to hear that," Greg said awkwardly, glancing at Sherlock, who had resumed his experiment and was no longer following. "Um, well, I'll be going then... But please Sherlock, next time answer my texts before I get some poor innocent bloke arrested."

"Mm," Sherlock simply replied, and the D.I. was glad to get away from the general unease hanging in the room as he left the flat. John kept his eyes on the screen, not seeing it, and Sherlock kept pretending to experiment, when he was in fact thinking of something else entirely.

The day went by, and by the end of it John had one hell of a headache. And he still hadn't figured anything out.

He knew he had to apologize to Sherlock, and to make things clear between them. He should also send Maggie an email of apology. But truth be told, she wasn't his main concern for the time being.

John had been horrible to both Sherlock and Maggie and he knew it. He was ashamed of his behaviour, but he could not quite explain it, for he had never been a coward. But he could find no other word to describe his attitude for the past few days: cowardice. He'd been scared to admit his feelings for Sherlock to himself. Scared that if he broke up with Maggie, he'd have to face the situation with Sherlock. With hindsight, he was horrified to realize that he'd probably started dating Maggie precisely to get his mind off Sherlock – and to shag her, naturally, because she was attractive and funny. And female.

Guilt rose in his chest as he tried to concentrate on the stupid show playing on the screen before him. What else could he have done? He stood no chance whatsoever with Sherlock. Not as a romantic partner. So was this the best he could hope for? Would he for the rest of his life be reduced to cuddling with Sherlock and dating women he did not love to get a good shag once in a while?

It was pathetic. He was pathetic.

Should he move out then, and try to get into a serious relationship with someone – build a family perhaps? He was getting older and he wasn't even sure he'd ever get a chance to be a father, but it was worth a try.

Except it wasn't. In fact, he really did not want to leave Baker Street. He was happy there, happier than anywhere else. He didn't feel like moving out and leaving Sherlock – at all. And their regular transformations were just another incentive. Now he almost had an excuse to stay with Sherlock forever.

An excuse? And why would I need an excuse? he thought. Wouldn't it be horrible for Sherlock if John told himself he had no choice but to stay with him? Just like when he'd accused him of being the cause of his latest break-up... That was definitely something he should apologize for. Sherlock had done nothing this time; John had been ditched thanks to his own lowly attitude. John cleared his throat and turned to his friend off-handedly, thinking of a way to phrase this.

"Um, Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

John observed him for a moment and realized he'd been experimenting all day. Sherlock never experimented all day. He got bored.

"What are you experimenting on?" he wondered.

"Human blood," Sherlock lied.

Well, he had been experimenting on that a few hours before. Since then, though, he'd been only pretending, and had tried to distract himself with the silliest things. He did not dare complain about being bored today, when John was so obviously upset about his break-up. Speaking of which, Sherlock checked the time on his mobile phone discreetly. He had texted Maggie Oakshott one hour ago, inviting her over for dinner. She had told him to leave her alone, and that she'd had enough – but then Sherlock had told her just how depressed John was, and that he, Sherlock, wished to explain everything. He said that John was truly in love with her, and wished to make up, but did not know how. Said this was all a huge misunderstanding. In short, he had told her everything a woman in such a situation wants to hear, and had coaxed her into coming. She should have been arriving any minute.

"Should we order Chinese for tonight?" he asked.

John stared.

"You want to eat?" he asked, bewildered.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"John, surely you must be aware that even I must eat."

"But you never... Oh, never mind. I'm not really hungry. Just order whatever you want."

Sherlock shrugged, called, and ordered. John was so engrossed in trying to find a way of phrasing his apology that he did not notice Sherlock was ordering more than usual – especially considering John had just told him that he was not hungry. He turned off the telly and stood up, stretching, before he walked into the kitchen.

Busying himself with making some tea, which was ridiculous at such an hour of the day, he began:

"Sherlock, about this morning-"

"It's fine if you don't want to talk about it," Sherlock cut in, believing John was referring to the kiss. He understood Maggie came first, and John must regret his gesture, even if it was just a test.

"But I do want to talk about it," John said firmly. "I owe you an apology."

This time, Sherlock realized that perhaps he was the one who really did not want to talk about this. He got the message all right, and did not need to hear John tell him that this had all been a mistake and they should stop being so intimate with each other. Sherlock did not want to hear any apology. I'm sorry, but even if my attitude has been ambiguous, I'm in love with Maggie. I realize it now, and I've been so stupid. I'm so sorry for giving you the wrong impression, and for forcing this onto you – I know you're not interested, never were... I'm sorry, Sherlock, really sorry.

"I'm sorry I said it was your fault I got ditched. It was all my fault, not yours, not Maggie's. I've been horrible to the both of you."

As John was speaking, Sherlock's eyes widened. First of all, because he hadn't expected that kind of apology. Secondly, because he'd heard the top steps creak, and knew Maggie was standing just behind the door. He smirked. Perfect timing.

Now, on with his role.

"I think you should be telling this to someone else," he said, his tone mostly serious even though he was snorting inside because this sounded like those dreadful romances on the telly. Then he remembered this would probably lead to John moving out in the end, and he no longer felt like laughing.

"What?" John said, completely lost.

But Maggie, who had heard Sherlock's comment as well, now entered the room, and stood awkwardly behind John. He turned and froze on the spot.

"Maggie..." he murmured, flabbergasted. "What–"

"Your friend texted me," she said. She exchanged a look with Sherlock before turning back to John. "He said this was all a misunderstanding, and I was stupid enough to believe him..."

There was no harshness in her tone, and overall her voice was rather unsure. She looked tired, angry, hopeful, and uncertain.

"Please have a seat," Sherlock told her, since John appeared to be petrified. "I just ordered Chinese, I hope that'll suit your taste."

"It is very kind of you," she replied stiffly. "I would rather stand."

Sherlock blinked, a little thrown off-balance, but then shrugged it off.

"Fine. I said this was a misunderstanding, because it is. I'll explain everything."

"Sherlock," John began worriedly, a warning in his voice. Sherlock ignored his flatmate.

"John and I are neither in a romantic nor in a sexual relationship."

Maggie's gaze sharpened, but she did not say a word.

"Many people assume we are, because he is ridiculously loyal and devoted to me. This just shows what a good man he is: he's my flatmate, friend and doctor, and I am aware sometimes he must feel more like a baby-sitter than anything else."

John just watched, rendered speechless by the whole situation. Was Sherlock trying to make up excuses for him? So he could get back with Maggie? This was all at once incredibly sweet and incredibly unwanted.

Maggie, on the other hand, seemed to wonder where this was leading.

"When he came back from Afghanistan, he was alone and bored. He wanted to stay in London but didn't have the money to rent a flat all by himself. A common friend introduced us, and we started sharing this flat."

John wouldn't have presented things this way – it all sounded so simple, so common... But perhaps this was what Sherlock was aiming for.

"As an ex-soldier, John enjoyed helping me with cases – still does, I believe. You must understand he got used to the thrill at war, and he missed the whole sense of adventure, and even, perhaps, the danger."

The doctor was getting more and more surprised – adventure? Sherlock had even managed to say it without any contempt. What in the world was he doing?

"But for that same reason, every time I requested his presence by text, he rushed by my side, because he knew it could have been dangerous, could have been important... Here I must admit I used this to my advantage. A lot."

Maggie frowned slightly, but still made no comment.

"You see," Sherlock went on, "the Work is everything to me. It is all that matters. I'm afraid I exploited John's kindness, and since we were always seen together and John was always so protective, naturally people assumed we were together. I can assure you, we are not."

At this point, his gaze turned cold, and an expression of disgust flashed across his face.

"I understand why you must have assumed as much, but it's absurd. John is straight, and I really have no interest at all for any kind of relationships. You found John in my bed this morning because lately I have been having terrible nightmares due to some horrific case I solved, and that reminded me of something I had to go through during my childhood..."

He looked away, a look of pain on his face. John was getting more perplexed by the second – lost, but admiring his friend's talent for acting.

"I was naked because I sleep naked. I regularly walk around the flat only covered with a sheet or a dressing gown, because I know John couldn't care less, as he would never be attracted to a man; I just do as I wish because I am here at home. You must see nothing more to this than my personal shameless habits, because really, there is nothing to be ashamed of between two men, one of whom is straight and in love with a woman, and the other asexual and obsessed with his job."

Maggie blinked, a bit overwhelmed by this flow of words and information. She had never looked at things that way. As for John, he was getting more and more annoyed with Sherlock for making up this brilliant but ridiculous speech in his defence. He wasn't in love with Maggie. Never would be. This was only making the situation worse.

"Sherlock-"

"No, let me finish. Since you're not even capable of explaining things to her properly, just let me do it. You can be so clumsy sometimes."

"But–"

"How can you explain the kiss, then, Mr. Holmes?" Maggie cut in sharply, trying not to get her hopes up too fast.

"The kiss?"

"Surely you must have realized John was about to kiss you this morning when I entered the room."

"Of course."

She stared.

"What else can you expect?" Sherlock went on, not flustered in the least. "People keep insinuating, and sometimes even telling him up front that he must be gay because he lives with one of the most insufferable men in the world. Then even you, his girlfriend, start implying the same thing! Obviously he would start doubting himself. What if he truly was gay without knowing it? Wasn't he being awful to you then? True, he does care about me, and probably will his whole life. But that is only because of his deep sense of comradeship. Still, when everyone accuses you of the same thing, you are bound to doubt yourself – especially when you have strong moral principles, as John does. So yes, he tried to kiss me. Evidently it was a failure, and he regretted it ever since." He paused, saving his best effect for the end: "And he will regret it all his life if you do not believe him when he says there is nothing, absolutely nothing, between us."

Maggie's eyes filled with tears and she averted her gaze out of a sense of propriety.

"Today was just so wrong," she broke out. "I found John in bed with you in the morning, then learnt my brother and his girlfriend had been arrested – I asked to see him, but they wouldn't let me. I planned on going to my sister's tonight because this is all too much, but then I got your text, and..."

"Maggie, I..." John began, at a loss. Apparently, she did not know the role they'd played in her brother's arrest. 

"Here," Sherlock said, handing her a tissue. "I understand how hard it must be. We had no idea your brother had been arrested today."

John sent Sherlock a disapproving look the detective ignored, patting Maggie's shoulder instead.

She dried her tears and stepped back, as if repelled by his touch. Sherlock blinked and stepped back as well.

"So you're saying that the only reason everyone assumes John is gay is you?" she said, and her tone was strangely provocative. "Will you continue to be a hindrance to him all his life?"

"Maggie!" John exclaimed in outrage.

"I'm sorry. It's not your fault if you're like this," she amended. "As you said, John is your only friend, and I understand you'd be rather possessive and inconsiderate, but..."

She smiled up at Sherlock tentatively, her eyes still red from the tears.

"But surely you want the best for him too, right?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied curtly, a sinking feeling in his chest.

"I know your relationship is special, but you are an adult, and you must understand a grown-up man cannot ask of his flatmate that he sleep with him because he has nightmares, right?"

Sherlock blinked, and it took him a second to remember what she was talking about. He was quite unsettled by her patronizing tone – she was addressing him as if she were talking to a child.

"Yes, of course," he said so as not to upset her.

"Your work is the most important thing to you, right? You are happy with it, aren't you?"

"I am," Sherlock continued in the same tone, not noticing John's growing irritation.

"Then you must let John find his own happiness as well," she declared, her voice more than ever motherly.

"Naturally, this is why I told you to come. He's been miserable all day," Sherlock told her, beginning to feel quite miserable himself.

Maggie turned to John and locked eyes with him.

"Don't you have anything to tell me, John?" she asked, and this time her tone was as pleading as annoyed. To be fair, John hadn't said a word to her since she had got there, and had only pitifully tried to interrupt each of them, in vain.

"Yes," John said. "Maggie, I am sorry."

"See?" Sherlock chimed in, intent on hammering the message home and relieved to see this conversation come to an end. "He's sorry!" And here we are again with the crap telly romances.

"I'm in love with Sherlock."

Time seemed to stop as both Maggie and Sherlock stared in shock. Both had been so engrossed in their little discussion that they hadn't taken the time to look at John even one second; in other words, neither of them had seen this coming.

"What?" Maggie asked, not sure she'd heard this right.

John took a deep breath and forced himself to look her in the eye.

"I am in love with Sherlock," he repeated.

Of course, he got slapped in the face for it. Hard. He did not even bat an eyelid, however; finally, he was at peace with himself.

"How... how dare you?" Maggie stuttered, trembling with fury and shame at having been duped – again. "And you!" she growled, turning to Sherlock threateningly. "Did you have fun? How can you be so cruel?"

"You're wrong, I–"

"Or perhaps you planned this together?"

"Maggie, don't be ridiculous," John said.

"Ridiculous?! I am being ridiculous? Oh, I am, aren't I? I can't believe I came here again just to have this..." she could find no word, and spat venomously: "...rubbed in my face again!"

Then to John, her voice breaking:

"You're such a jerk..."

"I know. And I truly am sorry."

But Maggie wasn't done. Hell has no fury as a woman spurned, they say – so what about a woman spurned twice, fooled and mocked?

"And you," she said, turning to Sherlock again, her gaze filled with rage and disgust. "You're pathetic. You claim to be so clever – a genius, they say! – and you don't even realize your own flatmate is infatuated with you. You're an idiot, and worse than that, you're completely self-deluded. You think you're so smart, so strong, that you need nobody, but in fact you're completely dependent on people! You need people to distract you, people to make you eat, to obey your every order, even to save your bloody life... You're completely worthless."

"Maggie, enough!" John yelled.

"You're so lucky to have met such a kind man as John, and that he got besotted with you. Enjoy it while it lasts – such an obnoxious, twisted, disgusting freak like you is bound to live and die alone."

Sherlock just stood there, his face blank. Speechless. He'd met many people who hated him: he was used to antipathy, resentment, spite... But never had he been confronted with such savage loathing.

"Get out."

He blinked, and turned his gaze to John, who had just spoken in the coldest manner Sherlock had ever heard.

"You're the one being obnoxious now. So get out, and go to your sister."

John did not add the "She'll probably tell you she has a crush on a handsome D.I. named Gregory Lestrade" he intended at first, only because he wanted her out. Now.

Maggie sent him a pitiful, shattered glare. John closed his eyes in shame.

"I'm the one who pushed you over the edge. I meant what I said just before you came in: I was horrible to both you and Sherlock. He only tried to make things better."

"Well, aren't you happy, now? Perhaps you'll finally get a chance to shag him, between two cases when he's bored," she spat.

She saw the rage glower in John's eyes and thought she'd better make her retreat now. Before slamming the door behind her however, she concluded snidely:

"I wish you much pleasure fucking that bag of bones."

Her words rang out louder in Sherlock's ears than the door being slammed. Maggie was lucky John refused to hit women and prioritized taking care of Sherlock over running after her to give her a good beating.

The steps creaked furiously and the second door was slammed as well. John heard her shout something at someone, and when the staircase creaked again, he understood and walked to the door to pay the delivery man.

All the while, Sherlock just stood there, dumbfounded. His brain was still processing everything that had just been said.

John went to the kitchen and put the food on the table, knowing neither of them would eat anything tonight. Gingerly, he put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, snapping him back to reality.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Me? Of course. Why shouldn't I be?"

"I'm sorry about what she said."

Sherlock shrugged, trying to hide the shiver that ran down his spine in the process. John breathed in deeply.

"She was angry. Don't take her words seriously."

"I can live with being a bag of bones, John," Sherlock retorted with annoyance. "I've heard much worse."

That wasn't quite true, however – he had never heard such a virulent speech full of hatred directed towards him and hitting home. Sherlock didn't understand why Maggie's words had crushed the joy he had felt upon hearing John's confession. John loved him, had just admitted it out loud, and had dismissed the girlfriend. This meant indefinite cuddling with him in manul form, or when Sherlock himself transformed into a tiger. So why did he feel so cold?

"Sherlock..." John murmured, giving a little pressure to his shoulder.

"Such an obnoxious, twisted, disgusting freak as you is bound to live and die alone."

"Mm?" Sherlock replied absent-mindedly.

"I wish you much pleasure fucking that bag of bones."

"She said horrible things, and they were all lies. Please delete them."

Sherlock wished he could.

John saw how lost his flatmate was, and was overwhelmed with guilt. Sherlock did not deserve to hear such words hurled to his face just because of him – because he'd been stupid and had angered a woman. Seeing Sherlock's little theatrics, John had been so touched, and so sure this was proof that Sherlock truly cared about him... But hadn't Sherlock said only the Work mattered? These past weeks, however, John had seen him genuinely happy playing with him in manul form. Holding him. Touching his scar.

"So. Your room or mine?" Sherlock inquired.

John froze and looked at him with horror. This was nothing like the oblivious, endearing offer the detective had uttered when John had been in manul form. The question, presented in such a way, chilled John to the bones. Sherlock saw his turmoil and added:

"You said you love me, right? Then now we're a real couple and it isn't a problem if we sleep together, is it?"

Behind the practical, matter-of-fact tone, John wondered if he did not hear some insecurity. Then he remembered Maggie's awful words, and slapped himself mentally. God, Sherlock must be so confused right now.

Then John had to be calm, assured. Reassuring.

"Aren't you bothered by this?" he asked, as collectedly as he could manage.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"Bothered by what?"

"Me, in love with you."

"Why should it bother me?"

"...Right. Fine, perfect, then. But we don't have to sleep in the same bed. I mean, I know you barely sleep anyway."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side in puzzlement.

"But don't couples sleep together?"

"If you mean together as in the same bed, I'm not sure about asexual couples," John answered truthfully.

Sherlock blinked.

"But you're not asexual, John."

John shrugged and tried to show how unimportant this was. He'd made his choice anyway.

"No, but you are, and I'm old anyway."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sherlock asked with a frown, overly confused.

"It means you don't want the sex, and I don't need it."

"But you want it."

Damn him and his bloody attentiveness to words, John thought.

"I don't want it," he assured. "I don't want it, you don't want it, so it's all fine. "

"I–"

"Nothing should change. And we don't have to sleep together."

Sherlock wavered a bit before asking:

"What about cuddling?"

Not getting where he was heading, John answered with an indulging smile:

"Don't worry, we don't have to do it when it isn't necessary, either." He decided to omit that he hoped they would transform often and so get to cuddle a lot.

"I see..." Sherlock said quietly. "John?"

"Mm?"

"Do you love me only in tiger form?"

The question was so candid, so ingenuous and so absurd John gaped for a second before coming back to his senses.

"What the... that's preposterous!"

"It's fine. I know there is nothing fluffy to me when I'm in this body, so–"

"No, Sherlock, listen!"

Forgetting all about decency and self-consciousness and what should be done and what should not be done, John grabbed his friend's head very much like Sherlock had grabbed his during the Black Lotus case, when he had been trying to make him remember the ciphers he had seen on a wall. John did not spin Sherlock around, however, and just forced him gently to look down at him.

"Your body doesn't matter. I love you in any form."

Sherlock stared, surprised by both the gesture and the words.

"But you don't like me touching you when we're both human. I thought..."

"Didn't I hug you yesterday morning?"

"Yes, but... wasn't that just a test? One that failed, too. You didn't like it."

"No, I–"

"Don't lie, John," Sherlock cut in, fairly annoyed. "I could tell you felt awkward, and you suddenly jumped back when I reminded you that you were naked."

"I was just embarrassed!" John protested. "Look, I..."

Frustrated with his lack of eloquence, John decided to act instead and wrapped his arms around his friend tightly, pressing him close.

"I'm just afraid I'd do something you wouldn't like."

Sherlock frowned, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

"Fine. You don't have to force yourself. I'm going to bed."

John was so shocked to hear Sherlock say "I'm going to bed" that he let him push him back gently and escape the embrace.

Sherlock closed the door of his room behind him and looked at his empty bed in the semi-darkness. Everything was fine. Today had been a good day after all. John would stay in Baker Street, indefinitely.

He undressed and put on his blue gown as he heard John go up to his own room. He did not understand why he felt so miserable, but the bright side of it was that he would probably wake up as a tiger and get John's attention again. He lay down on his bed and looked at the ceiling.

Z. Zoology. He did not like what the word conjured up in his mind (namely, one soft and furry Eastern cat), and so skipped it. Y. Yearning. Yearning? Where did that come from? He had no data stored in his mind palace about such a useless notion. Ignoring the various memories of the past few weeks that flashed across his field of vision, he went on. G. Gaze. Naturally, he saw mainly a dark blue one, and rolled his eyes. What could he possibly have filed about "gaze"? This was stupid. He should just pick a domain and stick to it. Poisons, he thought, not stopping to wonder why this was the first thing that came to his mind. A. Atropine. Tropane alkaloid. Anticholinergic drug (parasympatholytic) extracted from Atropa belladona, Datura stramonium, and Mandragora officinarum. (RS)-(8-methyl-8-azabicyclo[3.2.1]oct-3-yl) 3-hydroxy-2-phenylpropanoate. E. Ethylene glycol. Organic compound. Automotive antifreeze. Odorless, colorless, sweet-tasting. Ingestion can result in death. Ethane-1,2-dio. L. Lilium longiflorum. Also known as Easter Lily. Plantae, Angiosperms, Monocots, Liliales, Liliaceae. Toxic to cats: causes acute renal failure. Causes death when ingested in larger amount.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he suddenly looked away from the ceiling, trying to dispel the unease and the cold that was spreading to his body. Just then, the door to his room was pushed open, and a man wearing pyjamas came in quietly. Sherlock blinked, wondering whether he was dreaming.

"Are you asleep?" John asked.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock replied in a daze.

John chuckled and closed the door before coming to sit on the bed.

"Can we cuddle tonight?" he inquired.

Sherlock stared, confounded.

"Yes," he said, noting he was completely unable to utter more than one syllable.

Because it was dark, he missed John's smile. The doctor slid under the blanket and the sheet, inviting Sherlock to do the same. Sherlock, of course, complied happily, not believing his luck.

Hesitantly at first, John snuggled up closer, not quite daring to wrap his arms around Sherlock. The taller man did dare. Since he wasn't sure whether his gesture would be welcome or not, his hug was more than just a little clumsy. But when he felt John sigh in contentment and rest his head against his chest, a wave of sheer warmth washed over him and he relaxed, shifting so they would both be comfortable for the night.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John murmured, and Sherlock could feel his friend's heart hammer in his chest, against his own. He smiled unwittingly, and spontaneously stroked John's hair to slow down his heart beats.

"Goodnight," he whispered, and all thoughts of poisons and yearning vanished from his mind.

Chapter Text

A/N: This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz. All my thanks!

You're completely worthless.

You're so lucky to have met such a kind man as John.

Such an obnoxious,

Twisted,

Disgusting

Freak like you is bound to live and die alone.

Die alone. Die alone, die alone, die alone...

Sherlock groaned in his sleep, frowning at the crowding memories. They were so upsetting that soon he was fully awake and opened his eyes with a pout... which turned into a broad grin as he saw a fluffy face sleeping on the pillow, inches from him. Instinctively, he snuggled up closer and nuzzled the soft fur of his friend.

... Fur? Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he jolted back to look at John. Why in the world had John turned into a manul? Hadn't they been cuddling all night?

A sense of dread slowly filled Sherlock as he stared, not daring to come any closer to his flatmate. They transformed when they felt upset or miserable. They transformed when they needed to cuddle. So why was John a manul this morning, when they had been holding each other all night? Had he felt upset or miserable? Did he regret breaking up with Maggie irreversibly, and had he realized this when he'd landed in a man's bed? In Sherlock's bed?

I wish you much pleasure fucking that bag of bones.

Suddenly Sherlock felt very cold and a shiver ran down his spine. Had John been repelled by his body? They had never gone to bed together in human form before. What if John hadn't been just embarrassed when he had hugged him two days before? Sherlock gulped. He'd been stupid, so stupid. How could he have not seen this coming? John was straight. Always had been. But he was such a good man that upon realizing how much he cared for Sherlock, he had dropped the girlfriend and made the incredible and terrible decision to devote the rest of his life to his insufferable flatmate. Since the detective would always come first, John had decided to be fair to others, fair to any potential girlfriend, and had declared himself to be in love with Sherlock.

But John was not gay. He was not even asexual. Sherlock wasn't ignorant enough to believe him when he said he was too old now anyway – John was a man, and a man has needs. Now, because he was so damn loyal and faithful, John was stuck for the rest of his life with a man he wasn't attracted to. And Sherlock felt horrible about it.

More urgently, what could he do? Would he be able to make John turn back into a man this time, since his holding John had been the source of the transformation in the first place? As things were, they certainly could not have Maggie hold him tonight so he would transform back...

The happiness Sherlock had felt upon seeing the manul as he'd woken up was crushed by this flow of guilt and turmoil. John must have come to his room the previous night because he pitied him and knew Sherlock would feel lonely thanks to what Maggie had said. He had probably forced himself to hold the detective, and now he was a plushy cat; Sherlock did not even dare hug him or stroke him.

He was still in the midst of those grim considerations when John opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. His gaze met Sherlock's, and a spontaneous beam lit up his fluffy face. He opened his mouth, probably to say 'Good morning', and...

"Meow!"

Sherlock saw consternation fill John's face as he became aware of his present form. Bringing his paws in front of his face, he blinked, at a loss, and mewled pitifully.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted. For once in his life, he was feeling shame.

John did not seem to understand what he was apologizing for, but the serious tone of his friend made him forget his own condition. Tilting his head to the side, he waited for Sherlock to develop his thought.

"You transformed because you came to cuddle last night even though you did not feel like it. You shouldn't have come."

John stared, befuddled. What was Sherlock on about? He'd been dying to cuddle with him the previous night. Scratch that, he'd been dying to do much more... The manul stiffened at once. Was this the reason, then? Because he'd been nursing secret desires and hadn't acted upon them? But this was crazy! He couldn't possibly burst into Sherlock's room, jump into his bed and snog him senseless. And if Sherlock's theory was correct... Did that mean he would have to snog Sherlock as a cat in order to turn back? Appalled, John shrieked. No, this was inconceivable. Cuddling would have to do. Cuddling was good. He threw himself into Sherlock's arms, and nuzzled up against his chest frantically.

Sherlock's eyes widened in bewilderment. Then he thought he understood and murmured: "I know you must be quite desperate to turn back. I'm not sure I can do anything about it, since this time our cuddling was the cause of your transformation, but... I'll do my best."

Only then did the meaning of Sherlock's words – and of his unease, too – dawn on John. Sherlock believed he'd turned into a manul because he was too close to him, even though the true reason had been because he hadn't been close enough. He moaned and slammed his plushy face against Sherlock's torso.

"I know, I know..." Sherlock whispered.

No, you don't, John thought despairingly. He wasn't sure, however, whether he wanted his friend to become aware of the true cause of this transformation. First of all, because it was bloody embarrassing. More importantly, because Sherlock would feel obliged to go along with anything and everything John would wish. He would no doubt feel that he owed him this, since John had chosen him over everyone else.

Still. If John did not clear things up a bit, the detective would keep believing that his flatmate was disgusted with him and was forcing himself to hug him. And this John found unbearable – not to mention utterly absurd.

So he crawled up, snuggled against Sherlock's neck, and gave him a lick before jumping off the bed and scratching the door. Sherlock stood up quietly and opened it for him, his gaze absent. He shivered under his blue gown as John ran down the corridor, and then realized that he was cold. He was about to dress up when a mewl from the living-room caught his attention. As he joined John to see what was wrong he found the cat tapping with his paw on his laptop, which he had managed to open; just picturing him doing it, Sherlock had to repress a smile.

I need the big keys, John's round eyes told the consulting detective. So Sherlock went to get it for him, plugged it in, and turned the computer on as well, mechanically entering John's password under the manul's indignant glare. Then he went back to the kitchen to make some toast and tea for breakfast. John's breakfast, of course. Sherlock certainly did not feel like eating at all.

As he put the water to boil, he could hear John typing furiously on the keyboard, marking pauses sometimes, most likely deleting things that he'd just written because of mistakes or typos. Sherlock smiled unwittingly. The keyboard truly had been a good idea. Even if it did not help him find any solution to make John turn back. 

"John?" he called.

"Meow?"

John mewling back showed just how engrossed he was in whatever he was writing. Had he paid attention to the sounds he was making, he would surely have been mortified. Sherlock, on the other hand, revelled in it.

"Do you feel more comfortable when you're a cat?"

Since John wasn't answering, Sherlock turned and met his stare.

Why would I feel more comfortable as a cat? I am very comfortable as a man, thank you very much.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued to prepare breakfast.

"I meant with me, John. Are you less repelled by me touching you when you're a cat? In which case, cuddling again tonight – or before, if you'd like – might work after all. We should just refrain from doing it when we're both human."

At this, John snarled, and Sherlock was so surprised he almost dropped the piece of toast he was holding. He frowned.

"It was just a suggestion," he protested. "I wasn't saying we should cuddle tonight again. Stop thinking that I absolutely need you to hold me!"

The outburst made the manul blink in astonishment. God, Sherlock really was on edge. The detective put the piece of toast on the plate. Shyly, John mewled, trying to get his attention.

"I said it's fine, John. Just stop worrying about me all the time."

John pouted, getting tired of this non-communication. Forgetting all sense of pride, he jumped off the living-room table and went to pull the bottom of Sherlock's nightgown – yes, actually biting it and pulling so Sherlock would follow him. This was no time to make a fuss about looking ridiculous.

"John, you do realize I am preparing your breakfast here, don't you?"

Yes, you idiot, and that's incredibly sweet. But if you could just take a look at that bloody screen...

John seemed so intent on bringing Sherlock to his laptop that finally the detective gave in and followed him. The cat began to type again as Sherlock started reading what was already on the screen.

I DID NOT TRANSFORM BECAUSE YOU DISGUSTED ME.
YOU CAN NEVER REPEL ME.

Sherlock swallowed with some difficulty, trying to gauge the sincerity in those words. Wasn't John just trying to make him feel better?

I WAS UPSET ABOUT WHAT MAGGIE HAD SAID, John typed as fast as possible – which wasn't very fast at all. I WAS HAPPY BECAUSE I WAS FINALLY AT PEACE WITH MYSELF, BUT THEN SHE HAD TO GO AND SAY THOSE HORRIBLE THINGS TO YOU...

John's paws did not allow him to write quickly enough, and Sherlock was literally hanging on his every word, his brain rocketing to guess it every time John added a new letter. Sherlock was thus very frustrated with the ellipsis, but soon the cat typed on:

I DID NOT COME TO CHEER YOU UP. I CAME BECAUSE I NEEDED A HUG.

And a bit more than that, John mused gloomily, hating how lustful he'd been when all Sherlock had needed was comfort. Now he had even managed to make his lover's mood worse than before.

John froze at the thought. Lovers? Were they lovers now? His cheeks flamed up and he noticed that even though he didn't blush, the fur of his face still bristled, probably making him look even plushier. He was glad Sherlock's attention was fixed on the screen. Getting a hold of himself, he shook his head and resumed typing.

I LIKE CUDDLING WITH YOU.

God, if someone had told him he would ever say that to Sherlock Holmes of all people, John wouldn't have believed it. He still couldn't quite fathom how Sherlock could use the word cuddle with a straight face. It always made John want to break into giggles.

I LIKE CUDDLING WITH YOU WHEN YOU ARE A TIGER, WHEN YOU ARE A MAN, WHEN I AM A STUPID CAT AND WHEN I AM A MAN.

John took a deep breath before typing the end of his message.

I AM NEVER REVULSED BY YOUR BODY. QUITE THE CONTRARY.

Then, timidly, he added:

I LOVE YOU.

Sherlock blinked, marveling at the tiny black signs on the screen. Sure, John had said "I'm in love with Sherlock" and "I love you in any form" the previous night, but this was different. It was a direct confession – the very first confession Sherlock ever received.

Noticing his shock, John thought he'd gone too far and went to delete the last sentence, but Sherlock frowned and stopped his paw.

"Are you having second thoughts?" He looked like a kid who believed his mum wasn't going to take him to the movies after all. John blinked, chuckled, and typed the sentence again. Sherlock saved the document. The cat stared.

"What?" Sherlock said defensively. "This is the first time anyone tells me this! Of course I'd want to keep a trace of it."

John's eyes widened. This was Sherlock's first time receiving a confession? Damn, of course it was. Yesterday morning had been his first kiss, too. But then wasn't John making all of Sherlock's "first" rather horrible so far? Kissing him without prior notice while he was sleeping just to check his own reaction, confessing his love to him indirectly at first, not even telling him, but telling Maggie; and now his first real confession had been typed on a computer keyboard by a goofy cat.

John whimpered.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked.

The manul shook his head and promised himself he would confess properly to his friend once he'd turned back into his human form. For now, he would be perfectly content cuddling all day.

BREAKFAST? he typed.

Sherlock smiled and nodded.

While John was eating, Sherlock was thinking. If his friend had told him the truth, his whole theory had to be revised. Perhaps John was just feeling miserable about what had happened with Maggie and her harsh words, and so the cuddling hadn't been enough to prevent his transformation. Or perhaps he had expected something of Sherlock and had felt let down. In which case the question was: what had he expected?

Sherlock frowned. He had no experience at all on which he might draw. This wasn't his area. So he went to his laptop and googled it. What should one do when being confessed to? Since he only found websites about religious confessions, he rephrased: What should you do when someone confesses their love to you? God, this was so silly. He found an incredible amount of forum posts and teenagers' discussions on the subject, but nothing seemed to fit his own situation, and the terrible grammar of them all soon made him close the window in horror.

First of all, he'd only seen kids discuss this – well, kids... Very young, stupid people. Did that mean all adults knew how to deal with this? Most likely. Maybe it was easy, then. Only adolescents made an issue out of it. If the confession pleased the adult who received it, they probably expressed their contentment at the news; if it didn't, they probably showed they weren't happy about it. Sherlock had been happy, but then Maggie had spoken again and had thrown him into a state of shock that had prevented him from reacting to John's words at all. True, he had reached the logical conclusion that now they should share the same bed, because that is what couples do. And since he accepted this new way to define their relationship, didn't it mean that he approved of it? He thought it would be enough.

As it was, though, maybe it hadn't. Sherlock went back to the kitchen and looked thoughtfully at John lapping his tea.

"John," he said. The cat raised his head and blinked at him. "What you said yesterday, I think it's... good. I appreciate it."

Satisfied with his clear choice of wording, Sherlock sat back at the kitchen table under John's nonplussed gaze. What was this all about just now? the confused cat wondered. Sherlock's pensive expression was one John was accustomed to seeing, but only during cases. He gulped. The detective was probably trying to figure out the true cause of his transformation this time. So John slowly walked up to him on the table and tapped on his hand with his paw. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts and looked down at him.

"Finished?" he asked. John nodded. Sherlock put the plate and bowl away. "I'll take a shower."

As he went into the bathroom, he pointedly avoided looking at the mirror and quickly stepped into the bathtub. But he could not avoid looking down at his own body. It was true that he was rather angular, and his skin was very pale, almost cadaverous. It didn't look healthy. He, however, felt healthy enough: his body was perfect for transport. Sherlock was capable of fighting very well without a weapon, ran fast, and was very nimble. His body had also got used to little food and little sleep, which was very convenient. The consulting detective had never needed his body to look pleasant: he dressed well, and this sufficed to make him appear reliable to clients. He was good enough at acting to look amiable, kind, sympathizing if necessary. His body functioned satisfactorily.

But Sherlock had never thought that one day he would have to look pleasant without clothes on, too. That one day he should be concerned about his appearance beyond practical considerations. Maggie's words had thrown him off-balance because they were true to some extent, even though no one had seen the point in telling him before now. Another of her remarks had piqued him: she had called him stupid because he hadn't even been able to deduce that John was in love with him. Such a reproach was quite unfair. It had crossed Sherlock's mind, and he had even tested this theory – but there were too many elements that told him otherwise, like John's constant embarrassment, which Sherlock had interpreted as disgust.

Moreover, this wasn't a case in any way, so why should Sherlock have bothered trying to deduce John of all people? Especially John's feelings for him. It was obvious John cared deeply about him anyway, and Sherlock had been busy enough with the blue carbuncle case, not to mention their transformations, which was something much more interesting to think about. John's feelings had been of interest however when Sherlock had started thinking about him possibly leaving one day. His relationship with John was perfectly satisfying, and he did not care much about the girlfriends since they never lasted very long. But then he had thought – and there had been many clues! – that John had fallen in love with Maggie Oakshott. And if that were the case, then Sherlock thought he should not interfere, or he would lose even John's friendship.

But now that John had confessed to him, things were different. Now Sherlock could hope to keep him by his side for the rest of their lives, if he proved to be a satisfying partner. That meant, however, more work on his part. Sherlock had no scruples about doing everything in his power to keep John now that the doctor had expressed his desire to stay. But didn't this imply that Sherlock should be a satisfying sexual partner as well?

He looked at his lanky limbs and peaky complexion. John had fallen in love with him even though he had this body. So didn't that mean John was content with it? Sherlock was a man, after all. For John to confess his love to him, there must have been something to him that he had found attractive. But precisely, Sherlock wasn't sure it had anything to do with his body. John had been drawn to him like a moth to a flame because of the thrill he provided, because Sherlock's lifestyle was perfect for John too. If you forgot the heads in the fridge.

Sherlock clicked his tongue in frustration. So what was he supposed to do with his body now? John believed him to be asexual, and Sherlock wasn't sure. He really didn't care. Things were good as they were, except for the fact that John would surely get tired of an empty sex life. So it was easy: Sherlock just had to provide the sex too. It shouldn't be too much trouble. After all, he'd been surprised to enjoy cuddling, so why not sex?

The problem was that John didn't seem very inclined – at all. And Sherlock could not determine whether it was because John was too straight after all, and even if he was in love with Sherlock could not sleep with him; or because the idiot was convinced that Sherlock would never want to have sex with him, and so, put the thought aside.

Sherlock turned off the water and stepped out, drying himself absent-mindedly. John liked him in tiger form, but he couldn't possibly have sex with him as a tiger. So should Sherlock try to look more like a tiger when he was in human form? He frowned. John liked "fluffy". There was no way Sherlock could look fluffy as a man. He sighed in exasperation before putting on his blue gown and going back to the living-room with an annoyed pout. He ignored John, who was trying to surf on the internet but was having a hard time using the mouse properly, and fell into the couch. John looked up in surprise at the sprawled form of his friend, then smiled and went up to him. He jumped on his chest and grinned down at his sullen face in an attempt to cheer him up. Sherlock was probably already starting to get bored, after all.

The detective looked at the plushy face and smirked. He picked up the cat and held him in his outstretched arms, enjoying his yelps and gesticulations.

"Oh come on, John, I'm not hurting you, am I?"

He suddenly wondered whether some of John's reactions were due to his being a cat. For instance, how would John react to being put into water? John himself wouldn't care, especially if the water was warm; but as a cat, wouldn't he hate it? This had never occurred to Sherlock, but surely there must be some things they felt and did when they were felines that were due to their cat bodies only. He didn't think John would appreciate the experiment of being plunged into water just for Sherlock to study his reactions, though. So he would have to find something else. Something more pleasant, perhaps. Something a cat would do but that John, as a man, never would...

A Cheshire cat-like grin spread across the detective's face. He put John down and kissed his brow to assuage him before standing up and going to his room. Mrs. Hudson had given him one once so he would stop shooting at the walls and throw it instead – less damage, less noise... As he rummaged through his drawers, he finally found it.

Gleefully, he put it in his pocket and went back to the living-room. He smiled sweetly at John and lay down beside him, picking him up in his arms and caressing the soft fur of his back soothingly. He had to admit he loved petting John as a cat. John seemed much less embarrassed than when he was a man, and his purring or lack thereof always told Sherlock whether he was enjoying his caresses or not. Unconsciously, he kissed the top of John's head. It was a mere inch away from his lips, and it felt so natural he nuzzled his friend between the ears. John shivered and snuggled up closer, his purring intensifying. Sherlock smiled and began to stroke the base of his ears, revelling in the content purrs this elicited. So you like the ears? he mused, taking note of it for later use.

In the warmth of Sherlock's arms, gently pressed against his chest and receiving most of his attention and all his caresses, John was basking in sheer bliss. It felt like home and heaven and so much more. It was perfect, because when he was a cat, John did not feel any lust for his partner – thankfully. He craved his touch, pined for his attention and some tenderness on his part, even if it was only out of interest in the funny cat that John had turned into. But being in Sherlock's arms sufficed to make John wholly happy. He knew that one day the detective would probably get bored with it, but for now he was holding him and paying attention to him only, and it was matchless. They cuddled for a while, until Sherlock murmured:

"Sorry, I have to move – I need to get myself something to drink."

John was too dizzy with warmth and delight to realize how peculiar this was for Sherlock. He simply nodded groggily, and let his partner put him on the couch. But as Sherlock stood, something fell out of his pocket and bounced before rolling on the floor – something that suddenly caught John's attention. It was red and round, and John found himself highly interested. His eyes followed the bouncing ball and he stared at it when it came to a stop. Unwittingly, he started wagging his tail, his round eyes becoming even rounder under the intensity of his gaze. All of a sudden he leapt off the couch and bolted towards the ball, jumping on it with a triumphant mewl just as Sherlock was coming back with a glass of water.

John froze, realizing what he was doing, and just stood there petrified. It only made him look sillier, considering his position on the stupid ball, covering it as if to express: "Mine!"

Sherlock allowed himself to break into laughter as he put the useless glass of water down on the table. John, understanding he had been tricked, glared at him and went to sulk on his armchair, burying his face in it. He was very angry with himself for acting so silly, but even angrier with Sherlock for having petted him only to experiment on him later. He hated his current form, which prevented him from slamming the door and going out to get some air, hated the fact that he couldn't even shout at Sherlock, but only mewl and snarl. He was so embarrassed that he didn't even want to snap at the detective. I'm never going to hear the end of this.

Seeing that John was truly upset, Sherlock regretted his trick a little. But really, that leap and dash had been worth it. Still, he did not want John to sulk for the rest of the day and refuse his caresses, because he liked to caress John very much. So dropping the smirk, he walked up to the armchair and crouched.

"I was just curious, John. Your reaction is nothing to be ashamed of. You're a cat: it is only natural that you would react like a cat to some things."

Briefly, the idea of catnip crossed Sherlock's mind. He shook his head and focused on the situation at hand.

"Come on, John, don't sulk. I wasn't trying to humiliate you."

But you did, John growled, still not looking at his friend. Sherlock sighed.

"Fine. Sulk, then."

And to show that he wasn't going to feel miserable about it, he went to put some clothes on, then sat down at the table and used John's laptop to update his own website. As he'd expected, John's sulking did not last long. First, he turned and glared at Sherlock from his armchair. Then he came to sit across from him at the table, still glowering at him. Soon his glare turned into a pout and he rested his head on the table, looking at Sherlock sullenly.

Since Sherlock highly doubted John would lower himself more than this and ask to be petted, he decided to take the initiative and extended a hand to stroke his head. But the manul bit his finger in annoyance, though not enough to hurt him. Sherlock rolled his eyes and extended his other hand to stroke him, this time succeeding since John's mouth was already busy. The cat let go of his finger and kept pouting, but he let Sherlock caress him again. At one point he even moved onto the table to offer more fur to be stroked.

They were still in this position when they heard someone come up the stairs quickly, and soon the door of their living-room opened on Greg Lestrade.

"I have a case for you," he said as a greeting. His eyes fell on the manul and widened slightly. "You're petting a cat."

"Very perceptive of you, Lestrade," Sherlock retorted curtly.

"Isn't it your landlady's cat?"

Sherlock was almost about to answer "No, it's mine," but he held himself back and said instead: "Why do you need me?"

"It's a murder."

Sherlock frowned.

"Only the first one?"

The D.I. nodded.

"When?"

"This morning."

"You never come to me so early. Not for just one murder."

Lestrade sighed.

"This murder is special."

"How so?"

"We received an anonymous letter yesterday, telling us a certain "Brad" had contacted whoever wrote that letter, asking them to kill him with a gun this morning, in his own house, while he was still lying in bed."

"... and the man you found dead this morning in bed had been shot and was called Brad."

"Brad Campbell, 43, divorced, father of two children who live with their mother."

Sherlock's caresses had stopped and John could tell his interest had been piqued. He furrowed his brow and gave him a look. You're going on a case without me?

"Do you have the letter?" Sherlock inquired, not even seeing John's look.

"In the car," Lestrade replied with a crooked smile. Sherlock frowned.

"Fine. Just go down, I'll be right there."

Lestrade nodded and was about to leave when he suddenly realized something was missing.

"Where is John?"

"Slept over at his girlfriend's," Sherlock lied smoothly.

"Oh. I see."

And with those words, he went down the staircase. Only then did Sherlock look at John, his eyes already full of excitement. But when he saw John's sullen expression, his face fell.

"You don't want me to go?" he asked, and he seemed so disappointed John could not bear it. So he splattered a grin on his fluffy face and waved his paws.

No, no! It's fine. But you'll have to tell me all about it when you come back. And be careful.

He realized Sherlock couldn't possibly guess all that from his silly gestures, so he even turned the computer towards him, and typed his thoughts for Sherlock to read. The detective's face lit up again and he nodded.

"All right. I'll put the television on for you, if you'd like."

John went to sit in front of the telly Sherlock had just turned on. The detective put John's mobile next to the manul, and John saw on the screen Sherlock's number.

"You should be able to press the green button and dial my number. Call if there's a problem."

He took his coat and with a last wink to John, was gone. The manul sighed and dropped the smile as soon as the door was closed. But really, Sherlock being so attentionate was incredible enough. John couldn't possibly hope that he would go as far as postponing a case to stay home with him. So he put his head on his paws and stared at the telly, already counting the minutes until Sherlock came back.

The crime scene was exactly as described in the anonymous letter. Whoever had written it claimed to have received this "request" from the victim himself, Brad Campbell.

As he nosed around the victim's room, Sherlock's eyes fell on a notepad next to the phone. He stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"Show me the letter again."

The D.I. complied, grumbling about Sherlock's bossiness when he'd only been invited on this case. The consulting detective paid no attention to him and compared the two papers.

"The letter you received was written by Brad Campbell himself," he declared.

Lestrade stared. "What?"

Sherlock showed him the two pieces of paper.

"I'll have an expert look at it," the D.I. said. "Maybe the murderer only imitated his handwriting."

"I don't think so. He probably asked Campbell to write it himself, then send him the letter."

"But if Campbell wrote the letter, why didn't he send it?"

Sherlock thought for a second.

"Perhaps because it was his request."

Lestrade just stared, at a loss. Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "The request! Perhaps this is the way the murderer receives his requests: the victim must write a letter to the police depicting the way they want to be killed, and write it as if they were the murderer, and not the victim."

"But what's the point?"

"What is the point, indeed..."

"Sir, I just received a call saying we'd received another letter," Sally Donovan informed. She stopped in the doorway. "What is he doing here?"

"What does the letter say?" Lestrade asked, ignoring her glare.

"It's the same paper and the same handwriting," she replied. Sherlock rolled his eyes – why couldn't she just answer the question? "It says: 'P.S.: Brad also requested that his house be blown up.' Well, apparently, the murderer didn't manage that..."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

Being a manul without Sherlock around was no fun at all, John thought as he watched the stupid telly half-heartedly. He kept flicking through the channels, but he avoided doing it too much because he'd ended up pressing too many buttons once and had almost turned off the television. But the show he was watching was too crappy, even for him, and so he flicked again.

"... the explosion. Brad Campbell had just been found dead this morning, and the police were still investigating when..."

John's eyes widened.

Chapter Text

A/N: I apologize for having taken so long to update this story. I have been inconceivably busy, not in the mood, and I realized I should give priority to my post-Reichenbach story if I wanted it to be complete before the next season... I am also sorry this chapter is not exceptional, even though I have made you wait for so long. Just the continuation of the story. Please bear with me :)

Thank you very much to all reviewers. I really appreciate you support, and I'm sorry for the wait! Hope you enjoy reading.

This chapter was kindly betaed by Tigzzz. 

Today was a rather uneventful day in 221 Baker Street. There had been a visit from Detective Inspector Lestrade, who as always needed Sherlock to help him solve a case - a murder, if Mrs. Hudson remembered correctly. Sherlock had left beaming. But that was nothing out of the ordinary, and all in all, today was nothing exceptional. That is, until it went completely wrong.

Mrs. Hudson was peacefully reading a magazine when she heard an unusual scratch at the door. She may not have noticed it before, when she had yet to find out about the cat versions of her tenants. Now, however, she paid extra attention to every suspicious noise, in case her boys caused even more trouble than they usually did because of said transformations, and needed her help. As it turned out, she had been spot-on.

When she opened the door, her eyes met a frenzied manul, who was frantically scratching at her door – so frantically in fact that he must have hurt his claws and paws. Apparently, he could not care less. This must have been serious.

"Oh, dear! What's going on?"

Before she even finished her question, John was dashing up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson hurried up behind him as fast as she could. She thought something must have happened to Sherlock - had he come back without her noticing?

When she entered the flat, no one was there. There was just John, screeching and jumping in front of the television. There was no trace of Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson looked at the manul and blinked.

Growing more desperate by the second, John reached the bottom when he realized that in all likelihood the news was not going to make any more mention of Brad Campbell. Wasting no time, he almost threw himself onto his laptop. Internet. Google. Brad Campbell.

"John, dear, I'm afraid I don't underst–"

She froze upon seeing the picture and the article on the screen.

"Oh."

Less than five minute later she was running down the street, John in her bag, too big to be completely hidden but trying hard not to show himself as she hailed a cab. Less than twenty minutes later they arrived at the crime scene.

That is, in front of the yellow line.

"Madam, you can't go in. There has been an explosion, it's–"

"I must go, my son is in there!"

"Your... Hey, wait!" the police officer called as John did not stay to admire Mrs. Hudson's theatrics and jumped off the bag to run to the ambulance he had spotted.

"Please calm down, Madam, no one was inside the house when it exploded. There was no serious injury."

Of course, John was too far by now to hear the reassuring words. Mrs. Hudson ignored the officer and ran after him. She arrived to see the panicked, furious cat pouncing on one consulting detective's chest. She smiled, relieved.

Sitting at the back of an ambulance, wrapped in a blanket, Sherlock had not expected a fluffy fur ball to throw itself into his arms.

"John?" he said with unfeigned surprise.

John was not cuddling. He was not even snuggling. No, he was literally fighting tooth and nail, scratching Sherlock's chest and ruining his shirt.

"What's going on here?" Lestrade asked, startling Mrs. Hudson. She gave him a smooth smile and noticed both men had grazes. Lestrade's coat was slightly burnt. Sherlock had a split eyebrow.

"Oh, dear," she mumbled, coming closer to her tenant. Lestrade stared.

"What are you doing here? What is your cat doing here?"

"We were worried," Mrs. Hudson retorted, a hint of reproach in her voice. No one but John heard it: Lestrade was too astonished to see the weird cat here, and Sherlock, too delighted.

"Are you done ripping my shirt to threads?" he asked softly.

His voice snapped John out of his frenzy. Shaking, the manul curled on himself and closer to Sherlock's chest.

He had drawn blood. He let out a pitiful mewl and nuzzled closer. Before he knew what he was doing, he was licking the blood apologetically. But he was still trembling – from fear or from rage, Sherlock could not tell.

"But why did you bring your cat here?" Lestrade repeated. "And why is Sherlock letting it rip his shirt?" Mrs. Hudson simply shrugged.

Sherlock was stroking John's fur absent-mindedly. He was happy to see him here. Naturally, he realized that John was very upset.

But the case... Oh, the case was going to be fun. And nothing bad had happened after all.

Surely John would understand.

John understood quite enough. He understood how useless he was to his friend when he was in manul form, and it made him wonder whether he was of any use at all when he was a man. Clearly he was no help with the deducing itself, although Sherlock made a point to remind him he was his one and only light conductor once in a while, as if to stroke his ego. Maybe the consulting detective meant it. But to John, this still sounded disagreeably like Sherlock was grateful for his stupidity because it made him smarter.

Of course John wasn't bitter about this. Not at all. And he did not feel like he was being unfair to his friend either. The fact that Sherlock seemed completely obsessed with the new case and had not paid any attention to John since they had got back to the flat was not influencing his mood for the worse, and he was not brooding. Not at all.

And why should Sherlock have paid any attention to him? They could not even have a proper conversation when John was a cat. He could not "bounce back ideas" in any way, and if Sherlock was patient enough to put up with keyboard dialogues on non-case days, John was fairly certain that his mind would fly off to consider more interesting things than whatever John would clumsily type about an ongoing case.

So that was out of the question. As for any other kind of usefulness for a stupid cat, there were obviously none. Whereas as a man John could at least hold a gun and protect Sherlock to some extent, this was out of the question when he was a manul. How could he protect Sherlock with paws? Such small ones, too.

It was bloody unfair. It was unfair that Sherlock got to be a genius and good at fighting and quite fit overall and good-looking and a tiger when John was just the most ridiculous feline he'd ever seen. He never quite pondered about those things, mostly because they upset him, and because there was no line of reasoning in the world that could possibly help him make sense of their transformations. Even Sherlock had given up after all: like a good scientist, he had limited himself to observing the patterns and making hypotheses until he could suggest a theory of enough practical interest to both of them. He'd left the whole metaphysical dimension unaddressed. It seemed that where reason could not help, he simply did not bother reasoning.

And wasn't that the smart thing to do? Of course. Sherlock always did the smart thing to do. But then again there was no reason he should not be satisfied with what he turned into: he did not look silly or grotesque or pathetic. The worst he could get was to appear cute in his clumsiness. And who would dare laugh at a tiger anyway?

John had been brewing over those thoughts for the past hours. Inevitably, he grew weary of it, all the more so as he was starting to feel rather uncomfortable. Brooding had this effect on him. Not that he was brooding, mind you. But when he did brood, he needed some air, not so much to sort his thoughts as to keep brooding until he felt quite ashamed of it, realizing how one-tracked his mental rambling had been. Even though he did not get a chance to go out for a walk today, what with being stuck in a stupid manul's body, John was now beginning to get that feeling of mortification tinged with bitterness. Funny, because he hadn't been brooding.

In any case soon his thoughts got from bad to worse.

It all came from one little idea that had been nagging him recently: maybe there was a logic in the fact that he turned into a manul, small, absurd, useless, and Sherlock into a tiger. John Watson was a proud man and was not prone to self-deprecatory musings. He did not think himself to be vain or too self-satisfied: he was a good doctor, a good soldier, and, he believed, a good friend for Sherlock, if for nobody else. Considering his failures in the romantic field since he'd returned from the war, he most likely wasn't a good boyfriend. But his caring so strongly about Sherlock accounted for much on that matter, and if John considered himself to be in a relationship with Sherlock, then he was quite confident that he hadn't been failing that one so far.

However, that was where the list of his good points stopped. John had prided himself in being Sherlock's increasingly essential colleague, providing some very much needed protection during cases. But he had also been kidnapped and used against Sherlock. Sometimes, even when he was with Sherlock, his bravery and sense of comradeship and sacrifice were not enough.

Ultimately, John had to face the fact that even had he been with Sherlock in that house today, he could not have done anything to prevent it from being blown up. Lestrade himself had said so: Sherlock was the only one who had understood early enough in order to limit the damage. John could have done nothing, even if he had been there.

He tried to shake off the thought. Fine. Although he was useless even as a man, it remained that he was even more useless as a manul. John rarely got depressed over Sherlock's superiority because he was far from flawless, regardless of how great a man he was. He acted like a child and there were some things he needed: it was those needs that prevented John from feeling completely out of place. It wasn't that his being there was absolutely necessary for Sherlock to live on; they had lived separately before, and could perfectly manage to do so in the future as well. But John dared believe that they would not be as genuinely happy as now if they did.

Scratch that, life would be hideously boring without Sherlock around, and John knew it. It wasn't the first time he felt useless and inferior to Sherlock in some ways – there had been and always was Moriarty, who never ceased to find a way to arouse Sherlock's interest and keep him excited, making John feel like the third wheel; there was Mycroft, whose attitude towards John kept oscillating between surprised esteem, when John somehow managed to unsettle him in a good way, and his default condescension. With most people, there was usually a sense of connivance between Sherlock and John, something John relished. But when cunning people were around, like Moriarty, Mycroft, or even Irene Adler, John always felt left behind.

As if these people recognized him as Sherlock's counterpart only to remind him that, as a counterpart, he could never stand on the same ground.

Sherlock did not understand what was wrong with John. The manul had been very quiet since they had come back to the flat, and Sherlock had even realized at one point that he had left the living-room altogether, going back to his room without Sherlock's noticing. He must have left the door open; or perhaps Sherlock was the one to open it for him without even realizing? He had been quite engrossed with the case at hand, and John had been so unobtrusive that Sherlock had forgotten when he had stopped being in the room.

John had not come to cuddle with him on the couch, and last time Sherlock had looked he had been sulking on the armchair. John had not asked anything about the case, by mewling or typing on his laptop. Overall he seemed rather uninterested. It was unusual to say the least. He was always interested in Sherlock's cases, which had pretty much become their cases by now; except when he was upset. Very upset, Sherlock amended as he remembered how John had eventually come round even during the bombs game with Moriarty, even with the goose case although it had involved his girlfriend's family...

Sherlock frowned and got up from the couch, trying to dispel the sense of unease threatening to cloud his mind when it should be focusing on Brad Campbell's death alone. He had to talk to John.

So up he went and knocked on the half-open door. It was stupid, but he knew John wouldn't want him to barge into his room unannounced.

"John?"

Naturally, no answer came. Sherlock wondered briefly whether he should wait until John mewled back in acknowledgement, but as the silence stretched he just pushed the door gingerly and instead waited to see if a snarl told him to go away. Nothing came.

John was lying on the bed, his head morosely resting on his front paws. When Sherlock came into the room, he simply stared at him, unmoved.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked as he came to sit on the bed next to the manul and reached to stroke him. John stiffened almost imperceptibly. Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"All right, tell me what's wrong," he demanded.

Well I can't exactly tell you anything now, can I? John thought sarcastically, if a little bitterly.

Sherlock waited a moment, then sighed. Without any warning, he picked up the manul, who shrieked, and brought him down to the living-room, putting him on the table in front of his laptop.

"Will you stop sulking and just tell me what's wrong with you? We've got work, John! Work!"

You've got work.

"We."

Ha! Did you just hear that?

"Of course I can't hear you, John, you're not speaking," Sherlock explained as if he were talking to a very small child. "Now, won't you just type so we can move on to the case?"

Instantly Sherlock saw that this had been the wrong thing to say. John, who had started to move towards the keyboard, froze. Sherlock tensed a little.

"What are you upset about?" he asked more quietly.

Slowly, the manul started to move again, and typed:

NOTHING. TELL ME ABOUT THE CASE.

Sherlock nodded.

"Well, the situation itself is fairly simple." His voice was already full of excitement. "For clarity, let's call A the one who wrote the letter – for Anonymous; M the one who committed the murder – because it is a murder, so there is a murderer; and V the victim, Brad Campbell. On the day before the murder, the police receives a letter indicating that V has contacted A and asked A to kill V in a certain manner, described in the letter. On the day of the murder, the police indeed finds V dead, having been killed as described in the letter. Consequently the police concludes that A = M - the person who wrote the letter is the killer. But it turns out from the handwriting that A = V - the victim is the one who wrote the letter. So, suicide? No: the victim could not have shot himself in the way he was shot. Therefore A = M was wrong. A = V, and M is a different person."

The manul stared.

SO... WHY DID BRAD WRITE THE LETTER AND SEND IT TO THE POLICE?

"I didn't say he sent it to the police," Sherlock replied dismissively. "Maybe he did. All we know is that he wrote it. Unless some professional imitator managed to fool my eyes, but that is unlikely. Lestrade is having it scanned and checked by a computer anyway. He'll text me."

John was thoughtful. That case was definitely weird. Sherlock must be thrilled.

WHAT ABOUT THE EXPLOSION?

"Some peculiar idea of a joke, I presume."

John blinked. A joke?

"The killer is making fun of the police. He is messing with them," Sherlock developed with a grin. He did not seem bothered by John's insistent stare.

Why do you always end up involved with mad bombers?

"The real question is: how did the killer become aware of the contents of the letter?"

Indeed, John thought. Did he force Brad to write it? Was he there when Brad wrote it?

"Well," Sherlock cut in as he stood up. John had not even realized he'd been sitting. "I lack data."

John felt a sinking feeling in his chest and looked away. Sherlock was going to leave him behind again, going to investigate without him, to face danger alone... John could not determine whether he was more worried or jealous. Either way, he was not pleased.

DON'T GO.

He had typed it before he could stop himself. Great. Now not only was he useless, he was also pathetic. Sherlock's puzzled look told him the consulting detective must have been wondering about his mental health. John was expecting him to ask again what was wrong with him.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock said instead. "I'm not going anywhere. Well, to the kitchen to fix something for you to eat. You haven't had anything since this morning. Unless you're not hungry...?"

John was speechless. Well, technically he could not speak anyway, but even if he could have, he would not have known what to say. Relief and something akin to joy washed over him. Spontaneously, he put his paw on Sherlock's hand, which was resting on the table. Then he turned to his laptop and resumed typing.

DON'T YOU LACK DATA?

"Yes, I just said that."

...THEN AREN'T YOU GOING OUT?

Sherlock smiled. Although he refrained from pointing it out because he was quite sure his flatmate would not appreciate the remark, he found rather adorable how John went through the trouble of typing as he spoke, with ellipses to mark pauses. Sherlock's hand moved and caressed the soft fur of John's back.

"Of course I'm going out. But first you have to eat and then we have to cuddle."

This time John thought it was Sherlock who was going bonkers. The consulting detective rolled his eyes.

"John, surely you must realize that I can't possibly take you around London looking like this."

John whimpered. Despite the warm tone, Sherlock's words were making him feel even more miserable.

"It may startle people, and someone could steal you," Sherlock went on.

...what? Steal him? Steal a manul? Who would want to steal such a thing?

"If you are not hungry, we could just start cuddling right now, though. Save some time."

John was wavering. Should he just type and tell Sherlock he had no clue about what he was saying? But Sherlock already seemed to get impatient...

"So? Are you hungry?"

NO, John typed.

"Good. Cuddling, then? I don't know if we can manage to fall asleep at all during the day, but..."

Oh. Oh.

So that was it. Sherlock was not abandoning him. He wanted to bring him along, and so he wished him to turn back into a man as soon as possible. John beamed.

"What are you giving me the Cheshire cat grin for?" Sherlock murmured, almost fondly. Fondly? God, John's brain must have been a mess. But right now, he very much wanted to indulge in wishful thinking.

Sherlock picked him up again, more delicately this time, and brought him to his own room, lying down on the bed by his side. It was funny how when they were in an embrace, or lying side by side, or touching in some affectionate way, all troubles seemed to dissolve into thin air. Bad feelings melted away in the warmth of their touch, and John thought that he had never been aware of how wonderful touching was, because you could not touch without being touched as well. Reciprocation was inherent to touching. And somehow... Somehow it made John feel better.

"It is fascinating, don't you think?" Sherlock asked.

Oh yes. Fascinating, John purred.

"Why someone would go to such an extent to make the police look like fools. I think I've never seen Lestrade so much out of his depth." Sherlock chuckled.

Right. The case. Of course. John could not ignore the pang of disappointment. But looking at Sherlock's genuinely eager expression, his eyes aflame with wonder and excitement, John could not be mad at him. In fact, it rather made him feel even more ashamed and useless. He was seriously starting to consider the possibility of going back to the computer and telling Sherlock to go on his own when the consulting detective snuggled closer and clumsily wrapped his arms around him. Gradually, John let himself relax into the embrace.

"I was thinking," Sherlock said as he stroked the fur between John's ears, "maybe there is a way to make you transform back sooner. Without spending the entire night cuddling."

Spending the entire night cuddling is good, John silently objected. Still, he did not want Sherlock to become annoyed with him, so he nodded to show he was listening and interested. But Sherlock's hands were interesting, too. Very interesting.

Sherlock felt John nod under his caress. He was trying to find the words.

"Well. We transform when we are... upset. Not just when something is not right, but when we feel miserable about it. And... usually, cuddling is what makes it better."

John was only half-listening and had no idea where Sherlock was heading. He did feel, however, that his touch was getting a little tense, although the detective was clearly trying to convey only serenity and tenderness. It was funny, John mused, how Sherlock's touch betrayed so much more than his words.

"But last night," Sherlock went on deliberately, "you transformed while we were cuddling."

John nodded drowsily. In the warmth of Sherlock's arms, he thought he could nod at everything.

"So... There must be something that you wanted, which wasn't cuddling, and that I did not give you. Something... else." Sherlock truly could not be more explicit. He did not know what John had wanted from him.

Upon hearing Sherlock's words, John had stiffened considerably. He could not say he had not expected this. Of course his friend would notice. This was Sherlock. The manul groaned. He'd just hoped the consulting detective would not bring it up so soon; if at all. What a mess.

"See?" Sherlock said as he tried to ease John's tension away by petting him, "I don't know why you are acting like this, but if cuddling won't do, then I don't know what–"

Cuddling WILL do! John hissed.

Which came out as... well, a hiss. He moaned in despair.

"Or maybe... Do you think you need to cuddle with someone else?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

John snarled. Now you're being stupid. Just hold me and let me forget for a few blissful hours how useless I am! He felt terrible. This was not going to work. Perhaps Sherlock was right, even cuddling would not help this time, because John was too upset and over too many things: in the span of a few days he had managed to expose his girlfriend's brother, get dumped, be forced to break up again with Maggie when Sherlock so kindly invited her over, admit his feelings to Sherlock, try to reassure Sherlock about their relationship after Maggie's awful little speech although John himself had no idea what this relationship was going to be, or should be, or should not be, face yet another transformation the next morning even though they had been cuddling, which made the whole relationship issue even more of an issue, and finally believe Sherlock might be dead, blown up in a bloody house on a bloody case because of some bloody madman, and there was nothing he could have done as a manul, nothing he could have done at all, not even as a man...

"John. You're trembling. What's wrong?" came Sherlock's voice. Amidst the storm of his thoughts, John wondered whether he did not hear concern there, instead of irritation. But he had no voice to answer his partner anyway.

He was trembling, wasn't he? This was stupid. Closing his eyes, he willed himself to calm down. He knew they should talk. But he really did not feel like having this discussion via laptop. He needed his voice for this. There was no way he could deal with it on a screen.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock inquired again. John could have sworn his tone was tinged with worry. He nodded stiffly.

"Here, let's try something. Lie on your back."

John stared. Then suddenly his cheeks puffed up considerably; all the hair on his fluffy face seemed to stand on end, making him look even fluffier. He gulped.

"Come on, just lie on your back. Don't you trust me?"

With some hesitation, John complied. Sherlock smiled and brushed the fur of his cheeks with the back of his hand before stroking his belly. For some reason, this appeared to make John tense even more.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured in a placating voice, his hand stopping to rest on John's pounding heart. He leant in and pressed a kiss on the manul's forehead. God, he must really want to go out and get more data, John thought. He must have been desperate to be so gentle.

Sherlock was indeed quite desperate, but regardless of what John believed, it had not much to do with the case.

Of course Sherlock wanted to leave the flat to investigate as soon as possible. But after the incident at Brad Campbell's house and John's subsequent fury which had spurred him to ruin one of Sherlock's favourite shirts, the consulting detective was quite aware that leaving without John was not an option. That being settled, the number one priority was to help John turn back into a man. But such a task was difficult if John did not cooperate.

As he felt his friend's heart hammer under his palm, Sherlock realized that there were some important things that had to be said. He had never been in a relationship and he was used to having his mind deal only with problems brought by the Work – that is to say, cases. He did not have to really think of anything else that would affect his line of conduct before he met John. Admittedly, cocaine had been a serious issue, and a personal one, which was not connected with the Work in any way, since it had plagued Sherlock even before the Work. But since John had moved into Baker Street, things had changed. Sherlock's mind had to deal with domestic preoccupations unknown until then; John was extremely tolerant as far as flatmates went, but living with him still entailed many new elements to take into consideration on an everyday basis. On several occasions Sherlock's mind had been completely focused – or almost completely focused – on John alone: to find a trick to cure him from his psychosomatic limp, to figure out why he was upset... to find out how to assuage him, like say, by buying the milk. Then there had been the transformations, which had made Sherlock think even more about John. And now they were in a "relationship", whatever that meant, and this implied even more thinking about John, and John only.

So as he listened to John's heart pounding in the furry chest under his hand, Sherlock became aware of some things that would have completely escaped him before because to him it did not matter, and he himself did not react like other people did. He was not used to deducing animals, and perhaps it was only because the manul was John and a man in the end: but in his features Sherlock saw fear, shame, self-deprecation, and something he could not quite put his finger on, like raw emotion, something close to gratefulness...

Without a word, he picked John up in his arms and held him close to his chest, resting his chin on the manul's head.

"I'm sorry I worried you earlier by going on the crime scene. I... When I realized the house was going to explode, I did think that I might not see you again."

That was a blatant lie. All Sherlock had thought when stupid Sally's words had registered was: run. Then his eyes had scanned the room to see how many people had to be evacuated right now as his voice shouted the warning, and in his panic he'd had time to look for John, remember that he hadn't come, and be glad that he hadn't. This had lasted merely a second, and then his focus had been on getting out of the house.

But lie as it may be, Sherlock knew John needed to hear this. To know that he had not been the only one to worry and suffer thinking that he had lost him. Maybe it was wrong, but Sherlock could not bring himself to care. Right now, he needed to hammer into John's head that they were in the same boat. His embrace tightened slightly.

In a heartbeat, Sherlock had realized in what turmoil John was, and that he would never be able to help if he held him just to get on faster with the case.

Chapter Text

In a heartbeat, Sherlock realized in what turmoil John was, and that he would never be able to help if he held him just to get on faster with the case.

The problem was that he did want to just get on faster with the case. It had come at the perfect time; a time when Sherlock needed to take his mind off the whole relationship issue, a time when he needed to reaffirm the brilliancy of his mind which had quite spectacularly failed him in his deductions concerning John's feelings towards Maggie, and towards himself. All in all, a new case was Godsend.

There was, however, a snag; namely, that John was presently a manul. It was as if fate would not let them go on with their lives and put away undiscussed matters for a while. Not that Sherlock believed in anything as silly as fate; the only thing he knew for sure from John's transformation was that his friend was feeling miserable for some reason, when he should have felt...

Sherlock frowned. Felt what, exactly? What had he felt the previous night?

Relief.

Something like an unexpected surge of joy when John had entered his room.

Sherlock had felt extremely lucky. It had not crossed his mind that his partner might not be feeling as content as he was: hadn't John asked quite explicitly if they could cuddle? Didn't that mean that cuddling was all he had wanted? If there had been something else, why hadn't he asked for it? John was proud, but if he had mustered the courage to come to Sherlock's room, surely he was past self-consciousness and such nonsense. Wasn't he?

In Sherlock's arms, John's heart continued to hammer in his small furry chest. Sherlock's statement had touched him beyond words, and for once today, he was glad that he couldn't be expected to speak. So he simply swallowed and nuzzled Sherlock's chin, his ear, his neck, his throat... And there he stopped, resting his head against the pale skin, feeling the soft pulse under it. Such a position also meant that when Sherlock tensed, even slightly, John could feel him stiffening. Thinking his friend might be reliving his panic at the crime scene, the manul put a tentative paw on his shoulder.

This snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. With a small smile that John missed, he leant in and kissed the top of his head, just between his ears.

As he did, something John had said the previous day came back to him; they had been arguing about the hugs and John rejecting Sherlock when they were both men. Then John had said something funny, something that hadn't caught Sherlock's attention then, but did now.

"I'm just afraid I'd do something you wouldn't like."

Clearly this appeared to indicate that there was indeed something John had wanted. Sherlock had been worried that he should have been the one to initiate whatever it was John had come to get the previous night, but perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps John simply hadn't dared do anything.

Sherlock sighed. Why did this have to be so complicated?

"Look, John. I know you can't properly speak right now, but... When you can, you have to tell me what you want, explicitly. Even when you cannot speak, there is the laptop and the new keyboard." Sherlock's hand came to rest on John's head and he played with his right ear a little nervously. "You see, I... As you must have noticed, I'm not as good at deducing when it comes to... this."

Since John had leant back and was now tilting his head to the side in a deliciously clueless way, Sherlock developed:

"Relationships. We can't have something like yesterday happen again."

John blinked.

"Me, thinking you were depressed and pining after your ex-girlfriend, calling her over to make things right, and having you reject her again and confess your feelings to me," Sherlock added in a matter-of-fact tone to dispel John's confusion. The hair on John's cheeks bristled and Sherlock had the sudden urge to smother his fluffy face with kisses. He blinked.

The sudden urge to what? Disconcerted, he brought his eyes back to John's and stared. The manul fidgeted a bit and finally averted his gaze.

Sherlock was thinking. Looking back on his own behaviour, he couldn't quite make sense of the kissing. Even now, from the moment they had come to his room, he had kissed John a number of times, spontaneously, without giving it any meaning. It was just all part of the cuddling process. And cuddling did not make sense. So why should kissing make any?

But now that he thought about it, John had been quite upset after the train ride. It was true that being kissed by a tiger on the mouth was not an experience anyone would wish to have. Still, could John's reaction also be explained by the fact that normal people, ordinary people, bestowed more meaning on kisses than Sherlock did? It had never crossed his mind before because their kisses hadn't been 'romantic' in any way; but with hindsight, Sherlock realized that kissing someone on the mouth was indeed perceived as a romantic gesture. Why, he could not quite fathom. But at any rate, it did.

Was that what John had been considering the previous night? Kissing him? It might well be. But then, why hadn't he acted upon it? Why hadn't he asked?

I'm just afraid I'd do something you wouldn't like.

...Would Sherlock have liked it?

He repressed a groan. Now he was out of his depths, and that was not something Sherlock enjoyed very much. Or at all.

In the end Sherlock had waited and waited, petting John, focusing on his every reaction to see what kind of caress, and where, was the most effective on him. But John had not fallen asleep; Sherlock hadn't either, for that matter. And so after an hour of silence in the peaceful darkness of Sherlock's bedroom, both of them were as awake as ever, and, John feared, just as edgy.

Surely Sherlock could not help thinking about the case and being frustrated that he was stuck in the flat now of all times. Moreover, something told John that he too was beginning to doubt whether they would truly manage to reverse the transformation this time. Instead of being happy that Sherlock had given up on going out just to stay and cuddle with him, John was feeling increasingly guilty. Not only was he no help at all; he was now preventing Sherlock from doing what he loved most. What if this did not even help him transform back? Even worse, what if they woke up both as felines? What would Sherlock say?

Well, nothing. He won't be able to say anything, John mused gloomily.

As it was, though, this was a possibility he could not ignore. Sherlock was doing his best to please John, and he was genuinely considerate. But he was trying too hard. Even the way he focused so intensely on John betrayed that he was worried, impatient, excited. He was doing his best, and that was the problem.

Looking up discreetly, meeting his eyes, John could tell his mind was elsewhere. Somewhere John could not follow. Sherlock was looking at him, with a mix of tenderness and graveness the manul did not quite understand; but he seemed to be looking past him as well, much beyond.

It was maddening. Maybe this was why being with the consulting detective, in any kind of relationship, even just as a flatmate or a colleague, was intoxicating. And exhausting, too. John had always conceived relationships as part of one's social life: people had friends, girlfriends, people they worked with, people they liked, people they didn't like... An individual was integrated in society through this web constituted by their various relationships to people. There were codes, conventions, and it made everything work smoothly. It brought order. Bearings. Unlike the chaos of war, it allowed you to build something, take a look at your life and create, even in small ways, the person you wanted to be.

In action, there was no time: you were made to be whoever you were and your reactions all emerged from a life or death logic. A certain part of you could be revealed – a part that craved danger, or, for some, sheer violence; a heroic side of you, a cowardly side of you. But all in all, you didn't have time to stand and look at yourself, you were too taken in it, living it to the core. There was nothing else. And then when you were back to civilian life, nothing seemed to bear meaning anymore. You didn't realize there hadn't been any meaning back there either – not even room for meaning. But there was in society, among others who lived peaceful lives. That was why John cared about mundane as well. That was why mundane was good.

Mycroft had told John that he missed the war. He had been right, of course. But not completely. He'd been wrong about his brother. Sherlock Holmes lived neither under a war-torn sky nor under an untroubled one. He was something else. He lived something else. And from the moment John had met him, he very much wished to be part of that life.

It would have been great, he mused, if their predicament had been a little different: instead of turning into bloody cats, perhaps just switching bodies, or something of the like. Hadn't there been a movie like that? Several, even. At least such a thing would have been interesting. John was curious to see what the world looked like in Sherlock's eyes. On second thought, merely exchanging bodies in this case would not be enough. John would have to be part of Sherlock's very consciousness to have the faintest idea of how he perceived everything.

Unwittingly, the manul sighed and snuggled up closer to Sherlock's chest. He only became aware of it when his nose collided with his friend's shirt... and scent. John closed his eyes.

Sherlock was addictive because he was danger within peace and cold-blooded reason within war; the thrill in the routine of everyday life, and the sharp vigilance that made sense of chaos and thrived in it. The world was neither a haven nor a battlefield to him: it was a playground. He needed the danger because that was what gave him his worth in his own eyes: Sherlock needed recognition more than anything else, but to such an extent that he could only get it by flirting with danger. If he played with fire, it wasn't only because it amused him. It was also because whatever he did only held any value if there was a risk of getting burnt in the process. Sherlock's personality was in fact like fire; it was extreme, and consequently, it craved the extreme.

But there was something else. John had known since the second day of their acquaintance from the way the consulting detective treated his own life. It was as if everything he did was out of defiance: Sherlock was a daredevil. In that he was very different from Mycroft; and this was why, John was sure, Big Brother was always so worried about him. Now that he knew Sherlock better, John did not doubt that Mycroft had been sincere the first time they had met: he did worry about Sherlock constantly. John had no idea what had happened between them. But he knew that Sherlock's archenemy wasn't Mycroft. It wasn't even Moriarty: no, Sherlock's archenemy was boredom.

And maybe they did not experience it in the same way; maybe Sherlock was right when he said John could not understand, would never understand what it was like to feel your brain rotting away. But deep down, John wondered whether he really not know; whether the emptiness, the complete vacuity he had experienced after the war, was not very close to that. He might be wrong, but sometimes John believed that they had both been confronted to the absolute meaninglessness of the world around them. Because that was the thing. Sherlock's boredom wasn't just any kind of boredom; it was existential.

John opened his eyes. Yes, he thought, perhaps he could understand. The feeling that you should not be wasting your time here, that you were much more needed somewhere else; that your true place was elsewhere. A very small smile graced his face, and he tried not to think how ridiculous he must have looked, being a cat. Slowly, he raised his paw and put it on Sherlock's chest.

Then he pushed him away.

Sherlock had been so deep in thought that the small paw on his chest surprised him. He smiled unwittingly and his hand ran down John's spine as if to return the gesture. But then the paw pushed him back. He froze.

"John?"

He moved back to look him in the eye and was met with such a serious expression he sat up.

"John..."

The manul did not let him go any further and jumped off the bed. Sherlock stared, astonished, as he watched him walk out of the room.

"John! What is wrong with you?!"

He followed, annoyance overlapping worry. In the living-room, he found John in front of his laptop, opening a word document. As Sherlock walked towards him, he started typing.

GO GET MORE DATA.

The consulting detective stared. "But John–"

The manul frowned and typed furiously.

I WANT YOU TO.

Sherlock blinked. "...Are you throwing me out of the flat?"

John seemed to give the thought a moment, then resumed typing.

YES.

"Just an hour ago you told me not to go," Sherlock reminded him, suspicion and disbelief in his voice.

WELL NOW I'M TELLING YOU TO GO, John retorted.

Sherlock observed the manul for a while, his gaze intense, before sitting down abruptly. John started.

"Fine. Now that we're here, I suppose we can talk. Maybe we should have done that from the beginning."

John's eyes widened. What had he got himself into? He turned to the computer and began to type again frantically.

I JUST WANTED TO

He shuddered when Sherlock covered his paws with his hand, interrupting him. John turned and met his eyes, which at the moment felt rather like lasers. He gulped.

"John. What did you want to do yesterday night?"

They had a staring contest, and Sherlock thought he had won when John turned to his laptop and typed his answer. That is, until he read said answer.

NOTHING. I ALREADY TOLD YOU.

"Oh please. You can't lie to me, John! Not successfully anyway."

John glowered but Sherlock ignored him.

"I know you are not the most luminous man on earth, but surely even you must have realized that cuddling was not working today! So what can I do? What am I supposed to do?"

Sherlock was so agitated John felt a pang of guilt sharper than all the previous ones. He hung his head in shame.

I'M SORRY. PLEASE GO. I'LL BE FINE. WE'LL DEAL WITH IT WHEN YOU COME BACK.

"John. I am not going anywhere," Sherlock replied darkly, his tone final. John shivered. What were they doing? How had it come to this?

But you're not in the mood to do this, John thought. You're really not, Sherlock. However, he decided against typing it, afraid it would only worsen the situation and increase the tension in the room. This was so awkward. At a loss, the manul finally cast his gaze down, and waited. He missed the flash of pain in Sherlock's eyes.

"John..."

He stopped and sighed in frustration, then stood up and started to pace the room. He had no idea how to deal with this. Everything should have been easier now that the girlfriend was out of the picture and that John was all his; he was even a manul today, for goodness' sake! Sherlock should have been overjoyed. He had a case and even though he was dying to get on with it, he was fine waiting until the next day. What troubled him most was John: it was as if right when everything should have been perfect between them, they were growing farther and farther apart instead. It did not make any sense. Nothing did, today. Nothing, except perhaps Brad Campbell's death... But that was out of the question. That would wait until tomorrow.

Sherlock glared angrily at the table as if it were responsible for the situation. He had tried to soothe John in the room, but it hadn't worked. Perhaps he was truly awful at this. "You're pathetic. You claim to be so clever – a genius, they say! – and you don't even realize your own flatmate is infatuated with you. You're an idiot, and worse than that, perhaps you're completely self-deluded. You think you are so smart, so strong, that you need nobody, but in fact you are completely dependent on people! You need people to distract you, people to make you eat, to obey your every order, even to save your bloody life... You're completely worthless."

More upset by the minute, Sherlock tried to stifle the hateful voice; to no avail. Why was it that the one time he wanted to delete something, his memory refused to comply? Because there might be something true in it, his brain put in, not helping in the least. Because it might be useful to keep it in mind. Maybe you should never forget it. Sherlock abruptly turned to the window and grimaced.

"Such an obnoxious, twisted, disgusting freak as you is bound to live and die alone."

"She was angry. You must not believe a word of what she said."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. What was he supposed to believe exactly, then? His brain was useless to figure out anything in such matters, as much was clear from his humiliation of the past few days. Maybe he had a heart, but as far as the matters of the heart were concerned, he was a complete failure.

"I'm not used to this, and you know it!" he burst out at last, turning back to John whose eyes widened at his friend's fit of temper. "If something is troubling you I cannot deduce it – or I can only make wild guesses – because this is everything but up my street. I can tell you are worried and angry with yourself for some reason, and feeling pathetic too, but I have no clue as to why! And now you've turned into a weathercock and you're telling me to get out. Just what exactly do you want, John?"

There was such irritation in his voice John almost recoiled; but he also heard the desperation laced in his words.

I'M SORRY, he typed, fumbling with the keys.

Sherlock's anger seemed to deflate at once and he fell back into the chair.

"John. If there is nothing you wanted yesterday night, perhaps it is better if you stay away from me."

At John's appalled look, he added softly: "I was clearly the reason you transformed, and it seems I am only making it worse, whatever I do. Perhaps this time I cannot help you. Perhaps this time, what you need is to be away from me." Then in a smaller, childlike voice: "I was never good at this kind of things."

John stared at what he'd done, frozen on the spot for a moment. Enough of this.

OK, he typed resolutely. LET'S GO OUT TOGETHER.

"Are you out of your mind?" Sherlock asked, and John felt heat rise in his cheeks when he realized it was a real question. He growled.

AM NOT. AND IF YOU THINK ANYONE WILL TRY TO STEAL ME, YOU ARE THE ONE OUT OF YOUR MIND.

Sherlock sent John a pointed look, but the manul held his stare and frowned with determination, eventually eliciting a small smile from the detective.

"All right," Sherlock said with a grin, "we'll do that. But I want you to answer one question first. Just yes or no. Easy enough."

John glared at what he construed as the inherent Holmes haughtiness, but nodded.

"Did you want to kiss me last night?" Sherlock inquired casually.

The manul gaped. When he became aware of it, he shut his mouth abruptly, clenching his teeth. I am not having this conversation as a cat. I am just not. Absolutely not.

"John, I'm just asking you to nod or shake your head."

Still. No way.

"I suppose this is a yes, then. If not, you would have been theatrically hissing and snarling and mewling or whatever you do to throw a tantrum when you want to deny something."

John could not believe his ears. I don't do that! I never do that! Why are you being such a twat?

"Fine. Don't nod, then. I'll just make a note to kiss you good night from now on, so we don't wake up with a bad surprise. Not that I find it so bad personally, but..."

He grinned mischievously and John had the sudden urge to kiss the damned fleshy smirking lips. They were so irritatingly close he only had to lean in a little to get closer, just a bit closer... Then he remembered he was a manul and jumped back in horror, letting out a heart-rending whine.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

"What are you doing, John?"

"Meow..."

"Very eloquent, John."

"Meow!" John answered furiously.

"Are you trying to be funny?"

"Meooow..."

"There, there," Sherlock assuaged him teasingly, stroking the soft fur of John's neck. The manul growled and bit him. "You're terribly temperamental tonight," Sherlock commented without stopping to pet him.

I am? Me? Look who's talking!

All right, so maybe he was a little touchy. But didn't he have good reasons to be? He was a silly cat while Sherlock had, once again, saved the day. At least saved Lestrade and some other police officers. John had been feeling alternately like a victim and like a burden, neither of which he was particularly fond. He had been a coward and if he had to be honest with himself, a real bastard with Maggie. Not that he had been very fair to Sherlock either. The past few days, and most of all, this one, had been trying. John was not ready to face his uselessness, the turn his relationship with Sherlock had taken, and his newly admitted sexuality. Not that what he'd said entailed anything at all about his sexuality, mind you. There was such a thing as platonic love. Platonic love was good.

Though it was still love.

Backed into a corner, it had been surprisingly easy to confess everything, even in front of Maggie. Even in front of Sherlock. It had been unquestionable, so evidently the right thing to do; as a selfless act, a profession of love to his male flatmate had been liberating. As the turning point of a radically new state of affairs in their lives, it was devastating.

Everything had seemed so clear when Maggie was there spouting nonsense and Sherlock was taking it all quietly for John's sake; but nothing was clear now and John had no idea how to handle it. He would not be happy without Sherlock, that much was undeniable. Wasn't it? No, maybe happy wasn't the correct word. Rather, nothing would hold any meaning without Sherlock. Yes, that was closer to the truth. He'd be empty again. With Sherlock, he may not be happy always; but he would never be bored. John did not know how he could stay with Sherlock if he felt worthless in his presence, or worse, worthless for him. A burden. With others he was an experienced, respected man, an ex-soldier and an army doctor. He could have a proper life full of the consideration of others, and not just as the blogger of a genius, a right-hand-man; a shadow. But John could not imagine himself not staying with Sherlock. He was doomed.

No, he told himself fiercely, I'm lucky. Very lucky. Wasn't he with the person he cared most about? Wasn't it all that truly mattered?

If only...

He repressed a sigh. He had seen worse, after all. Much worse. He'd been terrified this morning when he'd thought he might have lost Sherlock for good.

"John?"

I love you, John thought, looking at Sherlock without registering that he'd just addressed him. I really love you. There's no helping that.

"John."

The manul's attention snapped back to the consulting detective.

ARE WE GOING OUT OR NOT? he finally typed, deciding against brooding for now.

"If you want to. Where would you like to go?"

John stared.

DID'NT YOU WANT TO GATHER DATA?

"But John, I can't go gather data with you. Not looking like this."

Even though this was precisely what John had been troubled about all day, for some reason hearing Sherlock voice it again now was too much. He snapped.

AND WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME LOOKING LIKE THIS?

Not having expected the sudden outburst, Sherlock muttered:

"Nothing, John. You know I like it, but..."

He stopped when his eyes read what John was typing.

DO YOU REALLY THINK I AM THAT USELESS?

"Don't be stupid, John!"

BUT I AM, AREN'T I? I CAN'T JUST DECIDE TO STOP BEING AN IDIOT NOW, CAN I?

"No, of course. That's not what I meant," Sherlock replied flatly.

The comment had the effect of a bucket of cold water on John. He swallowed with some difficulty and slowly moved back.

"John. You know I don't mean the same thing by 'stupid' as you do," Sherlock said, impatience audible in his voice.

But you still find me stupid.

"Not like that," Sherlock replied firmly. He cupped John's face and turned it slowly so the manul would look him in the eye. "Never like that."

John held his gaze for a while, then closed his eyes. He nuzzled Sherlock's hand in a touch both gentle and strangely defeated. Sherlock stiffened.

"You don't believe me," he said, his tone incredulous. "Why?"

It's fine, John tried to convey through his nuzzling. I'm staying anyway, aren't I? Not your fault I'm so useless.

"John." Sherlock's voice was cold, almost biting. "You're not useless."

The manul forced himself to look at his friend, but could hardly muster the energy to put on a convinced expression.

"Even as a manul."

Now John's face only showed blatant scepticism. But he did not want to dwell on this.

WHERE DID YOU WANT TO GO?

"For the case?"

John nodded.

"The ex-wife."

ADDRESS?

"It was in the file."

WAS SHE THE ONE TO FIND THE BODY?

"Yes. They were supposed to meet at 9 at his house, apparently. He texted her the previous day."

SO HE WANTED HER TO FIND HIM DEAD?

Sherlock nodded. "Looks like it."

WHAT A HORRIBLE MAN.

Sherlock smirked.

"Who knows? Maybe she was a horrible wife."

John looked up to give him a frown but his gaze caught on his partner's lips. Sherlock really should stop smiling like that. John looked away. 

AND THE KIDS? HE HAD 2, RIGHT?

"At school. Wanted to pay them a visit tonight."

...YOU WANTED TO VISIT THE FAMILY TODAY?

"Naturally. There's no time to waste. I mean, obviously it can wait until tomorrow," he added quickly. John eyed him warily but went on, ignoring the last comment:

HAVEN'T THE POLICE TALKED TO THE EX-WIFE THOUGH?

"Yes, of course. Lestrade probably did. Doesn't like me anywhere near victims' family,"Sherlock grumbled.

I wonder why, John thought, but he was wise enough not to type it.

"Even though they're always potential suspects! Not that the police would notice," Sherlock went on ranting. A small smile lit up John's face.

BUT IF LESTRADE HAS TALKED TO THEM, YOU CAN'T USE HIS BADGE.

"No, I couldn't," the consulting detective conceded. "But I'd find something else."

LIKE WHAT?

"Like new neighbour, or just someone passing by, being beaten up, needing to use the phone..."

John smirked at the memory, glancing at Sherlock; they exchanged a look, eyes sparkling. Then John felt himself grow a little too warm and turned his gaze to the screen as he typed.

I CAN'T PUNCH YOU.

"Unfortunately."Sherlock winked. He winked. Did he? Had John imagined it? "But I can just bang my head against a pole until it bruises," he went on, and John wondered whether he was joking.

OR, the manul typed, fearing Sherlock was half-serious, YOU COULD BE LOOKING FOR YOUR CAT.

They stared at each other.

Sherlock's face broke into a smile.

Chapter Text

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.

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.

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.

"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?

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.

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.

"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.

Chapter Text

A.N.: I am sorry to be so terrible with updates. I feel especially guilty - and grateful - towards all my reviewers. All I can do is apologize again, thank you for your kind comments, and for your patience. I have good news, though: first, all chapters are planned up to Chapter 21. This means you'll get at least five more chapters pretty quickly. Second, I haven't watched season 3, and do not intend to watch it until I have completed my ongoing stories - namely this one, and Dance is Chemistry. Needless to say that I will endeavour to complete them as soon as possible. Also, please no spoilers in your reviews guys, even if you want to make me pay for the wait ;p

Hope you enjoy this chapter, kindly betaed by Wingatron.

Something was heaving regularly.

Rising.

Falling.

Rising again.

Falling.

Sherlock never spent much time in bed. It was hardly the most exciting place in the house.

Some people liked to lie down to think, but Sherlock was not one of them as a child; and as an adult, he always preferred the sofa. Beds were meant for sleep, and sleep was boring. So beds were boring. QED. Rising. Falling.

Perhaps Sherlock's active dislike of beds began because of the stupid nannies who told him he had to be in bed even when he wasn't sleepy. You won't fall asleep if you are not in bed in the first place! they'd say. Good little boys are in bed and sleep at this hour! Sherlock could only deduce he was not a good little boy.

Rising. Falling. The roughness of sheets.

Beds were boring to stay in because unless many people came to visit you, there wasn't much to observe. When sick and confined to his room, he would feel his brain slowly rotting as he desperately tried to put it to some use. He did not have many visitors, if any. In fact, Sherlock's bedroom, as a child but also as he grew up and when he had his own flat, was possibly the one place he liked least on earth, because it was the most terrifying one. Unless someone broke in and made it exciting, there was nothing to deduce in his own room. The living-room was good to think about cases, the kitchen acceptable for experiments. Bathroom and toilet served their purposes. But the bedroom had none. A quiet, private place to sleep. A room where there was nothing to be deduced. A room that brought Sherlock back to the frustrating reality of his body, to the fact that he too had basic needs, such as sleeping. Pointless. Dull. Yet necessary.

Rising. Falling.

Sherlock did not need to relax, but even if he did, sleeping wouldn't have been the best way. Smoking, maybe. Playing the violin. Going to the opera. Experimenting. Doing background research for the Work, like classifying the different types of ashes. But sleeping?

Rising. Falling. Warmth.

Admittedly, there were other things you could do in a bed beside sleeping. But Sherlock had never been interested. Other than that, beds were lonely places, where one wasted precious time doing nothing.

Rising. Falling.

With the years, Sherlock had growned accustomed to it. In 221B, he had a room, and even a bed in it. And he used it. Sometimes.

Rising. Falling.

He had been using it even more since they had started to transform.

Rising.

And strangely, beds did not seem that pointless and that lonely these days.

Falling.

Sherlock's eyes snapped opened.

The first thing his gaze fell on was the wall of his room. He felt something warm and breathing in his arms and looked down. John's hair. His smell. That of his shampoo, too.

John shifted and Sherlock became aware of his chest heaving regularly under his hand. Rising. Falling. Rising again. John's skin was warm against his palm, but not as soft as his fur when he was a manul. Sherlock blinked. Strange. It was slightly puzzling to be touching John for no reason. Not to alert him, not to offer support, not to assuage him. Well. Not that Sherlock touched John a lot to assuage him when he was a man.

As the fog in his head cleared, Sherlock became gradually aware of his position. It was, he thought, the one people referred to as 'spooning'. His body was touching John's in many places, but the skin to skin contact was reduced as Sherlock was wearing pyjamas. His palm on John's chest, John's neck against his arm. There was something unsettling about such proximity with limbs that were not his own, and that belonged to something alive. Not that Sherlock was in the habit of hugging corpses very often, but there was a time when he certainly touched dead flesh a lot more than living people. Fleetingly, it occurred to him that the same could have probably been said for Molly. He did not want to examine too much the fact that the only person openly attracted to him was one who worked in a mortuary.

I wish you much pleasure fucking that bag of bones! Sherlock frowned slightly. Right. There was that issue, too. He stretched carefully, the warmth of the bed distracting. You're asexual and I'm old, John had said, which was one of the most stupid things he had ever uttered in Sherlock's presence. Sherlock played absently with a lock of John's hair. If John's age truly had impacted on his sexual drive negatively, then there wouldn't have been all the girlfriends. Sherlock imagined that his friend would not quite voice it that way, and certainly wouldn't appreciate the cynicism of it, but it could hardly be argued that John's relationships had much weight on an emotional level. John did not fall in love with the women he dated, he found them attractive. Flirting and dating was the socially acceptable way to eventually engage in intercourse with someone.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his fingers around John's lock froze. No, that wasn't quite accurate. As much as he was reluctant to admit it, the girlfriends gave something to John that Sherlock did not provide: a sense of normalcy. Something mundane and silly but necessary to John's wellbeing. Sherlock pulled a little on the lock of hair with annoyance. It wasn't something he had understood at first, because for his part he needed the constant thrill. He had neither been scared nor shaken by the events the previous day, although he had almost been blown up in Brad's house. All that remained was this titillating ache that urged him to shed light on the man's death.

Speaking of which, Sherlock had to text Lestrade. He reached for his phone on the bedside table deliberately, becoming still when John grunted and turned around in his arms. But his friend simply snuggled up closer, and buried his face against Sherlock's shoulder. The consulting detective swallowed, not quite sure what to do with his arm trapped under John. Awkwardly, he wrapped it around the smaller body and let his hand rest on John's waist, while his other arm stretched to grab his phone.

Sherlock could have simply shaken John off and got out of bed; but he wasn't quite sure yet how to approach his friend — boyfriend? He almost snorted — about their new status and what it entailed. John had not reacted very satisfactorily to the practical approach when Sherlock had asked him directly whether sleeping together was part of the new deal. Perhaps John would not like the word deal, either. Well. First, the case. Sherlock unlocked his phone and frowned when his gaze was met by a text from Mycroft. He snorted. Mycroft never texted. Sherlock ignored it and typed his message for Lestrade quickly.

Have you talked with Henry yet?

Send. He thought back on the conversation between Brad's ex-wife and her new companion the previous night. It was strange that they wouldn't call the police if they truly believed a murderer was on the loose. John made a noise, and Sherlock glanced down at him. He was frowning. Nightmare? Unwillingness to wake up? Perhaps he was cold. Sherlock readjusted the sheet on him absentmindedly. He had been wrong about Brad Campbell in his first analysis. The murder was so peculiar he had too soon considered that it might be the work of a serial killer, or a professional in assisted suicides. Since Moriarty, he found he had a tendency to hope for the worst — that is, the most exciting theory. This was, however, a real flaw. He could not allow such things to interfere with his deductions, giving them a certain direction that had nothing to do with his observations. John shifted in his arms. There had been no indication that Brad lived with anyone, though. It was only logical that, lacking sufficient data, Sherlock would deduce that the handwriting on the notepad next to the phone was Brad's, and not somebody else's.

As he had nothing better to do in his position, Sherlock opened Mycroft's text, and regretted it instantly.

Hello, brother dear. I thought you may not be in a state to answer your phone. How is your pet tiger?

Sherlock wished fervently that next time he saw Mycroft, he would be in tiger form, simply to wipe off that smug look on his face. Preferably without literaly biting his head off.

Preferably. Mycroft's involvment in this was unlucky, but there was nothing to be done presently about it. There was always a possibility that Mycroft genuinely meant what he'd written, and believed the tiger to be... well, a tiger, and not his brother. For now, Sherlock found that he would rather be teased about felines than about the fact that Mycroft had found John with his coat and other clothes, including underwear, in that train compartment. While he did not care much about how people perceived his relationship with John, he knew for a fact that his friend would be uncomfortable with it. Mycroft should know better than to push his buttons like that if he truly wished for the doctor to stay with Sherlock and keep taking care of him.

Something would have to be done about communication, though. Sherlock needed John to make plain what it was he expected from him. Their situation was peculiar enough that no amount of research on the subject of relationships could help Sherlock deduce anything about John's needs and desires. Yet for some reason, Sherlock felt reluctant to probe. It did not make much sense.

His phone vibrated and he looked at the screen to see Lestrade's reply:

Who?

He grunted.

The bed was warm and filled with Sherlock's scent. It was strangely soothing, to feel enveloped by somebody's presence simply from their body's warmth and smell. Sherlock...

John woke up with a gasp. Sherlock. His friend. His flatmate. The one he'd recently...

John groaned, and started to bury his face into the pillow, before realising it wasn't a pillow. Sherlock's chest. That was just too much.

Trying not to jump back, John put some distance between them and glanced up. Sherlock was looking at him quizzically, phone in hand.

...phone in hand?

"Who are you texting?"

Great, now he sounded grumpy. And jealous.

Why did it matter who he was texting? This was Sherlock, gor God's sake! The only person he possibly flirted with by text was Moriarty.

The thought sent a shiver down John's spine. And why should he care who Sherlock flirted with? Well, considering last time he'd ended up as a get-to-know-you present wrapped in Semtex... Right. Not the issue. He took a deep breath.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked with a frown. It was a bit cute, how he managed to look more puzzled than worried. John could almost hear Sherlock thinking: so this is how ordinary people wake up; strange.

He chuckled, a little manically perhaps, which earned him an arched eyebrow. Sherlock put his phone away.

"Lestrade," he said.

"What?"

He gave John a pointed look. "Are you really awake?"

John smiled at that and his nervous laugh subsided. "Yes, sorry. Just the nerves. I'm good. I mean awake. And good, too."

And babbling. He felt himself flush. It was not helping that Sherlock was still lying in bed with him, staring at him intently, as if waiting for something.

"So, uh, did you sleep well?"

Oh, wonderful, John, that really came out well. It sounded lame even to his own ears. But Sherlock only looked lost for a moment before answering carefully:

"Yes. You?"

John nodded voicelessly. He did not trust himself right now, and did not want to spout something stupid again. He swallowed, trying to ignore how Sherlock's face spoke volumes: is that what is expected of me now? Small talk? John felt terrible.

"Look, Sherlock–"

His mobile phone vibrated, and he picked it up instantly.

"Yes?"

John could hear the muffled voice of the D.I. on the other end of the line, saying something like 'who the hell is Henry?' John blinked. Who the hell was Henry? He felt suddenly cold and remembered he was naked. Strangely, the realisation didn't come with shame or unease this time, only made him colder still. Sherlock was talking on the phone saying something about a notepad near a phone and Brad not having written the notes. He needed a shower. And then some air, maybe. And...

Damn, the clinic. He had work today. His eyes flicked to the alarm clock on the bedside table and did not find it. Right. Of course. He wasn't in his room.

"Just contact the ex-wife again!"

John became remotely aware that Sherlock had ended the call. When he turned to him, he was met with his stare again. John felt something unfurl in the pit of his stomach, and got up promptly. Not fleeing, he told himself. Just in a hurry.

"I have work today, I've got to get going," he said casually, trying not to squirm as he stood naked in Sherlock's room. In front of Sherlock.

His flatmate gave him a look. "Like this?"

John clicked his tongue and refused to blush. This was stupid. "I meant get ready, Sherlock. I'll be in the shower."

"Do you want me to come with you?"

John almost stumbled.

"You... what?"

He turned around to see Sherlock looking at him with a mix of irritation and uncertainty.

"Do you want me to come with you in the shower?" he repeated slowly, as if speaking to a little child. Or an idiot. Ridiculously, John felt almost insulted.

"No," he choked, not quite knowing what else to say. "I've got to go."

And with that he turned on his heels and left the room precipitately.

The cold shower was a relief. John hadn't been aroused when he woke up, but his blood had been boiling and his mind certainly hadn't been very clear. He just...

He sighed. It had been the first time he faced Sherlock since his impromptu confession. Waking up as a manul the previous day had been a pain, but at least it had spared him the awkward exchange that had just happened in the bedroom.

What had he been thinking? It was all nice and sweet to profess your love so dramatically, but what now? John had never considered getting into a relationship with Sherlock, it was absurd. The other man had made it quite clear from day one that he was not interested in romance. Romance. The word made John's head spin, and not in a good way. This was crazy. He was crazy.

But wasn't Sherlock crazy too? What had happened to "I consider myself married to my work"? Well, Sherlock had been texting in bed when he woke up, but... no, not going there. John groaned and refrained from banging his head against the tiled wall.

Why hadn't Sherlock turned him down? And what the hell did he mean by "do you want me to come with you in the shower?" He had to be joking.

Except he wasn't. John took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Sherlock had not been joking. He had not said anything about how he felt, but he had acted as if their relationship had taken a new turn. As he slowly got a grip, John became aware of what made him so uncomfortable: Sherlock had not turned him down because there had been nothing to turn down. John hadn't asked anything of him. He had stated a fact, had stupidly blurted something he'd just realized himself because he had felt protective in the face of Maggie's wrath. Everything had been painfully clear and simple then. He had dumped the information on Sherlock without a second thought. Not realizing what he was doing. Not thinking twice about it.

And now Sherlock was assuming that they should sleep and shower together. He was assuming that he was expected to act in a certain way, and he was trying to do it: his intense gaze told John all he needed to know. The puzzlement. The uncertainty. The irritation of being at a loss. The earnestness.

John felt ashamed of himself. He desperately tried to hang on to positive things, Sherlock telling him "What you said yesterday, I think it's... good. I appreciate it." Sherlock saving the file where John had typed I LOVE YOU... and also incredibly embarrassing things such as 'I like cuddling with you'. Very stupid things too, some of which he suddenly wasn't so sure of.

Did he truly enjoy cuddling with Sherlock when they were both men? He'd been happy enough this morning. Before fully waking up. Before realizing it was Sherlock's chest that his nose had been rubbing against.

He stopped the water of the shower. There was no use moping about it. He was still confused as hell, but it hadn't been his intention to confuse Sherlock. Yet how would he not be, when even John didn't know what he wanted?

When he got out of the bathroom, he had resolved to tackle the problem and to talk things out with Sherlock. He was thus rather dejected when he found the flat empty. For a terrible moment, he thought his running away from the situation had caused this, and that Sherlock had left because he was upset. But then he found the note on the kitchen table – Lestrade called, going to see Henry's flat. Then, scribbled in a rush, as if added as an afterthought once Sherlock had already started to go down the stairs: Hope works goes well at the clinic.

John put the note down dully. Who was Henry?

"Brad's boyfriend. Helena Whittaker said they have the same therapist, and that's where they met. When we called her this morning she said she'd been about to come down at the Met because she had a note from Henry and she had recognized the handwriting."

Sherlock took the steps two at a time and Lestrade was breathing heavily, trying to catch up. John wouldn't be out of breath just from walking briskly up a couple of floors.

"Yes, note on her fridge. Did she say she would bring it to the Met?"

"How do you... Nevermind. Yeah."

"Good."

John. That had gone well, Sherlock thought grimly. Apparently he had misjudged the situation. Again.

"Sherlock, I don't know what you hope to find up there, but we've already looked at the flat – he's gone, probably ran away yesterday. He's now our prime suspect. But you already knew that, right? That's why you texted–"

"Wrong. Please be quiet now."

Lestrade groaned but entered the flat behind him and stopped talking.

"Freak. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock ignored Donovan and started looking around, thoughts of John receding in the back of his mind.

"What is he doing here?"

It was rather small — the living-room was obviously the bedroom too. Drawers were open, and so was the wardrobe.

"Just pretend he isn't here."

The bed was made, but messily, and was covered with clothes and notebooks and textbooks. In fact, books were scattered around, getting more numerous as one approached the desk and culminating in a pile next to the lamp, on top of which lay Napoleon Bonaparte: A History by William Sloane. Sherlock glanced at the other books on the floor and furniture. Napoleon's Wars: An International History, 1803-1815, Charles Esdaile. The Origins of the French Revolutionary Wars, 1787-1802, T.C.W. Blanning. Napoleon: Man of War, Man of Peace, Timothy William-Smith. Napoleon: a Life, Alan Schom. Sherlock looked down at the desk again and opened the book on top of the pile. Library book. Queen Mary University of London. Sherlock closed the book. His eye was caught by the cover of the one just underneath in the pile. He frowned slightly. Busting the Mob: the United States v. Cosa Nostra, James B. Jacobs.

"Found anything?"

"Eight."

Donovan snorted. Sherlock's phone vibrated in his pocket but he paid it no heed. Turning around, he walked to picture on the wall he had spotted when first entering the room. It was a framed photograph of Brad and, presumably, Henry, in black and white, embracing each other, smiling. The glass was cracked and on the floor under it lay the remains of a mug.

"Someone was pissed, huh?" Donovan noted.

"Yet still took the time to make himself a cup of tea," Sherlock countered quietly. The sergeant scowled, then turned away.

"Says the man who's got eyeballs in his microwave," she grumbled.

Sherlock moved on to the bathroom — two different shampoos, two toothbrushes — and to the toilet. There were more books there, as well as the latest issue of Smart Computing Magazine. On the wall, a calendar with pictures of cats caught Sherlock's attention.

"Meooow!"

Sherlock jumped. Quite literally. Lestrade gave him an odd look as a cat wearing a coat came out of the kitchen. Sherlock stared. Lestrade shrugged.

"Some people are ridiculously fond of their cats."

The consulting detective furrowed his brow, glancing at the cat, then at the calendar, then at the cat again.

"And yet they leave them behind," he said.

The D.I. rolled his eyes. "Maybe he was too busy running away from the police after having committed murder?"

Sherlock squatted down and looked at the cat. John was, undeniably, more pleasing to the eye. And to the touch.

"Meoooow!"

"Why does it keep mewling?"

"Cats mewl."

"Thank you for your input, Sergeant."

"What's so unusual about it?"

"Meooooooow!"

The cat rubbed itself against Sherlock's knee, then went into the kitchen. Silently, Sherlock followed.

"Food," he said.

"What?"

"He hasn't been given food."

Lestrade ran a hand in his hair.

"Sherlock, what—"

Sherlock picked up a notepad that lay on the kitchen table. Donovan nodded.

"That's the one on which he wrote the notes. Same paper. And some pages were ripped."

"Dr. Barnicot said he had a borderline personality disorder and it isn't the first time he put notes randomly in people's mailboxes."

Sherlock took a second to process that information. Lestrade's words were sending him in too many different directions. Barnicot, Barnicot... Name on the doorbell of Helena Whittaker's house. George Barnicot.

"Henry's therapist is related to Ms. Whittaker's new companion?"

"Yeah, she's his sister. That's how Ms. Whittaker met him, apparently."

"Through her husband's therapist," Donovan developed unhelpfully, simply wanting to show what she thought of that.

"And what do you mean, people's mailboxes?"

"That's how we got the notes," Donovan said, although Sherlock hadn't asked her. "Two different people, on two different days. They found an envelope with 'tell the police' written on it, and inside, the notes. And guess what? Turns out they're both people from this neighbourhood."

Sherlock glared at Lestrade.

"And when were you going to tell me that?"

"What? We didn't even know about Henry yesterday, not to mention where he lived..."

"But the notes, Lestrade, the notes!"

"I didn't think—"

"Clearly."

The D.I. set his jaw and his fist clenched at his side.

"Now listen to me, Sherlock. You can't—"

"I even told you that it might be the victim's way to request their own murder to the killer, how did you not think of—"

"If you're done here, can we move on?" Donovan cut in a little too gleefully. "Some people have work to do. You know, catch a murderer."

"Indeed," Sherlock said darkly.

He held Lestrade's glare for a moment longer, then gazed at one of the kitchen walls, where many post-its with scribbles had been stuck around a page-a-day calendar. Sherlock's phone vibrated again, and this time he checked his messages.

From: John Watson

9:32 Who's Henry?

9:46 Found anything interesting?

He smiled privately.

"Sherlock? Have you got anything for me?"

The consulting detective opened his mouth but Lestrade added preemptively: "Anything of importance?"

Sherlock glared. "Yes."

Lestrade waited.

"Well?"

Nonchalantly, Sherlock walked up to the wall and brushed his fingers against the page-a-day calendar.

"Henry did not run away," he said calmly. "He was kidnapped."

.

.

.

Chapter Text

A.N.: All my thanks to Wingatron for betaing this chapter :)

Nonchalantly, Sherlock walked up to the wall and brushed his fingers against the page-a-day calendar.

"Henry did not run away," he said calmly. "He was kidnapped."

Unsurprisingly, Lestrade goggled.

"What?"

"The cat," Sherlock said as it was obvious. And it was.

"What about it?"

As he launched into his explanation, Sherlock vaguely regretted John's presence at his side. He was undeniably a better audience than the D.I., not to mention Donovan. "It's well-groomed. It has many toys, expensive food, and it's wearing clothes. A coat, Lestrade. It's wearing a coat."

Lestrade blinked. "So what?"

Sherlock sighed. "So he was about to take it out for a walk. There's a leash that matches its collar near the door."

"Maybe he got distracted," Donovan interrupted. "A fit of anger, and he decides to kill Brad after all."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock replied, perhaps a little too scathingly. Lestrade frowned.

"Sherlock, that's hardly enough to—"

"The calendar," Sherlock cut in quickly, pointing to the page-a-day in the kitchen. "This one indicates the day of the murder. But in the toilet the last cross is on the day before yesterday."

Lestrade and Donovan simply stared. Losing patience, Sherlock clicked his tongue and walked back to the toilet to take the calendar.

"See? Those crosses. There is one on every day, with D-12, J-11, and so on."

"And?"

"And D..." He trailed his finger to the day circled in bright red. "...is the anniversary of the day they met." He pointed to the words scribbled in the same red ink, One year of happiness since I first saw you.

"This proves nothing," Sally snorted. "So what if he didn't put a little cross on the day he killed his boyfriend? If he was going to kill he, then there was no point in continuing to put little crosses until their anniversary, because he wouldn't even be there anymore."

"He didn't kill him," Sherlock retorted.

"But how can you know?"

"Why would he take the time to put up to date the calendar in his kitchen but not the one in his toilet? Why didn't he even take the time to take the coat off his cat? Such a doting owner would know that it'd be uncomfortable wearing it inside."

They still did not look convinced. Sherlock could not understand why it wasn't evident to them that Henry didn't have the profile to be the killer. They were just ignoring everything he pointed out because it didn't fit their nice little theory, but they were wrong. He was getting more irritated by the second.

"Look at all those events on the calendar! And the post-its. He had many things planned this month. Deadlines for his thesis, meetings with his supervisor, with friends—"

"Listen, Freak. His therapist said he was a psycho."

"I cannot imagine she put it quite like that," he replied icily. "BPD is hardly a psychosis, Sergeant." She shrugged, but had the decency to blush a bit. It didn't look good on her.

"Brad Campbell asked him to kill him, and it wouldn't be the first time — that's something his therapist definitely said. It upset him, he was stressed, posted the letters—"

"—yes, the letters!" Sherlock turned on himself, giving the kitchen a circular glance. "Envelopes. Did you see any envelopes?" He rushed back to the main room and started looking around the desk, in the drawers, anywhere.

"Why does it matter, Sherlock? I think you're—"

"There are none," the consulting detective confirmed. "You said the letters were in envelopes."

"Maybe he had only two left," Donovan suggested, though she hardly sounded convinced herself. Sherlock was voiceless in the face of such idiocy. He turned to Lestrade, hoping for better results, but the D.I. simply shook his head.

"Okay, fine. Let's say he was kidnapped, Sherlock. Why?"

Sherlock frowned and looked away. "I have different hypotheses so far." Sally snorted, and Sherlock glared at her. "I lack data."

Lestrade nodded vaguely. "Look, I see your point. But if he was kidnapped, why did he write the letters in the first place?"

"He might have been forced to."

"By whom?"

"The question is rather why."

Lestrade sighed. "Yeah, why? Listen, Sherlock, we'll try to find him anyway. He's still our main lead."

"You mean prime suspect," Sherlock rephrased coldly. Then with more insistance: "He couldn't have done it. He was kidnapped the day before the murder."

"And you know that only from the calendar?" Donovan inquired, sounding more disbelieving than condescending, for once.

"Look around you! Doesn't it strike you as illogical? If he finally decided to kill Brad because it was his request, that is, if he killed him out of affection, why did he throw a mug at the picture on the wall? Even the sequence of events does not fit! Was he drinking tea when he suddenly decided to do it, or was he about to take out his cat? It can't have been both. It wouldn't make sense to throw that mug at the wall, then calmly put the coat on the cat to take him out for a walk, and, changing his mind, go kill his boyfriend instead. It does not. Make. Sense."

Donovan threw her hands up the air.

"Not everyone acts logically! And that guy isn't even sane."

"He doesn't live in a mental hospital, Sergeant!" Sherlock burst out. "He's a PhD student in history doing research on Napoleon at Queen Mary University. He wasn't a messy person — look at the kitchen, look at the bathroom! Only the living-room is upside-down. Doesn't it strike you as strange? Why would he start throwing books all over the place?"

"In a fit of anger?" Donovan said as if Sherlock was the idiot here. Then she sighed heavily."Look, if he killed his boyfriend out of love, he would have reason to have a fit when he came home. Anger, or despair... could be both. He would have still been upset, probably enraged at how his boyfriend abandoned him. And the picture? Well, he might have thrown the mug at it after the murder — and don't give me that look! He might've prepared his tea before, left the mug, thrown it later."

"So he prepared himself some tea, was about to take his cat for a walk, and then thought 'Oh no, I should really go and kill Brad now'?"

Donovan rolled her eyes. "He might have needed to calm his nerves, then given up and just gone and do it." She glanced at her watch, then at Lestrade. "Sir, we should go. "

Lestrade nodded. "I'll be there in a minute." He turned to Sherlock with an apologetic twist of his mouth. "Look, I'm sorry. You really helped us, putting us on Henry's trail. Whatever happened to him, we need to find him."

"You won't find him if you're looking for a murderer on the loose," Sherlock snapped. He held the D.I.'s gaze for a moment. Had John been there, he would have understood. He would have listened to the voice of reason — that is, to him. He would have been admirative of his deductions. He would've... Finally, Sherlock said: "I want to see the letters."

"Dr. Watson?"

John, who had been staring gloomily at the screen of his mobile, started a little and looked up to see one of the nurses standing in the doorway.

"Hello," he said with a smile.

"You don't have any other appointments this morning," she informed him.

John glanced at the book on his desk and nodded. "No. I don't."

Which meant he was stuck here doing nothing until some patient turned up as a last minute appointment. Brilliant. His day was only getting better.

The nurse seemed to be waiting for something, but John couldn't fathom what.

"You want me to take some patients for one of the other doctors?" he tried, just as she said:

"I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee. There's a machine—"

She stopped, and he stared. Before he could think twice about it, he'd given her a once-over, his gaze sliding up and down her figure briefly in assessment. Her cheeks turned pink, and John slapped himself mentally. What was he doing?

"I'm sorry, uhm," his eyes darted at her nametag, "Jane. I'm... I have someone."

"Oh."

John swallowed. Well. This was awkward.

"Of course." She let out a nervous little laugh. John winced, not liking the sound of it. He thought of Sherlock's almost inaudible laughter, low and rumbling, coming from deep within his throat. Or his snicker, close to a snort. Mostly, Sherlock's laughter was in his voice, he thought, in his tone. Then he realized what he was thinking and felt like hitting his head against his desk. Really? Sherlock's laughter? Of all the things he... Nope. Not going there. He cleared his throat.

"I could do with a coffee, though," he said, standing up. "Can I get you something?"

Jenny — no, Jane — blinked, and stepped back into the corridor.

"No, I... My break ends soon, I should be on my way. Have a nice day, doctor."

And with those words she was gone, hurrying down the aisle. John sighed. He was heading to the vending machine when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

Lestrade is being an idiot. -SH

Even though that didn't answer either of John's questions, he couldn't stop the wave of relief washing over him. His fingers ran quickly over the keys as he typed his reply.

How is it going? The case, I mean.

Send. He had barely turned to the machine and started to think about what he wanted when his mobile vibrated again.

Slowly. Cf previous message.

John smiled.

He'd been worried that he had upset Sherlock this morning, but apparently the consulting detective was just fine, if he was whining about the police by text. John wished he were with him. He liked being a doctor when he actually had patients, and preferably when he was on the front. The latter wasn't an option back in London, but the former at least... Yeah, right. Who was he kidding? Patients would show up. They always showed up, eventually.

For a sore throat. Repeated headaches. A sprain. Rhumatism.

He shook his head and tried not to dwell on the thought too much. He pressed a button to get an espresso, then turned his attention back to his mobile. Had Sherlock been a girlfriend, John would have typed:

I miss you.

But Sherlock wasn't, so John typed:

Try not to be too much of a prick with Greg.

And because Sherlock was not just his flatmate, he added:

Be careful.

Send.

It was the same handwriting.

Sherlock stared down at the three letters. The two that had been sent to the police were unmistakably from the notepad in Henry's flat. The note that had been on Helena's fridge was a different paper, but it was clearly the same handwriting, though perhaps a little less shaky. Sherlock made no comment on the matter, however, knowing this would only earn him a stupid remark, such as 'Of course it's shaky, he was angry, wavering, considering commiting murder.'

"Who are the people who brought those in?"

Lestrade sat down at his desk with a sigh, taking off his coat.

"Horatia Harker, 67, retired, widow."

"She brought you the second note," Sherlock said instantly. Lestrade gave him a look, but didn't even ask.

"Yeah. The other one was Josey Brown, 32. She works as an accountant in the City."

"She found the note when she came back from work."

"Yes."

Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on the notes. The one from Helena's fridge said: if urgent, you can call me at followed by a mobile number. Under it was written Henry's address.

Whoever had posted the notes, he thought, knew what they were doing. While Ms. Daniels would not get the first one until the evening, retired Mrs. Kingsley was likely to check her mailbox first thing in the morning. The person who had posted the note knew the habits of these people, had observed them. It was too much of a coincidence not to be premeditated.

And that second note? It was almost tongue-in-cheek. P.S.: Brad also asked me to blow up his house.

Why would Henry write a separate note for this?

'Because he's crazy!' Sherlock could almost hear Donovan say, and he stopped himself from snorting.

More importantly, how could Henry blow up a house if he'd decided to do it without prior arrangements?

The police's theory was that Brad had made the arrangements himself. He had suicidal tendencies. It was in the file the therapist had turned in to the police for the criminal investigation. No, Sherlock corrected automatically, albeit mentally. The file said Brad had mentionned suicide several times, but had never attempted it. Couldn't do it himself, that's why he would ask Henry. Briefly, Sherlock imagined John asking that of him, and felt very cold. He brushed off such an illogical and unpleasant thought, and turned to Lestrade once more.

Before he could say anything, however, Donovan came in and said:

"Ms. Whittaker is here, sir. She said she was waiting to see you."

"Fine, let her in."

Donovan gave Sherlock a pointed look, to which he answered with his best innocent smile. Sally sighed and turned on her heels.

"Kids," Lestrade muttered, before frowning at Sherlock as if he had initiated it, "go, Sherlock, you're not even supposed to be here in the first place, I don't want you to see—"

"You!"

Helena was standing in the doorway, looking rather astonished. Sherlock tried to suppress a smirk, and Sally narrowed her eyes at him.

"Thank you, Donovan," Lestrade dismissed her with a semblance of authority. Her face twisted in annoyance; she nodded curtly and left them. The D.I. turned to glare at Sherlock, but there was a hint of desperation there, saying 'What have you done this time?'

"You work for the police?"

"I am a cons—"

"Our handwriting expert," Lestrade cut in firmly. He did not even look at Sherlock, and the consulting detective, while hardly appreciating to be thus degraded, kept his mouth shut.

"Really?" Helena scowled. "What were you doing at my house last night, then?"

Lestrade's jaw drop.

"He... What were you doing?"

"I wasn't on duty," Sherlock replied smoothly, and it wasn't exactly a lie, if by duty you understood handwriting expert. "I was looking for my cat."

The D.I. stared. "Your cat."

"So we live in the same neighbourhood?" Helena asked tersely. Sherlock observed her closely.

"Not yet. But I am considering moving there. Lovely area, isn't it? There's a house just down your road—"

"It isn't for rent anymore," she interrupted, still managing to sound conversational. She sat into the chair in front of Lestrade's desk. "An American couple moved in recently."

Sherlock made his face fall. "Really? It's such a pity. It was a very nice house."

"So you were just looking around the neighbourhood, with your cat, at night?" she went on nonchalantly. Lestrade looked ready to bang his head against the wall. Sherlock just smiled.

"Indeed. I had to make sure it wasn't a dangerous neighbourhood at night, didn't I?"

"With your cat."

"Well, he too was going to live there."

Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Not to interrupt, but did you have something to tell me, Ms. Whittaker? I am rather busy."

Sherlock snorted and received an outraged glower for it. John's text crossed his mind, and he tried his best to school his face into a contrite expression.

"I am sure you must be quite busy as well," the D.I. told him coldly, looking at the door. Sherlock gave a polite nod.

"Of course."

"And what did your expertise tell you about these letters, sir?" Helena inquired before he left the room. Sherlock turned back to her.

"That they were written by the same man."

She swallowed with some difficulty.

"So you really think Henry..."

Her unfinished question was addressed to Lestrade, and with one last look at her, Sherlock took his leave.

He had much to investigate.

It was already 5PM when John left the clinic. Sherlock had not texted him since the morning, and John had refrained from doing so. It wasn't like it required too much discipline anyway. Of course John hadn't been waiting all day for Sherlock to text him on his progress. Sherlock never did. There was no reason for him to start now.

"Dr. Watson?"

John looked up to see a beautiful woman standing next to a car with a smile on her face and a phone in her hand.

"No," he said immediately, side-stepping her.

"But Doctor..."

"Nope. No way."

"He said it's about Sherlock."

John turned to her with a glare, but she was looking at her phone. "Well, it always is, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, and shrugged. "I don't know. But he said that if you cared about him, you would come."

"Now that's just—"

"Are you coming, or not? I don't have all day."

What the... John's hands tightened into fists. Damn Mycroft. Just... Damn him. John got into the car without another word. What if he asked him about the tiger? What could he say? He had probably tried to reach his brother and Sherlock had ignored him. So now he was going to grill John. God, why had he got into this car? What could he possibly tell Mycroft if he asked him to explain the bloody tiger? Make up a case? Tell him it was classified? John snorted. Classified. Right. Nothing was classified for Holmes the elder. What, then? Not my secret to tell, he thought, but it sounded lame even to himself. Well. That was the safest thing to say, though. There was no way he could manage to dupe a Holmes, so all he could do was hold his tongue. After all, Mycroft could not force him to speak.

...right? John grimaced and remained absolutely silent during the drive.

"John! It's a pleasure to see you."

Mycroft was pouring himself some tea in one of the few rooms of the Diogenes Club where one could talk, acting like he owned the place.

Maybe he did, John mused grimly.

"What is this about?" Please, let it not be the tiger. Everything but the tiger.

"Would you like some—"

"No," John declined a little too quickly. He breathed in slowly. He had to get a grip. "I haven't got all evening Mycroft. Sherlock is on a case and—"

"He hasn't texted you, has he?"

John stiffened.

"Yes he has."

Mycroft smiled, and John wondered if it was a Holmes thing to compete for the most irritating smirk. "I meant since this morning."

"It's none of your business."

Mycroft gestured regally towards one of the seats and fell into an armchair himself.

"It is."

John remained standing. "It really isn't. God, how many times are we going to have this conversation?"

"You tell me."

John stared blankly. "Right." He turned and walked to the door, fully intending to leave.

"Are you involved in a romantic relationship with my brother, John?"

The doctor froze.

"What?" he spluttered.

Mycroft put down his cup on the low table.

"You heard me perfectly."

John took a deep breath, trying to repress the urge to wring Mycroft's neck. "This does not concern—"

"Oh yes, it does." There was an iciness in his tone that rendered John speechless. Who did he think he— "Do you know in how many relationships Sherlock has been, Dr. Watson?"

John's eyes narrowed. So it was Dr. Watson now, was it?

"Exactly," Mycroft went on. He paused, probably for effect. John already knew where this was going. "None."

"Great. Can I go now?"

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Great? Does that piece of information please you?"

"That piece of information is nothing new to me, Mycroft!" John snarled — and he could almost hear Sherlock's tone in his voice. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "What did you call me here for?"

The elder Holmes frowned. "You know how I worry. Sherlock... has a tendency to expose himself to all kinds of dangers."

"Danger?" John echoed, stunned. "Me? You think I 'm a danger to Sherlock?"

"So you are in a relationship with him."

John gritted his teeth. "I live with him, Mycroft. Of course I'm in some sort of—"

"Is this denial or a misplaced sense of privacy, Doctor?"

"Misplaced?! You—"

"You are one of his only friends, John," Mycroft interrupted, more softly. "Certainly his closest one. You are the only person he has shared lodgings with since he was an undergraduate. You have his trust. You have his—"

"Enough." John noticed his fist was trembling and forced himself to unclench it. "What's your point?" If you even have one, John didn't say.

"My point, Dr. Watson," Mycroft enunciated, "is that currently, there is no person in a better position to hurt him."

John wasn't sure whether he was more furious or dumbfounded.

"Hurt him," he repeated. "You think I want to hurt Sherlock."

"Want to? No, I should hope not!"

"You think I'm hurting him."

Mycroft looked at him intently. "I do not know. What I do know is that you can."

John let out a manic little laugh. This was unbelievable. Completely unbelievable. "So this is your version of the 'if you hurt him I'll kill you' speech?"

"Killing is such a drastic measure."

John shook his head. "I can't believe you. This... This is too much, Mycroft." He started walking to the door again.

"Is it?"

John sighed wearily and stopped in his track.

"Is it too much?" Mycroft asked quietly. John felt his blood turn cold. He marched out of the room without looking back.

Outside it was raining. The woman was waiting for him with an umbrella next to his ride home, but he ignored her and kept walking.

"Dr. Watson!" she called, once, then probably gave up. She couldn't run after him with those heels anyway.

Who did Mycroft think he was? Just who... No. He had a point. Sherlock... Sherlock.

John's heart clenched. Had Sherlock said nothing after his confession because he did not want to lose him as a friend? Did he accept this new state in their relationship because he feared John would simply leave him?

They had to talk.

As if Sherlock had heard his thought, John's phone vibrated in his pocket. Only then did John notice that he was wet — very wet. He cursed, and took an umbrella out of his bag while fumbling to get his phone with his other hand. Finally, he opened Sherlock's text.

Dinner at Angelo's? 6pm. -SH

If he hadn't been so shocked at the first half of the text, John would've laughed at the contradiction between the question mark and the stated meeting time. As it was, though, he was far too busy staring at the words Dinner. At. Angelo's?

A date. Was Sherlock seriously asking him out for dinner? Just the idea was making John feel vaguely nauseous, but that was just the nerves. But... dinner? And at Angelo's, of all places! Please not the candles, John prayed, to no one in particular, everything but the candles. Then he remembered how things had turned out last time he'd made a similar wish — everything but the tiger — and cursed under his breath. He checked the time, and groaned. He would make it barely in time.

When he got to the restaurant, he saw Sherlock about to sit down at the table near the window — "their" table, he thought, and shivered. But that was surely from the cold. Of course, there were already candles on the table. John braced himself, did not blush, and went in.

"Hello! One person?" the waiter asked.

"No, I'm with—"

"John."

"—him," John finished, walking up to Sherlock and sitting down across from him. He did not look at the candles.

"You're wet," Sherlock stated blankly. "Why are you wet?"

John rolled his eyes.

"It's raining, genius."

Sherlock gave him a pointed look.

"And you are carrying an umbrella."

"Yeah, well..."

Sherlock's gaze fell to John's bag, and he frowned.

"You were with Mycroft."

"What? How do you—"

"What did he want?"

Sherlock's brow was furrowed. John observed him with interest, wondering if he could see some trace of worry there.

He could not. He shrugged.

"The usual. Worried about you, blah blah blah."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. John noticed that it was a lot more charming on him than on his brother. Not that it was relevant. And he did not blush.

"'Blah blah blah'?" Sherlock repeated, more than a little amused. John's gaze fell to his smile, which was so irritating it made John want to wipe it off his face with a kiss, and— No. No, he did not just think that. In an Italian restaurant. With candles on the table. He swallowed and averted his gaze.

"Sherlock! Good to see you. What can I get you?"

John turned his sullen pout to Angelo, because he didn't dare look at Sherlock again.

"John?" Sherlock said.

"What?"

"...Food?"

"Oh."

John opened the menu sheepishly.

"I'll give you some more time then," Angelo said with a big smile. For some reason, his radiating good humour was rattling on his nerves — which were, admittedly, already in a poor state.

"Angelo, I had a question for you," Sherlock said offhandedly. John was staring at the menu. Soup, pasta, salad... "How is your cousin Beppo these days?"

Angelo's reaction, more than Sherlock's words, caught John's attention and he looked up, puzzled.

"Beppo? Yes, well I'm sure he's all right." He looked a bit nervous. "Has he done something?"

Sherlock grinned. "I'm sure he has, but that's not why I'm asking."

Angelo relaxed visibly. "Oh. What is it, then?"

"Still on good terms with him?" Sherlock went on in the same detached tone.

Angelo frowned, apparently affronted.

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think you could ask him some information for me?"

Oh. So that's what it was. John felt a weight leave his chest, and ignored the almost unnoticeable twinge of disappointment. Then he swallowed, wondering why he felt so relieved that he'd been wrong, that this had never been a date, but as always, Sherlock on a case. Perhaps because this, at least, was familiar.

"Sure, Sherlock, anything for you. What do you want me to ask him about?"

Sherlock smiled sweetly, and John knew this couldn't possibly be good.

"The Los Angeles Crime Family."

Chapter Text

A.N.: Longer chapter this time. Hope you enjoy! :)

All my thanks to Wingatron for betaing this chapter.

"The Mafia, Sherlock? Again?" John let out, disbelieving. He had expected something 'not good', but that didn't even start to cover it. "And how could some family of the American Mafia be involved in this?"

Sherlock's lips pursed and John could almost see the minute when he would tell him 'hush', but the consulting detective settled for a regal pout and retorted:

"I didn't say they were."

John blinked.

"Right."

Angelo cleared his throat.

"Anything in particular you want me to ask him?"

"Yes. The names of the hitmen they've employed regularly for the past twenty years."

If Angelo found the query odd, he did not seem overly puzzled. "I'll talk to Beppo, Sherlock, but I can't promise anything. You're sure he's not involved in whatever you're investigating, eh?"

"Quite sure."

John did not find Sherlock's smile reassuring in the least, but apparently Angelo did, for he nodded in his good-natured way and turned to John for his order.

"I'll have the Risotto al pesto verde," he said quickly, and at random. Chances were high that Sherlock would be on the run soon anyway; John couldn't remember one time when he had managed to finish eating before Sherlock was out of the place, chasing after a criminal or an idea.

He handed Angelo the menu and glanced at his friend to see if he would order anything, but Sherlock hadn't even opened the menu. John sighed.

"So... Are you going to explain?"

"What?"

"The case. You haven't answered my texts today."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes I have."

The doctor took a deep breath and tried not to feel too awkward in such a setting. Normal, John. This was perfectly normal. Italian restaurant, candlelight... "I mean, you didn't tell me anything about the case, except that it was going slowly because of Lestrade."

Angelo came back with bread and John was grateful for the distraction. If he were eating, at least he should feel less ill at ease. Maybe.

"Brad had a boyfriend," Sherlock announced. John swallowed uneasily. The consulting detective gave him a look, and for some surely stupid reason, John felt heat rise in his cheeks. Great. The evening was only getting better.

Sherlock poured water in their glasses and pushed John's toward him absently, continuing:

"Brad and Helena moved from California eight years ago. Apparently, Brad had a hard time adapting to his new lifestyle, and started seeing a therapist."

John, who had taken the glass of water Sherlock had served him, looked up at his friend to determine whether he meant anything more by that, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to the similarity with John's situation a year ago.

"There, he met Henry."

John furrowed his brow. "His boyfriend?"

"The man who became his boyfriend. History student, borderline personality disorder–"

"Wait wait wait," John cut in. "They met at his therapist's?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Indeed. What's so strange about it?"

"Nothing, just... Never mind, go on." He swallowed.

"Thank you."

There was no denying the trace of irony in those last words – thank you, John, I really needed your permission to go on. If you would stop interrupting me now... No. NO. He was not going to start hearing Sherlock's voice in his head. Certainly not.

"Are you all right?"

Damn. He must have been particularly obvious if Sherlock was asking him that instead of resuming his account of the case.

"Yes, of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

That was unnecessary, John thought, regretting instantly having asked a question, even a rhetorical one. Sherlock did not look convinced but, thankfully, dropped the issue.

"So he met Henry at his therapist's. Realized he was bisexual, divorced his wife... John, what's wrong with you?"

John was choking on his bread again, redder than ever, and gulped down the rest of his water promptly. Was Sherlock really unaware that what he was saying was a bit too close to home?

Apparently, yes. John met his half-irritated, half-concerned gaze. There was a wrinkle in the middle of hiw brow, barely hidden by his curls. His hair was slightly wet, probably because he hadn't bothered with an umbrella. He wasn't as wet as John. Must've ridden a cab to come. A small smile lit up John's face. Sherlock was so peculiar in his habits. He would never take the underground, unless it was necessary for a case; the bus was even more out of the question. The only means of transport John had ever seen him use was the cab, even after his encounter with the mad cabbie. Deep down, John suspected that the incident had actually been more an incentive than a deterrent, considering Sherlock's attraction to crazy geniuses.

Not. Going. There.

"John?"

"Yes. I mean, no. Nothing's wrong with me. Long day."

Sherlock's eyes pierced him, and John straightened. There was no way he was going to squirm under the scrutiny.

"Do you... want to talk about it?"

It took a second for John to process the words, and then his jaw dropped. "What?" he spluttered.

Sherlock leant in against the table. In the candlelight, his curls looked even damper than they were. The flame danced in his pupils, endowing his eyes with a surreal glow.

"About your day. You're distracted. Was it Mycroft? What did he want?"

"He–"

"Oh. Of course." His eyes turned to slits.

John tilted his head to the side. "Of course?"

"Yes, of course. If he had talked to you about the tiger, you would've mentioned it earlier. You would've probably arrived here in a frenzy. But you didn't. Now, if it isn't the tiger, it can be only one thing–"

Imperceptibly, John stiffened, and he swallowed with some difficulty just as Angelo came with his dish.

"And one Risotto al pesto verde, one!" he said with a little bow, just as Sherlock finished:

"–the underwear."

If John's face had been warm earlier, now it was positively burning. He closed his eyes, silently wishing for either him or the world to disappear.

"I mean, my underwear," Sherlock went on, not self-conscious in the least. "And my coat, too."

When John opened his eyes, Angelo was gone, but Sherlock was still staring at him intently. John let out a sigh he hadn't known he was holding.

"No," he said.

"No?" Sherlock echoed, and his expression was more miffed than surprised. He was adorable when he thought he'd been proven wrong.

No, not adorable. Damn it.

"No. He didn't mention the... your clothes."

"Oh." He sounded relieved. John was reminded of his tone when instead of telling him he'd been abducted by one of his friends, John had corrected: enemy. Archenemy. "But he still asked you about our relationship, didn't he?"

John fixed his eyes on his plate and started eating.

"Yep."

He could feel the weight of Sherlock's gaze on him. He did not squirm.

"...and?"

The risotto was rather good. And very interesting to look at. Yep. Very interesting.

"And that's all. Asked me if I was in a romantic relationship with you – but you know your brother, he wasn't really asking."

"What did you say?"

John stopped eating. Something in Sherlock's voice made him look up at him, but when he met his gaze, there was no trace of insecurity in it. John stared down at his plate again.

"That it was none of his business."

"Mm."

That was a vague reaction, to say the least. John couldn't make any sense out of it. Was Sherlock disappointed that John hadn't told Mycroft that yes, they were in a relationship? Did he approve of John's rebuttal and thought it wasn't Mycroft's concern? Was he annoyed with his brother's meddling? Or simply bored to be sitting here, and so thinking about the case instead? The case. That was known territory. Safe, John thought.

"So," he said between two bites, "Brad and Helena got a divorce, and he went out with a guy – Henry, right? And? What does that have to do with the Mafia?"

"The murder was the work of a professional."

John blinked. That hardly warranted that the American Mafia was involved, so he assumed Sherlock wasn't done. Naturally, he wasn't.

"The police seems to believe that Henry is a suspect – it's ridiculous."

"Why do they think that?"

"Borderline personality disorder. Co-dependency. Self-destructive tendencies, prone to self-harm," Sherlock enumerated in a monotonous tone. "Brad mentioned suicide a lot. Henry was in the habit of putting letters in random mailboxes when he was under stress. The letters received by the police were first retrieved in the mailboxes of two women in his neighbourhood."

"That's... strange," John put in, feeling incredibly unhelpful.

"Not enough to make him a murderer," Sherlock replied easily. Then, out of the blue: "He has a cat."

John's eyebrow rised. "So he can't have killed a man?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched, indicating he'd recognized the teasing behind the deadpan attitude. Teasing? Was that what this was?

"The cat was still dressed, as if he'd been about to take it out. And then there's the calendar."

"The calendar?" John frowned. For the first time he realized that the way Sherlock dropped each piece of information forced him to echo his words, asking for more. Data, that is. More data.

"Yes, the calendar. He put little crosses on each day as a countdown to the anniversary of their meeting, but there was no cross on the day of the murder. Yet the day-to-day calendar in the kitchen showed the date of the murder."

John hummed. "So... You think he's being framed?"

Silence. John looked up, wondering if he'd said something stupid again and had rendered Sherlock speechless, but was met by such warmth and even something close to glee in the consulting detective's eyes that he was the one at a loss for words. What in the world...?

"Most likely, yes," Sherlock confirmed, and there was still a smile in his voice. John could only stare. It was as if the tension animating Sherlock just a few moments before had melted into a familiar ease. The features of his face were less tense, his gestures, not as curt. There was a juvenile twinkle in his eyes. Maybe it was just the candle. Yes, surely. The candle. John fixed his attention on the flame. If only he could go back to being blind to–

He cleared his throat. "But then... Where is he?"

"That is, indeed, the question," Sherlock said with a grin. "Clearly he was abducted, but–"

"Wait, when did you say he was abducted?"

"I didn't, but it's obvious."

"Of course."

"The cat, the calendar, the way the living-room was a mess but not the other rooms – if he had truly made a run for it, he wouldn't have emptied his wardrobe looking for the perfect clothes, and he would've spent more time packing up things from the other rooms as well! There was also no need to scatter his books all over the living-room."

"So there was a fight?"

"Not exactly. It was disguised to look like he'd had a fit of anger. Or despair."

"How do you know it wasn't?"

"Because it doesn't fit, John! No one saw him enter or leave Brad's house, and the murder was too clean, too well-thought-out, to be the work of a history student with a borderline personality! It wouldn't make sense."

"But the Mafia does?"

"Yes, the Mafia. Henry's thesis is on Napoleon, but he had some books about the American Mafia – not many, mind you, but..."

Sherlock trailed off. As silence settled, John tried to find something to say without sounding like he wasn't following.

"So he had a book about the American Mafia..." OK, so he did sound a bit lost, but he was. Sherlock remained silent. John did not fidget. "...why would the Mafia kill Brad and abduct Henry?"

"The Mafia didn't."

The doctor let out a frustrated groan.

"You've lost me."

"Dessert?"

John's eyes widened. "What?"

"Would you like any dessert?" Sherlock reformulated patiently.

"I... No... But..."

"No? Are you sure? Their tiramisu is acceptable."

Their tiramisu is acceptable? Where had that come from? John was completely out of his depths. Or was he? Wasn't it Sherlock who should have been out of his depths?

"Wait, Sherlock, we were talking about the case!"

"And? You can eat and listen to me just fine."

The way he said it implied that John had just proven that by eating his risotto while Sherlock was speaking, not that it was a given. John tried not to feel insulted.

"Why do you think the Mafia is involved?"

"It isn't involved directly, John. It would simply explain a lot."

"You think they sent a hitman after Brad?"

"No."

"Are you going to explain at all?"

"Not yet."

John glared. He could've punched him. Or kissed him. No. How could those two reactions even be linked? Infuriating. Sherlock was infuriating.

"Is it because you lack data?"

"Partly."

"Do you think I'm too stupid to understand?"

"What? No! Don't be stupid."

John snorted. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean."

"No, I don't," John countered, even though he did know. Hopefully.

Sherlock scowled. "I simply don't have enough evidence yet. I–"

"Has it crossed your mind that you might be wrong, then?"

He regretted it the moment the words were out of his mouth. He should really learn not to lash out on Sherlock. Immediately, the light in his eyes was snuffed out and his entire demeanour closed off. John's guilt increased accordingly.

"Sherlock–"

"If you don't want dessert, we should go," his friend cut in promptly, standing up. John hurried after him, thanking Angelo on the way, and caught Sherlock's arm just outside the restaurant. It was still raining.

"Wait, Sherlock! I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. You know you're smarter than me, obviously I can't give you lessons in–"

"I can be wrong."

The coldness of his tone, more than anything else, made John's heart sink.

"No, Sherlock–"

"I was wrong in my first deductions on this case. Sure, I lacked data, and Lestrade didn't help by withholding information, but–"

"Sherlock!" John snapped. The consulting detective started a little, looking down at his flatmate with genuine surprise. In this instant, John caught a glimpse of it – doubt, and hurt. He hadn't meant it. God, if only he could take back his words. His words...

John paled. Of course. It wasn't just his words. There was also the matter of Maggie's words to Sherlock.

"You don't have to prove yourself to me, Sherlock," John said, squeezing his arm gently. "What Maggie said–"

"This has nothing to do with your girlfriend, John!" Sherlock burst out. John winced, but reaffirmed his hold on his friend's arms.

"She's not my girlfriend anymore," he said quietly. "And she was wrong. You're not stupid, and you're not blind."

"I know," Sherlock replied sharply, but he looked like a sulking child, and John knew he'd needed to hear it.

When they arrived at the flat, they were both wetter than they should have been, considering John had an umbrella and they'd taken a cab home, but their little scene in front of the restaurant had been enough to soak them.

Well. Soak was a bit of an exaggeration. Sherlock had noticed, however, that John had been staring at him a lot more, when he thought he wasn't looking, since they had been standing under the rain, and noted that even in the restaurant, his gaze had lingered unnecessarily on his damp hair. Strange. Perhaps it reminded John of the bath episode when he had been a tiger. John always seemed more fond of his tiger form, so it would make sense.

John closed the door behind them as Sherlock stripped of his coat and jacket. His shirt was hardly wet at all, except around the collar. Again, he felt John's eyes on him, but when he looked up, his flatmate averted his gaze. Sherlock's eyes turned to slits. That was... interesting.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said offhandedly. John's eyes flickered back to him, widening. Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt nonchalantly as he walked towards the bathroom. "You can come in if you need a towel."

He thought it prudent not to offer to shower together again, considering John's reaction to his suggestion in the morning. He left the bathroom's door ajar and proceeded to strip off his clothes as lightly as possible. Truth be told, he wasn't sure how he would've acted if John had taken him up on his offer to join him in the shower. Sherlock had hoped that John would be guiding him in this, but clearly the doctor had no such intention. He was making things exceedingly difficult, for the both of them. But if he was going to be so stubborn, then at least Sherlock would make sure that things were more difficult for him.

Also, he lacked data.

He stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain swiftly. Since the direct approach did not work, Sherlock was forced to test the waters. He heard John come in to retrieve a towel just after he'd switched on the shower. He smiled. So John had been waiting for him to start showering before he came in to dry himself up a bit. Sherlock heard him open the cupboard and grab a towel. It was peculiar to have him in the room while he was washing himself; strangely intimate.

"It is regrettable that Mycroft invited you for a talk again," he said before John could step out of the bathroom. It had been evident that his friend had been reluctant to expand on the subject earlier, but Sherlock thought that perhaps, with a curtain between them, he would feel more comfortable to let out what had bothered him so much about his conversation with his brother. The consulting detective had some suspicions on the matter, but if anything, the past few days had proven that his assumptions about his flatmate's feelings were often inaccurate. He scowled at the tiled wall, not liking the idea that his deductions could be inaccurate at all, regardless of the field.

"Um... Yes," John said from behind the curtain, radiating embarrassment. Why was he embarrassed? He wasn't the one naked in the room, after all. Not that it was relevant, but Sherlock had noticed that his friend's unease was often proportionate to his state of undress. He heard John push the door open again.

"Did he say anything else?" he asked, and John's steps froze again.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock tried to erase all hint of annoyance from his voice. "Mycroft never just summons someone to ask a question. He always has a point to make."

"He just worries about you," John answered after a pause. Then, before Sherlock could try to further the discussion, "I'll make some tea. Do you want some?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, although he didn't. Fleetingly, he thought it was uncommon for John to suggest ingesting caffeinated drinks after dinner. The door was closed again and he listened to his flatmate's retreating steps.

Sherlock stifled a sigh of frustration. Why was it so difficult to communicate with John now? He'd growned accustomed to not having to keep himself in check around his flatmate, and having to pay attention to everything each of them said and did in order to devise a line of conduct was proving to be more troublesome than he'd expected. It had been so easy before. Sherlock would just be himself; sometimes John would have enough, would leave for some air; he would, eventually, come back – always – and everything was just fine. But now that they had taken this extra step in their "relationship", Sherlock knew that the impact of everything he did or said would be greater on his flatmate, and that he no longer had his usual outlet (the girlfriend).

Since John wouldn't talk about it and seemed intent on keeping things between them identical, as if he had never blurted out his feelings, Sherlock wasn't left with many options. John wouldn't voice or even, perhaps, admit to himself what it was he truly wanted, and so the consulting detective would do what he did best: he would experiment, and he would observe. He was confident enough in his skills that he believed he could learn everything there was to learn about John Watson, so that his deductions about him would never again turn out to be wrong.

As he washed, he analysed what that dinner at Angelo's had told him. First, John had been upset about not having received enough texts during the day, although Sherlock had made a point of answering them in the morning. He had been busy in the afternoon, and after all, John himself had not texted him. He'd been waiting for a reply, Sherlock now realized. Waiting, but not asking for one. Perhaps because some part of him, the more rational one, knew that Sherlock was working and busy. Alternately, he might not have liked the fact that he did want Sherlock to reply, and had refused to act accordingly, pressing him for an answer.

John had also showed signs of self-deprecation. On the one hand, he had tended to keep the conversation case-related, even though the setting should have made him more inclined to a personal discussion. On the other hand, when they did talk about the case, John's ridiculous inferiority complex came back full force. Sherlock had always dominated their conversations when they talked about the Work, that was nothing new. In fact, more often than not, he dominated the conversation, full stop. But not always. And in their current situation, Sherlock was the one outside his zone of comfort, not John. It was a chance for the ex-soldier to take the lead, for once.

But he did not.

Sherlock could not help resenting him a little for it. If John had simply asked him to answer his texts, he would have. He'd been busy this afternoon, but not enough to ignore a plea from his friend if he received one. After his encounter with Helena Whittaker at the Met, Sherlock had needed to test a theory. Going mentally through the case file again, he'd hired a car and had retraced the route Ms. Whittaker claimed to have taken the morning of the murder. She had tickets from her grocery shopping and it was almost too convenient. Although the police had been satisfied with her testimony, Sherlock deemed it worth taking the extra step, and checking whether she could still have been at Brad's house at the approximate time of the murder.

She could. Helena had claimed that she'd brought the children to school, then gone to Sainsbury's, done her shopping, left, realized on her way home that she'd forgotten to buy the milk, gone back, bought it, and finally gone home. George had been with her then, and when she had left later on to go to Brad's, she had met a neighbour who confirmed the time. What the police had not questioned, however, was the amount of time between the first ticket and the second one, for the milk. What Sherlock found out as he re-enacted her morning was that she would have had the time to go to Brad's house after her first trip to Sainsbury's, shoot him, set the bomb to explode later, go back to buy milk, and go home. It meant that she wouldn't have wasted a second chatting with Brad, but if Sherlock's entire theory was correct, she wouldn't have felt the need to. At any rate, whether she did kill Brad or not, it remained that she could have done it.

But she could not have posted the letters the previous day. She had been at work, and there were several eye witnesses. The only logical conclusion was that she had accomplices, and the remaining question was: who? And why?

There was still something unsettling about the murder, something Sherlock could not completely explain: the bomb. Even if it had been used to make it look like the work of two crazy men, one of which had suicidal tendencies, it just didn't make sense. Blowing up the house was an extreme act of destruction – and yes, both men had seemed to share a fascination with the 'purification' powers of fire, according to their therapist's notes, but it was not enough. The murderer hadn't set the house on fire, he or she had blown it up. Destroyed it. The only reason that could warrant such a drastic measure was that the murderer had wanted to destroy something that had been within the house, but whose exact location was unknown to them.

Still then, it did not completely make sense. The lack of data irritated Sherlock to no end. The next thing he'd done was go to Henry's university and check when he had last borrowed books there. He was, of course, particularly interested in the one concerning the American Mafia. Apparently it wasn't the first book on the subject he had borrowed, although they were very few compared to the list of works he'd borrowed on Napoleon. Perhaps he hadn't wanted Brad to notice. Or he just wasn't that interested. Sherlock had then met his supervisor at the History faculty, which hadn't really taught him anything he didn't already know. The man said he could not believe Henry was capable of murder, or suicide, or any violent act, but he admitted that he did not know him personally. He had been a good, hard-working student, and he sincerely hoped that he was fine. Sherlock highly doubted it, but did not voice his thoughts on the matter.

As his own research on the American Mafia had not been as fruitful as he had hoped, Sherlock then sought out the quickest way of getting answers to his questions. Angelo had been the obvious choice. He did not actually need to spend so much time there, and he could have gone without dinner, but he thought John would appreciate it. Now, he wasn't so sure. And yet, since the girlfriends used to provide such kind of dates, shouldn't he at least try? As it was, John had mostly seemed uncomfortable. Which only confirmed that there was more to his friend's attitude than the "I'm just afraid I'd do something you wouldn't like" he'd given him as explanation.

Sherlock groaned as he turned off the water. This was definitely not his area.

John was fumbling with the kettle after he'd strategically retreated from the bathroom. What had that even been about? Regrettable? Mycroft kidnapping him again was regrettable? Was this what Sherlock sounded like when he attempted small talk?

John would've found it endearing if he weren't too busy wallowing in guilt over the fact that Sherlock had felt the need to make small talk at all. They really needed to talk. Over tea, he thought. He would talk to Sherlock over tea. He was pouring tea in the second mug when he heard the bathroom door open, and he strived to keep his nerves in check, readying himself for the upcoming conversation. He turned around just as Sherlock strode in, and John very much failed to keep his nerves in check.

His flatmate was wearing his hideous blue gown, and still managed to not look hideous in it. Far from it. He seemed to have given up on drying his hair, and the water was still trickling down onto the towel lazily wrapped around his shoulders. The gown itself was very loose, revealing way too much skin for John's comfort. This was getting ridiculous. He looked away.

Sherlock, as oblivious as ever, walked up to the table and grabbed the mug before making his way to the living-room. He looked like an overgrown kid, John mused, moving around half-naked, completely unaware of his effect on other people. If he hadn't known any better, John could've sworn that he was teasing him. But this was Sherlock. The kind of teasing he practiced involved wit and sass, not parading his body around.

Taking a deep breath, John followed after him, and almost tripped over himself when he saw his friend sprawled carelessly on the couch, looking down at his mobile phone and still managing to look like a Roman emperor. In more debauched. John slapped himself mentally and fell into his armchair.

"We need to talk," he said firmly.

Sherlock did not straighten one bit, simply arching an eyebrow to indicate that he was listening.

"Can't you put that away?"

The consulting detective glanced at him, frowned, finished whatever he was doing on his phone (of course, he wouldn't just interrupt what he was doing for John, why would he?) and put it down on the low table.

"Yes?"

"I..." What was it that he needed to say, again? God, this was awkward. John swallowed. "I'm sorry about this morning."

Sherlock's gaze became more probing, and John felt his body warm up dangerously.

"Sorry for what?"

"For... being curt," John finished lamely. He swore if Sherlock's look became any more intense, he'd–

"When were you curt?"

John blinked.

When had he been curt? He tried to replay their exchange from the morning, but couldn't really pinpoint anything he'd said that could have been considered rude. What was he trying to say, then? I'm sorry I fled. This is scaring me senseless. I don't know what to do when I wake up in bed with you. I don't know what–

"John?"

"I'm sorry."

This time, Sherlock frowned, his expression a mix of incomprehension and concern. And irritation, of course. This seemed to be a constant whenever John was trying to get an important message across. He guessed he was the one to blame.

"What are you apologising for?"

They were silent for a moment.

"For making things so complicated," John said finally. "I... I don't know what I'm doing." His throat tightened and he couldn't keep his eyes on his friend's face while Sherlock was still lying there on display. "I think those transformations are messing up my head. I've been a coward with both you and Maggie, and..."

"You keep mentioning her," Sherlock remarked quietly. John's eyes snapped back to him.

"I don't regret breaking up with her," he said pre-emptively. "If anything, I should've done it a lot sooner. I didn't treat her well."

John looked away again, groping for words. "What I meant to say was, I don't want things to change between us. Things don't have to change, Sherlock. I don't want you to think you have to change because I..."

He chanced a glance at his flatmate and his breath caught in his throat. This time Sherlock had straightened, stiffened, even, and was looking at him with an intensity bordering on anger. His eyes were aflame, and John felt burnt. He struggled to find his voice again.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock. I'm good. We're good. Please don't feel like you... like you owe me anything."

The words stripped his throat and John felt raw and exposed. He stood up too quickly and quashed the unacceptable sense of vulnerability that threatened to overcome him.

"I'm going to bed," he said, and left.

His room was cold but he ignored it as he changed for the night. Perhaps he should've taken a hot shower as well. Images of Sherlock's glistening skin flashed in his mind and he closed his eyes tightly as if that could keep them out. He felt... dirty.

There was no other word for it, he realized with some confusion. As if he were tainting Sherlock somehow. He tried to bury the thought away.

John had just slipped into bed when he heard the steps creak and a knock on his door. His throat tightened as he sat up.

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?" Sherlock's voice said.

John couldn't determine his tone. His hands curled into fists on the sheet.

"Of course."

The door opened and in the darkness, John could make out that his flatmate had changed into his pyjamas. He shivered when Sherlock closed the door behind him, but remained composed when he came and sat down on the bed.

"What do you want?" John asked as calmly as possible.

There was a pause, as if Sherlock suddenly wasn't sure whether he should be here at all.

"Do you really want to wake up as a manul in the morning?" he finally said.

"Why would I–"

"Tell me you don't feel miserable."

John swallowed. Sherlock was so close he could smell the scent of his soap and tell it apart from that of his shampoo. He could even discern, under it, another smell that was distinctly Sherlock. He let out a silent, shaky breath.

"I don't," he said convincingly enough, but lay back down and made enough room for Sherlock to lie next to him. Without a word, Sherlock joined him under the cover, not touching him.

John was painfully aware of each point of contact between his skin and the sheet, his skin and the mattress; Sherlock was keeping a safe distance between them, but his smell and the warmth of his body were pervading the bed, slowly enveloping John. He felt ensnared, yet dreadfully unwilling to fight it.

"It's still early. You don't have to sleep now," he said quietly, because the silence was too much to bear.

"I'm not sleeping," Sherlock replied, shifting slightly next to him. John couldn't help smiling.

"Did you have your own room as a child?"

Even in the darkness, he could feel Sherlock's bewilderment. But whether or not the consulting detective thought John was babbling, he humoured him.

"I did."

He did not develop, and John felt a little silly for asking. He couldn't quite picture Sherlock sharing quarters with his brother, anyway. The thought elicited a chuckle from him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing. Just trying to imagine your interactions with Mycroft when you were children." Or, God forbid, teenagers.

"You would be the first to find them amusing," Sherlock told him seriously, and John snickered.

"No doubt."

They fell silent. John had hoped that talking would help him smother his beginning of arousal. It hadn't. But it had made it somewhat more bearable. John also wanted to ask more about his friend. He'd never truly bothered, perhaps out of some sense of propriety, respecting his flatmate's privacy. But Sherlock could read him like an open book – or at least, he could read his past in his mobile phone and demeanour. John didn't have that advantage. If he wanted to know, he would have to ask. It seemed strange to him now that it had never occurred to him before. He'd never been the prying type, and perhaps simply living with Sherlock in the present had been enough. His friend never mentioned his past, except very fleetingly, when he referred to a previous case John hadn't been there for.

"You never told me what your very first case was," he commented quietly, trying to sound as conversational as possible under the circumstances. Them, together, lying in bed. He repressed a shiver. Not a safe line of thought.

"Why should I have?"

Sherlock sounded genuinely puzzled, and John wished he could give him a hug. Not a good idea. He did not want to find out what Sherlock's reaction would be if he realized John was aroused. He took a deep breath, and tried to conjure up the images that were the most likely to turn him off.

"No reason. I never asked."

Sherlock remained quiet for a moment, then turned to lie on his back and looked at the ceiling. Well, at least John assumed he was looking at the ceiling. He couldn't quite picture Sherlock closing his eyes to reminisce.

"It was the father of a friend," he began, and John stared.

"A friend?"

"Yes, I did have one. In university."

John was about to say that wasn't what had shocked him, but now that Sherlock mentioned it, it was a little... unexpected. But of course Sherlock would have had friends. Everybody did, at some point. Right?

"So... You exposed his father?"

"As I investigated his death, yes."

"Oh."

John waited, not wanting to probe further if Sherlock did not wish to talk about it. One, he'd said. I did have one. Only one? Oddly, this did not please John, not at all. Not quite for the right reasons, either. Of course he was upset on his flatmate's behalf that he'd only had one friend when he was a student; but more importantly, he wondered what had been so special about that one person to make him interested in Sherlock. To make Sherlock interested in him.

"I wasn't very... social, back then. People knew who I was, but they didn't like me."

"They probably feared you."

He snorted. John still thought he was right on that one. Not for the first time tonight, he wished he could embrace his partner, and silently cursed his own stupid physiological reaction.

"Victor didn't have many friends either. He was a rather private person, though I must admit, a lot friendlier than I ever was. He was rather clever. Mycroft's verdict when he first met him was that he was clever enough not to show it too much."

Sherlock's voice had taken an unmistakably grumpy tone at that point. John smiled, wishing he could reach out to him.

"I stayed with him at his family home in Norfolk over the summer following our first year as roommates. That is how I met his father."

So that had been the roommate Mycroft had mentioned earlier. The fact that he had mentioned him at all made John feel even more uneasy and, for some reason, bothered.

"Did he die while you were there?" John asked, focusing on the conversation once more.

"He was killed two weeks after I left for London. I had decided to shorten my stay, following some deductions I had made and had the bad idea to voice."

"Had you?" John couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice. Sherlock turned to him, probably to glare. He scoffed.

"I wasn't... At the time, I wasn't in the habit of sharing my observations," he explained. John translated: I didn't boast as much. "But Victor kept going on and on about my skills, and his father eventually asked me what I could deduce about him. I obliged."

On and on about his skills now, was he? John swallowed.

"After that, I didn't feel as welcome. Victor understood. When he called me two weeks later, his father was dead. The police had concluded suicide, but Victor was convinced it was murder."

"And he was right," John said, not bitterly at all.

"Yes. I went back as soon as he asked me to."

"And did you find out who the culprit was?"

"I did. It turned out that Mr. Trevor had, in his youth, created a fraudulent investment company with friends who were even more unscrupulous than he had been. They particularly targeted companies on the verge of bankruptcy, bought them, concealed their real state of affairs with fake financial packages, and sold them for five times their worth. Originally, they had planned on making just enough money to start their own enterprise, legally this time."

Sherlock paused, as if lost in his memories. John very much wanted to keep him in the present.

"But?"

"But when the time came, they disagreed. Some wanted to continue making money that way, arguing that they would never make as much with a legal company. Others, including Victor's father, pulled out. The latter moved away and started a new life. The man who killed Victor's father had been one of the former, who had eventually been caught and, once out of prison, sought out those of the group who had succeeded financially to blackmail them. I had deduced that he was being blackmailed when I stayed over at their house."

"And you said it to his face?"

"I did not," Sherlock retorted, as if the thought were absurd. John could think of many occurrences when he had lacked at least as much tact, but kept quiet. He was enjoying listening to his friend, and was starting to feel cozier than before. Less aroused, more comfortable.

"In the end," Sherlock resumed, "I proved that it had indeed been murder."

"Why did he kill him?"

"Because he refused to be blackmailed."

They were both silent for a moment. John wanted to ask something, but didn't quite dare. Naturally, Sherlock, being Sherlock, forestalled him.

"I proved that Mr. Trevor had been murdered by exposing his past financial crimes. It was... difficult for Victor after that. His father had been a justice of the peace, esteemed in his jurisdiction. Victor's mother died with his sister in a car accident when he was seven. His father had raised him, and they were very close. I think... I think he would have rather never known about his past."

Oh. Now John felt silly for wondering why Sherlock and Victor had fallen out. He reached out and squeezed his friend's arm lightly.

"You're wrong, Sherlock. I'm sure he would've rather known the truth, and was grateful that you proved his father was murdered."

John had in fact no idea what the man would've wanted or not, but right now, it didn't matter. He kept his hand on Sherlock's arm a while longer, then retreated. A more peaceful silence settled, and eventually, John fell asleep.

He was awakened abruptly by something soft but cumbersome that almost pushed him out of bed. His eyes snapped open and fell on the tiger. He blinked, then groaned, and pushed him back a little before wrapping his arm around him, snuggling up closer. He fell back to sleep just as soon, blanketed in the warmth of his friend's fur and the soft rumbling of his purr.

In the morning, when he woke up to find Sherlock experimenting in the kitchen, he wondered if he had dreamed it all.

Chapter Text

A.N.: This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron. Hope you enjoy! Reviewers are loved :)

John Watson
10:52
Getting anywhere?

Sherlock Holmes
10:54
Henry's parents died in a car accident three years ago.

John Watson
10:55
Oh. Does that help with the case?

Sherlock Holmes
10:57
No.

Sherlock Holmes
11:05
The police gave the cat to a neighbour.

John Watson
11:06
...and that's bad?

Sherlock Holmes
11:10
No. But you might've been able to interrogate it.

John Watson
11:11
Sorry?

Sherlock Holmes
11:15
It's not your fault.

John Watson
11:16
What do you mean interrogate it?

Sherlock Holmes
11:18
As a manul. We never tried to see if you understood other cats.

John Watson
11:18
You're joking.

Sherlock Holmes
11:20
Yes.

John Watson
11:21
You...! Damn you.

Sherlock Holmes
11:23
You're the only person I know who bothers with ellipses in texts.

John Watson
11:24
I'm the only person with whom you have whole conversations by text.

Sherlock Holmes
11:27
True.

John Watson
11:28
...I'm saving this.

Sherlock Holmes
11:30
Why, do you believe you'll never make a correct statement again?

John Watson
11:31
It's rare enough to have you admit I'm right about something.

Sherlock Holmes
11:34
Because you rarely are.

John Watson
11:35
In a good mood, aren't we?

Sherlock Holmes
11:37
I was simply stating a fact.

John Watson
11:38
Still haven't found anything useful for the case?

Sherlock Holmes
11:39
Still no patients to occupy yourself, doctor?

John Watson
11:40
You're cute when you're frustrated with a case.

Sherlock Holmes
11:43
..."cute", John?

John Watson
11:46
Next patient arrived. Talk to you later.

John put his phone away, mortified, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Cute, really? What the hell was wrong with him? And since when did he flirt with Sherlock by text?

John's gaze lingered absently on his desk. Actually, now that he thought about it, he'd always been flirting with Sherlock by text. Sort of. He swallowed as he realized that Harry might have well picked it up a lot sooner than he did, when she teased him on his blog about the comments he and Sherlock exchanged. Damn it. This was ridiculous.

And yet. John glanced at his phone again. He shouldn't have sent that last text; it was obvious, even for someone other than Sherlock, that John wouldn't take the time to text back if he really did have a patient coming in. He groaned. Sherlock must have been smirking by now. Thinking of his friend's smug face only made John flush more, and he was grateful when his next patient actually showed up.

"One day," Lestrade had said. "I give you one day, and don't you dare keep any evidence you find to yourself. Also, don't take anything out of the flat."

Obviously. Sherlock wasn't stupid. He put down the book he'd just found under Henry's pillow - Alexander of Macedon, 356-323 B.C.: A Historical Biography, by Peter Green - and compared its state with Genghis Khan: The Emperor of All Men, by Harold Lamb. Older books. They had been read and re-read many times. They didn't belong to a library. Apparently, Henry had always been fascinated with great, violent men. This made Sherlock wonder about Brad.

Brad Campbell had been older than Henry, much older. But that hardly qualified as greatness. His current job - or rather, the one he'd had just before he'd died - was not exactly thrilling and awe-inspiring. Then again, there was no reason why Henry shouldn't be attracted to a man very different from his own fantasies. Sherlock's gaze fell on Busting the Mob: the United States v. Cosa Nostra. There was something to be said about Henry's newly found interest in the Mafia. It was so different from everything else Sherlock had observed in his flat; and the hypothesis that it might just have been a fleeting interest was proven wrong by the list of books Henry had borrowed at the library this past year. He had only started showing an interest in the Mafia six months after he had met Brad.

Henry's laptop hadn't told Sherlock much - it was mostly filled with his research on Napoleon, and pictures of him, Brad, his friends, his deceased parents... It was also connected to a PS3, and Sherlock had been trying to find video games throughout the flat, to no avail. He was about to file it away in his mind for later consideration when in one of the desk drawers his hand met a plastic box under a pile of notes. He took out the box, and his eyes twinkled with satisfaction. Hitman: Absolution. A stealth video game. Apparently the only one Henry had, and he kept it hidden.

After he had examined the main room thoroughly, Sherlock moved to the kitchen and paid closer attention to the post-its on the wall. Henry was supposed to see a friend today - 'Jos' - to give him back a book. There was the name of the café where they were to meet, scribbled on the post-it, along with 'lunch'. Sherlock glanced at the time. There was a chance this 'Jos' wouldn't know that Henry had gone missing, and would still show up at the appointed place.

"Hello. Are you Jos, by any chance?" he asked with a perfunctory smile as he slipped into the chair across the only man sitting alone in the café, and who looked out the window as if he were waiting for someone. The student turned towards Sherlock and frowned.

"Yeah. Who are you?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock introduced himself as he showed him the badge. "I am investigating the disappearance of Henry Moore. I believe he was supposed to meet you here today?"

Jos was now staring, shocked. "What? Something happened to Henry?"

"When was the last time you heard from him?"

"I don't know. Four days ago? Five? I know he's been busy with his thesis lately. And we don't hang out as often as we used to, now that he has a boyfriend. He's quite smitten with him. If you're looking for Henry, I'd say visit Brad first, he's the most likely to know."

"Brad Campbell was found dead yesterday morning."

Jos paled.

"God."

"Would you please give me your full name?"

"Is this an interrogation?"

"No, I just wish to take your testimony."

"Brown. Josiah Brown. Is Henry... Do you think he..."

"He is our prime suspect."

"That's bollocks."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Josiah seemed rather unnerved.

"Henry was in love with Brad. Like, the real thing, you know? He never could've hurt him."

"Even at Brad's request?"

"What?"

The consulting detective tried not to lose patience and continued to play the devil's advocate.

"Do you think Henry would have agreed to assist Brad in his suicide?"

"I thought you said it was murder!"

"I never said such a thing. I said he was found dead."

"Oh... Sorry, I just assumed... It's just, I didn't really know him, but we did meet a couple of times. He just didn't strike me as the suicidal type. But, yeah, how would I know..."

"In any case, it isn't suicide. He was shot."

"Then it is murder!"

"Yes. But it might have still been assisted suicide. Or do you think Henry would have had any reason to kill Brad? If he found out he was unfaithful, perhaps?"

"Was he?"

Sherlock had to control himself not to roll his eyes. That was beside the point.

"We don't know," he said, taking out his phone, which had just vibrated.

John Watson
13:02
Am meeting Mike for lunch. Have you eaten?

"So basically, you don't have a motive?" Josiah went on.

"Assisted suicide is the most likely." Simultaneously, he typed: No, but am interrogating a friend of Henry's.

Josiah didn't seem convinced, but he remained silent for a while, lost in thought.

John Watson
13:03
And that explains why you're not eating.

Sherlock Holmes
13:03
That explains why I can't join you for lunch. And I'm on a case. That explains why I'm not eating.

"I think you got it wrong," Josiah said abruptly, "but I guess it's your job. To investigate, I mean. So Brad is... dead, and Henry is gone?"

"That is the situation, yes."

The young man looked rather shaken. Anyone would be, Sherlock supposed.

John Watson
13:04
I'm making you eat tonight.

"You know, he's been different, since he met Brad. Henry, he... He was always rather the quiet type. Now, he laughs a lot more. It's like Brad unleashed all this energy he had in him but kept in check or something. It was funny. Even when they had a fight, the moment I would agree with Henry and say that yeah, Brad had been a dick, automatically Henry would turn against me and defend his boyfriend."

Sherlock nodded, keeping his eyes on Josiah while answering John; it might have no been necessary, as the man wasn't even looking at him, too occupied reminiscing.

Sherlock Holmes
13:04
You can try.

"At the beginning I was a bit disturbed by the age difference - I mean, Brad could be his father! Uh, could've been. Anyway. I thought he couldn't be trusted, y'know. That he just liked Henry for his youth. And he was even married, with kids! It all felt a bit too much like an old guy wanting to explore his newly found sexuality or something, and I didn't like it."

Sherlock observed Josiah closely, trying to sort the useful data he was provided with from the pointless chatter.

"What made you change your mind?"

Josiah shrugged.

"Well, he stuck around, you know? Didn't leave him after a night, or even a week or a month. Didn't sleep around either, apparently. And Henry..."

John Watson
13:05
Do you need me this afternoon?

"...Henry was happy. After a couple of months, I asked him how serious he was about Brad, and if he thought he could trust him." He didn't even get angry, just had this huge smile and said Brad had entrusted him with his soul, and it was enough. He said that pretty often. That he'd entrusted him with his soul, and that was the best proof of love he could give him."

"I see," Sherlock said, having no idea what Josiah was talking about. The figure of speech seemed rather vague to him. Perhaps Brad had considered Henry his salvation. That would certainly tie in with the hypothesis that he and his wife had led a life of crime back in the United States. Or perhaps it was just a romantic expression, the whole 'other half of my soul' blathering. Maybe he should ask John about it. Sherlock glanced at his phone. Or maybe not.

"Hey, John! Glad to see you. It's been a while."

"It has. I'm sorry I've been rather busy lately." Lately. As in, the past few weeks. Months. Then again it wasn't every day that you and your flatmate woke up as felines, that you realised you were in love with your male best friend, and that you came out in front of your girlfriend. 'Busy' was somewhat of an understatement.

"Yeah, well, I know with whom you're flatsharing," Mike said with good-nature.

John smiled. It was good to see Mike again. He'd been so obsessed with getting away from Sherlock and spending time with Maggie these past few weeks that he hadn't spent one night at the pub with his old friend. Not that they had much to talk about, but it was always nice to have a non-romantic, non-life-threatening night out once in a while.

Sherlock Holmes
13:06
I'm going to pay a visit to the therapist.

"Bart's isn't necessarily the best place to have lunch," Mike said, "but at least I can guarantee that the sandwich place we're going is good. It's only take-away though. But they have decent coffee as well."

"That's good enough for me."

John Watson
13:07
I'll take that as a yes.

"How's Sherlock?"

"Good, he's good. You know, the usual."

"Still hasn't driven you half mad, then?"

John wasn't sure how to answer that honestly, so he settled for a neutral smile. Mike was too busy looking up at the sandwich menu to notice his unease anyway. They ordered and headed back to Bart's, talking about work, mostly. For all his grumbling about the youth and cleverness of his students, Mike seemed to enjoy his job. It was comfortable, John thought. When they were in med school together, Mike had often laughed at how differently they both imagined their future. John wanted to be in the field, on the frontline. Mike was always quite happy with more mundane tasks. He'd never said anything about becoming a teacher, but John found that it suited him.

"What about you? That part-time job you got at the clinic, how is it?"

John shrugged.

"It gives me a break from Sherlock's cases, I guess."

Mike eyed him strangely.

"Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

John couldn't help but smile at that.

"Yeah, probably."

Mike took a sip of his coffee, and asked a little too off-handedly:

"So, what else do you do when you're not working or running around London with Sherlock? Anyone in your life right now?"

John shifted awkwardly. Mike often teased him about his string of girlfriends; he himself had been dating a girl for a few months now, John recalled.

"And how is... Daisy?"

Mike's face lit up.

"Great. She's great. You know, I think she might really be the one?"

John swallowed.

"Yeah."

Mike frowned a little at his reaction.

"Do you-"

"Oh, hello!"

John turned to the voice and met Molly's gaze as she walked up to them, smiling, a coffee in hand. John smiled back. At the beginning, it had been difficult to sympathize with Molly, who couldn't even remember his name. But as time passed, John had come to appreciate her. He'd felt bad for her after the whole mess with Jim Moriarty, and even worse Sherlock had been a dick on Christmas Eve. But then he had kissed her on the cheek and John had been too shocked to sympathize. Then Irene Adler had supposedly died and Jeannette dumped him and Sherlock started playing sad romantic music.

"John?" Mike said.

John snapped back to the present. "Hey," he greeted Molly. "How have you been doing?"

"Not bad. How are you? Greg told me Sherlock solved the case with the goose. That was quite a story!"

Mike arched an eyebrow, but John was staring at Molly.

"Greg?"

She blushed slightly. "We were just having coffee."

John smiled. "I see."

"What am I missing?" Mike asked.

Molly sat down with them and started telling him how she had run into this man on Christmas Eve, and ended up with a hat and a goose... John half-listened to her, wondering if Maggie was at her sister's now, and hoping dearly that they wouldn't find out the D.I. who had visited Emily was in fact Sherlock. No matter how he looked at it, he could find no redeeming factor in his attitude towards Maggie. He had used her to get away from Sherlock. Had dumped her on Christmas day because his flatmate wasn't answering his text. Had denied kissing said flatmate even though she had been there and obviously seen it.

But then his attitude towards Sherlock had been even worse, and John felt more guilty about that than anything else. He had been a terrible friend, and a terrible boyfriend. Suddenly, he became aware of the obvious - what he should've clearly done, but hadn't, because he was still being a coward. He sat there, in shock at the realisation. He hadn't asked Sherlock how he felt. He'd just assumed, and kept assuming. Sherlock had told Maggie that he wasn't interested in any kind of romantic relationship, but his little speech had been a string of lies. Then the next day he had told John that his confession was "good", that he had "appreciated" it. John was a manul at the time, and couldn't question him further - except he could have. There was the laptop, and the keyboard Sherlock had purchased specifically for him. After that, there had been many occasions when John could have asked that question, the only question that truly mattered. What do you want? How do you feel about this?

"John?"

"Yes."

"You keep switching off. Is something wrong?"

Mike looked genuinely worried, and John felt like a jerk again.

"No, sorry. I was just thinking about something."

Both Molly and Mike were looking at him strangely now, and John felt oddly exposed. It was silly. Neither of them could've even begun to guess his line of thought.

"How is Sherlock doing?" Molly asked, and although it was only natural of her to inquire, John thought for a mad second that he was busted.

"Good. He's good."

He glanced at his phone. Sherlock hadn't answered. Had John misunderstood?

John Watson
13:48
Was that a no?

"Girlfriend?" Mike said, a teasing smile on his face.

"Sherlock," John answered before he could think. Mike's lips stretched into a full smirk.

"Right. So when you're not with him, you text him. Anything you want to tell me?"

John looked up from his phone in shock. He felt even worse when he saw that Mike was joking. This wasn't a real question. It was banter. John gulped. He could feel Molly's gaze fixed on him, intense, searching. John took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

And closed it. Why was it so difficult to say?

Maybe because John didn't actually know where they were standing. He had been doing a crappy job at pretending nothing had changed, and he couldn't really say that now he and Sherlock were dating. So what could he say? He wasn't close enough to Mike, not to mention Molly, to tell them about things that hadn't been sorted out yet.

"Hey, John. I was just kidding."

John met Mike's confused look and sighed.

"Yeah," he said. "I know."

Molly was still staring at him. Somehow, she managed to make John feel even more despicable. Luckily, his phone vibrated, saving him from the awkwardness of the discussion.

Sherlock Holmes
13:52
Meet at 236 Kennington Road in an hour.

John couldn't help smiling in relief. So he hadn't misunderstood.

"I've got to go."

"What? Now?"

John stood up, glancing at Molly, then at his friend.

"Sherlock," he said simply. They gave him looks, as if they knew something he didn't. Except he did. "I'll call you," he told Mike, and nodded to Moly. "I'll... see you around?"

Then he was gone, and didn't look back. Only when he was outside, heading to the station, did something cross his mind. He frowned.

John Watson
13:55
Wait, how are we going to talk to the therapist? She already saw Lestrade. We can't tell her we're from the police.

Sherlock Holmes
13:59
Yes we can.

"Hello, Dr. Barnicot? I am Inspector Dimmock. Can we come in?"

Sandra Barnicot glanced at the badge, then at Sherlock, before letting them in with a frown on her face. She had the eyes of her brother, and the way her nose wrinkled slightly when she furrowed her brow was also reminiscent of George Barnicot.

"I have already talked to your colleagues, Inspector," she said, "and given them my patients' files. I don't see what else I could do for you."

"Well, that is for us to find out, isn't it?"

John gave Sherlock a look, but the consulting detective kept smiling unrepentently. Sandra Barnicot looked at her watch quickly as she led them to her office.

"I have an appointment in forty minutes."

"We won't be so long, I promise," Sherlock assured in a honeyed tone as she sat down at her desk.

"Please take a seat," she offered, gesturing at the two chairs in front of them.

"You mentioned Brad's divorce with Helena in his file," Sherlock said without transition, still standing and looking around the room. John repressed a sigh and took the seat closest to him.

"Indeed," Sandra replied.

"Can you tell us a bit more?"

She arched an eyebrow, but Sherlock wasn't even looking at her.

"Brad said that he had found out his wife hadn't let go of things from the past, things they had decided to leave behind. He felt it was a betrayal on her part, and put into jeopardy the life they had built here, together, away from the United States."

John frowned.

"What do you mean, things they had decided to leave behind?"

"I do not know. Brad talked of links, bonds that she still had there. Strong ones. He was very angry about it because he considered that he too had left part of his soul back there, but still had agreed to follow her to the UK because she had wished for a new life with her children – she was pregnant at the time. And yet she was the one who hadn't let go."

"But let go of wh–" John began, only to be interrupted by Sherlock:

"How did he find out?"

"Pardon?"

"Brad. How did he find out about this 'betrayal'?"

"He said a friend in LA had told him, had sent him evidence."

"So he too was still in contact with friends from his past, wasn't it?"

"Clearly he was, Inspector," she answered rather disdainfully. Sherlock turned to her and rested his palms against her desk, leaning in.

"So tell me, doctor, how was that different from his wife's 'links' there?"

"I already told you, I do not know."

"Of course you don't."

"Inspector," John intervened, giving Sherlock a warning look.

"If you are implying that I am lying–" the therapist started.

"I am implying no such thing. In fact, I am quite convinced of your ignorance."

Sherlock's voice was sweet and he was still smiling, as if that would somehow make his words less harsh. And perhaps it did, for Sandra seemed to relax a little.

Suddenly they heard the front door open and close, and steps down the corridor towards the office where they stood. A few seconds later a man walked in and stopped dead in his tracks as he took in the scene.

"George," Sandra said with a smile, standing up to meet him.

"What the... You!" He pointed to Sherlock accusingly. John gulped and stood up as well, taking a pre-emptive step towards his friend.

"Mr. Barnicot," Sherlock said gravely with a polite nod.

"What are you doing here?"

"George, it's the police!" Sandra told him, glancing with confusion at the three men in the room.

"The police?" He looked sincerely stunned. "You're from the police?"

"I'm Inspector Dimmock, and this is my colleague. I am sorry we met under such circumstances yesterday – I was evidently not on duty."

"Evidently," George echoed coldly. Then he turned to his sister. "If I'm interrupting–"

"No, we were done," Sherlock replied in her stead. "But if we may ask you some questions?"

"I've been through this. I gave my testimony to–"

"Do you know why Helena Whittaker divorced her ex-husband?"

George clenched his hands into fists and his knuckles turned white.

"I don't see how that is relevant to–"

"Please answer the question," John cut in as gently as possible before Sherlock could push the man any further. The consulting detective's acting talents were always rather handy, but it remained that they were not really from the police, and they'd better avoid making a scene. George set his jaw, but eventually said:

"She wasn't the one to ask for a divorce. If anything, he's the one who forced it on her."

"Indeed?"

The man glared at Sherlock.

"And do you know why?"

"Of course I know!" George finally exploded, and John winced, though he did not step back from his position next to Sherlock, should the man suddenly decide to lunge at him. The urge to punch Sherlock. Yeah, John could relate to that. "Do you know how hard it was for Helena to leave everything behind? Friends, family... She's an orphan, did you know? The people who raised her, well, Brad didn't like them. But they were the closest thing she had to family. When she became pregnant, he said he would marry her only if she cut all ties – what kind of man asks that of the woman he loves, huh? But she did love him. And she accepted. So she left her country and everything she knew to have a life with him here, and then what? Then he's the one who starts having a depression and whatnot."

"George..." his sister interject with subdued disapproval. He brushed her off.

"And you know what else? Well, he discovers he might like blokes. Just like that. Meets another psycho here and–"

"George!" Dr. Barnicot snapped.

"He blew up his house, for God's sake! Killed a man! How does that make him not a psycho?"

"Technically, that would merely make him a murderer," Sherlock put in icily. John glanced at him, and refrained from taking his hand and squeezing. He doubted such a gesture would be appreciated in public – not to mention it wouldn't look very professional.

"Brad dragged her here, made her cut all ties with everyone she knew, and then he was the poor, unhappy one entering a personal crisis. Well, that's bollocks. If I had been Helena, I would've left him then and there. But that's not what happened, no. She still loved him. But she felt so alone she started writing to her family again – yeah, what a crime! And suddenly one day Brad confronts her about it, says he's got bloody evidence against her, like she's some kind of criminal, and–"

"George, please calm down," Sandra interrupted again, her tone more pleading now.

"–and then he's the one to leave her because she dared keep in touch with people who raised her and cared about her!"

Silence fell over them. George seemed to have shouted at them everything he'd had on his mind, and was slowly deflating, catching his breath. Deliberately, he unclenched his fists.

"Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Barnicot," Sherlock said at last, easing the tension a little. "Doctor, one last thing, and we shall leave you to your next appointment."

At this point Sandra Barnicot simply looked exhausted. "Yes?"

"Where do you keep your patients' files?"

"Here. In my office."

"Is it possible that your brother or Helena could've had access to them?"

"What?!" George burst out, once more livid with rage. Sandra stiffened considerably.

"With all due respect, sir–"

"Is it possible?"

"It's possible, but–"

"Thank you for your time, doctor. Sir," he added with a nod to her brother, and turned to leave. But George didn't seem inclined to let him go so easily. He grabbed his arm just as Sherlock was about to pass the door.

"Now wait a minute–"

It took John a second to step between the two of them and to efficiently wrench his hand off from the consulting detective without making it look like he was manhandling him. John could feel Sherlock's slightly surprised gaze on him, but his own eyes were fixed on George, who stepped back reluctantly.

"We will contact you should we have any further query," John said, and hushered Sherlock out of the room, down the corridor, and into the staircase, before he could make things any worse.

"Well, that was–"

"–informative," Sherlock finished, though that wasn't exactly what John had in mind.

They walked out of the building, and John turned to his friend.

"Look, Sherlock, I think we should–"

But Sherlock wasn't listening, apparently still focused on the case, and he kept walking to cross the street. He didn't see the car going right through the lights without stopping and coming straight at him. John did.

"Sherlock!"

Chapter Text

A.N.: My apologies for the wait - I thought I would be able to update earlier. But here it is! Hope you enjoy :)

This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron.

.

.

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 20

Rats and mice will have their choice

.

"Well, that was–"

"–informative," Sherlock finished, though that wasn't exactly what John had in mind.

But he had, after all, a lot on his mind, and even he wasn't sure whether he should be wasting his breath on the case when he had much more important things to discuss with Sherlock. Maybe this was neither the time nor the place for such a conversation, but still John wanted to make sure they would get time later for such a talk. Before he could think too much about it and let his courage deflate, John turned to his friend.

"Look, Sherlock, I think we should–"

Sherlock wasn't listening. Was the case that fascinating? He kept walking to cross the street.

John saw the car going right through the lights and straight at Sherlock before he even stepped on the road.

His body reacted automatically, moving fast and long before John found his voice to shout:

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned slightly towards him and John caught a glimpse of puzzlement on his face before he dived in, pushed him out of the way, and tackled him to the ground. Well. More precisely, hugged the daylights out of him, as John had wrapped his arms around his friend and thrown himself out of the car's way as well. His soldier reflexes included self-preservation, thank you very much.

Ignoring the hustle around them, John swiftly switched back to doctor mode and moved the hand that had been cradling Sherlock skull. He tried to look his friend in the eye, checking for any signs of concussion. But Sherlock seemed just fine. In fact, his gaze was fixed on the road, his expression calculating. John let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. Sherlock looked back at him.

"Are you all right?" they asked in unison.

John blushed and scrambled to his feet, letting go of the body he'd been holding a little too closely perhaps.

"Stand up slowly," he said. Sherlock arched an eyebrow, still sprawled in the middle of the road as if he owned the place, and John had to fight the urge to join him again and kiss him senseless. He held out a hand instead.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock retorted, standing up without taking the offered hand and with a lot more grace than the doctor. John was too busy admiring him to resent him for it. If he resented Sherlock for everything he did better than him, there wouldn't be an end to his resentment. Not that resentment was even close to what John was feeling right now. He swallowed.

"John? Are you all right? You seem a little... dazed."

"I'm good," John said rather thickly, averting his gaze. Suddenly the noises around them seemed to rush back into the realm of his perception and he was assaulted by the fuss people were making.

"Dear God, are you okay?"

"Should I call an ambulance?"

"I'm a doctor, let me–"

Sherlock simply ignored them and walked straight on to the crossroads, where he hailed a cab as if one had just been waiting for him to raise his arm. John shook his head, threw a "We're all right, thank you! And I'm a doctor too" to their fellow citizens who were, after all, just doing their duty, and hurried after his friend. He slipped into the car next to him and shut the door just as Sherlock announced:

"221B Baker Street."

John gave him another once-over to confirm that he hadn't been hurt. It had been close.

"So. Did you get the car number?"

"Of course."

John rolled his eyes. Of course. Why had he even bothered to ask?

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Thanks, Greg. Yes, I'll tell him. Right. Thank you."

John hung up and sighed.

"Stolen car. They're trying to find out who was driving it but–"

"The driver was wearing a hood."

John turned to his flatmate, who was currently lying on the couch, eyes locked on the ceiling. Thinking.

"How could you possibly know that?"

"Seven eye-witnesses said he was, and not one contradicted them," Sherlock replied in a bored tone.

"You were actually listening to them?"

Sherlock snorted. "I just picked it up. Only the useful information." Then, as an afterthought, "They were quite loud."

At this, John shook his head and smiled. Unwittingly, he walked up closer to his friend, until he realised what he was doing and came to a halt about three steps away from the couch. He cleared his throat and started pacing the room.

"I don't think Greg believes it, but nothing proves this was related to Henry's disappearance. You do have a lot of enemies. As a D.I., he needs more evidence. Or rather, any kind of evidence at all."

"Is that what Lestrade said you should tell me?"

John, a little surprised by the question, stopped to glance at Sherlock.

"No. He said you should stop investigating the matter and trust the police to do their job for once."

Another snort. "Right."

"He has a point," John noted aloud.

He could feel Sherlock's dumbfounded gaze on him before he even looked up to meet it.

"He has a point?" Sherlock repeated.

"Clearly someone wants you to stop nosing around. It's only natural that–"

"Only natural that I stop investigating because there has been an attempt against my life?" Sherlock cut in, and John shivered at the iciness in his voice.

"Sherlock, two days ago you almost blew up along with Brad's house, and now someone wants you to back off enough to run into you with a car! What's so strange about Greg telling you not to push it?"

"Is that what you think too?"

"What? No!"

Sherlock remained motionless on the couch, tight-lipped. John blinked. What in the...

"Sherlock. What were we talking about just now?" Sherlock remained stubbornly silent. John continued cautiously: "Because I thought we were talking about Greg's reaction to–"

"You said he had a point."

"Sherlock, you almost died! Yes, it happens often enough, but Greg cares about you. He just doesn't want you dead. What's wrong with that?"

"I assume you don't want me dead either."

"I hope there's no hidden question in there," John said rather coldly, beginning to feel some anger himself.

Sherlock's lips twitched slightly. John took a step towards him.

"Yet you are not asking me to drop the case," Sherlock went on, and there was definitely a question in that statement.

"Why would I?"

John was genuinely confused by the turn their conversation had taken. Another step. Sherlock's gaze was still fixed on the ceiling. Pointedly. He looked like a kid who thought he was bound to be denied a treat and has already decided he would take it anyway.

John's eyes widened as realisation dawned on him. Of course. God, only Sherlock. John was unprepared for the wave of tenderness that hit him, hard. He didn't care.

"You thought I was asking you to drop the case. Seriously, Sherlock?"

There was no trace of question there. John's face broke into a smile. He reached out and put his palm on Sherlock's forehead before pushing back the curls and running his fingers through his hair. He didn't stop to think about the intimacy of the gesture. In fact, he was not inclined to stop at all.

"Are you sure you didn't get concussed?" he asked half-jokingly, wondering how in the world Sherlock could've thought for one moment that John of all people would ask him to turn away from danger.

The consulting detective didn't say a word, but blinked up at his flatmate. If he had been dumbfounded before, he now looked absolutely bamboozled. John felt his smile widen, and stroked Sherlock's brow with his thumb.

"You're an idiot," he said softly.

Something flickered in Sherlock's eyes, and he brought up his hand to his face before putting it on John's. John froze, unsure of what he meant by the gesture. He couldn't read anything in his gaze.

He heard the door open and close downstairs. But he was so preoccupied with Sherlock's hand on his that he paid it no heed. Only when he heard the steps creak did he snap back to reality; he was not quick enough to react. Their door was opened before he could step back or disentangle his fingers from Sherlock's hair. John looked up reluctantly.

The elder Holmes was standing in the doorway, arching an eyebrow smugly.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Am I interrupting?"

Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh, unsurprised to hear his brother's voice.

"In fact, you are," he said as he sat back up and turned to glare at him.

Mycroft looked decidedly unimpressed.

"May I come in?" he asked politely, as if he'd never broken into their flat or come in uninvited.

"Make yourself at home," John said derisively, and Sherlock shared a private smile with him.

"You've been ignoring my calls," Mycroft said as he walked in.

"Phone on silence mode," his brother replied dismissively, lying back down on the couch.

"Well, as long as it didn't end up crushed with you under a car."

Sherlock cast him a sidelong glance, and caught John smirking at Mycroft.

"So that's why you came," he said, somewhat relieved that it wasn't about their relationship. John didn't want to discuss this again with Mycroft before he had a chance to do so with Sherlock – if ever, really. "See, everybody worries about you, Sherlock."

John gave him a smile, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Yet somehow, John's presence in the room made Mycroft's a lot more bearable.

"I'll make us some tea," John offered, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezing on the way. Sherlock watched him as he went into the kitchen, startled. John was acting... strangely. Not in a negative way, but he had never been so tactile with him when neither of them was a feline.

He looked away and met Mycroft's pointed gaze, which he shrugged off. It struck him that, perhaps, he wasn't the only one who found that John's presence made their interaction easier.

"The American Mafia, Sherlock? Really? I thought you had learned your lesson after last time."

"I have," Sherlock quipped. "John posted a picture of us on his blog."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Sherlock did not develop, knowing his brother got his meaning perfectly and was only taunting him.

"The Mafia?" John said from the kitchen. "So it really is–"

Sherlock's phone rang, and he picked it up immediately, standing up. "Yes, Angelo."

"Silence mode, was it?" Mycroft remarked.

John simply smiled, then remembered their conversation and refocused his attention on the elder Holmes.

"Did you come because the Mafia is involved?"

"I came because my brother was almost killed twice in this case, and I would like him to solve it quickly, and, ideally, remain in one piece."

"You can say that again," John nodded, coming back with two mugs of tea and handing one to Mycroft, who took it as gracefully as if it were china and didn't have "Half" printed on it next to a half watermelon. A client who had assumed they were a couple had given them two matching mugs to thank Sherlock for proving her husband had not been killed by her lover, but by his mistress. The other mug also had a half watermelon printed on it, but it said "Better". They never used both at the same time. In fact, they hardly ever used either, since John had his own In Arduis Fidelis mug and Sherlock had some nondescript grey one.

Funny how everyone had assumed they were together almost from day one. John hated to prove them right, but then again...

"John?"

"Yes. Sorry. So what's the Mafia got to do with–"

"Brad and Helena were hitmen," Sherlock replied as he hung up, apparently satisfied that he got the information before his brother could give it to him.

"Indeed," Mycroft confirmed, handing John a file. He went through it quickly, his eyes widening.

"That's–"

"They often worked for the Californian branch of the Cosa Nostra," Sherlock went on, regally ignoring the file. "I assume that is how they met."

"You assume?" Mycroft echoed in what could only be teasing, and John wondered, not for the first time, whether both men enjoyed antagonizing each other or if they just did it out of habit.

"Brad Campbell was born in Buffalo, and first started to work for the Buffalo crime family," John interrupted before they could go on bickering, reading out the file. "Helena Whittaker was born in Los Angeles, and got some contracts with the Los Angeles crime family."

"She even has cousins and uncles who are part of it," Sherlock put in, annoyed that John was reading Mycroft's file instead of listening to him, "the Venucci."

"So, what? Helena killed her husband and called her uncles to help?" John asked, disbelieving.

"Although put in a rather crude way, I believe you have expressed the general idea," Mycroft told him. Sherlock scowled. Perhaps he thought that insulting John's intellect was his prerogative, John mused, and somehow he wasn't as offended as he should have been.

"Thank you for your input, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Was there anything else?"

Mycroft nodded and turned to John.

"Thank you for taking care of my brother," he said solemnly, and John could only stare. What he wanted to say was "I'm not his keeper," but somehow what came out was:

"It's a two-way thing."

Again, he fell the weight of Sherlock's eyes fixed on him, and wondered since when he had developed this sense. He turned away abruptly and walked into the kitchen to get Sherlock's steaming mug, came back, handed it to him. Sherlock's gaze was still on him and John forced himself to look up and hold it. Their fingers brushed as Sherlock took the mug, and his voice was quiet when he said:

"Thank you."

Mycroft cleared his throat. John resumed breathing and turned to their guest automatically, but Sherlock didn't move.

"I will leave you to it, then," the elder Holmes said, and John nodded voicelessly, whatever "it" was. From the look of amusement Mycroft had on his face as he left, he certainly had some idea.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock had been playing the violin for the rest of the day. John hadn't wanted to interrupt, although he didn't see what got the consulting detective so bothered. Wasn't the case solved, as it was?

When after eight o'clock Sherlock still hadn't stopped playing, John decided it was time to distract him, for the sake his own nerves and that of the neighbours. Sherlock's music was beautiful. John might have been a little biased; at any rate, he enjoyed listening to his playing. But even he got tired of hearing the same melody for three hours.

Sherlock started when John put his hand on his shoulder, and gave him an inquiring look.

"Dinner," John stated, holding out a plate with his flatmate's regular order at their Chinese take-away.

"I'm not hungry. When did we order?"

"I did. Half an hour ago. You weren't paying attention to me."

"I'm on a case, John."

"Yes. You're still eating."

Sherlock looked at him for a moment longer before finally putting the violin back in its case and taking the plate and the pair of chopsticks.

"I'm not hungry," he repeated.

"I heard you the first time."

John walked back to the kitchen and sat down at the experiment-free corner of the table with his own plate. Sherlock briefly wondered whether John was upset with him for not spending more time "paying attention" to him, or whatever it was couples did, and joined him at the table.

"So," John began, and Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly, fearing what their conversation might be like. He still remembered the pointless exchange between George and Helena when he had caught them in the kitchen. "Tell me again why the information Angelo and Mycroft gave you isn't enough to get Helena arrested?"

Sherlock blinked, twice. John tilted his head to the side and returned his stare. He didn't seem to be expecting Sherlock to make small talk; he wanted to talk about the case. Sherlock wasn't sure why he thought the way they spoke to each other should change — he shouldn't have been surprised. After all, they mostly talked about cases. Why should it change?

Clearing his throat, he replied eventually:

"The fact that she was a hitwoman is enough to get her arrested, but not to prove that she killed Brad. And it wouldn't help us find Henry."

"Couldn't the police interrogate her?"

"The Met doesn't torture people, John. That woman will deny everything. And we don't have a motive."

John frowned.

"What do you mean we don't have a motive? He divorced her and left her for a young man. George said she'd felt abandoned and betrayed."

"And the therapist said Brad had felt betrayed as well when he found out she was still working as a hitwoman and had kept in touch with the Los Angeles crime family through her cousins. But she blew up the house, John! Not every spurned ex-wife does that."

"Didn't you say she could've had access to Brad's and Henry's file at Dr. Barnicot's?"

"Yes."

"And the police believes Henry is the culprit because it all seemed so 'crazy', right? The way it was done. The notes. The bomb."

"Yes, yes."

"So wasn't she just trying to blame it on him?"

"Of course she was trying to blame it on him. But she didn't need to blow up the house to do that!"

John shrugged.

"I don't know. If she was trying to make it look like Brad wanted to die and Henry was the one to help him, she would've gone for the dramatic. Eat your food, Sherlock."

"She's a professional. If she went through the trouble of setting a bomb, there must be a reason."

"Something she wanted to destroy in the house?"

"Yes, but what?"

Sherlock's eyes were burning. John found himself transfixed for a moment, then snapped out of it.

"How would I know? Your food, Sherlock."

Sherlock groaned and stopped picking at the contents of his plate. He took a reluctant mouthful, then another.

"Happy?"

"Another thirty like that and I will be."

Sherlock looked at him askance. "Five."

"Twenty-five."

"Ten."

"Twenty."

"Fifteen," Sherlock said almost triumphantly — evidently the number he had been aiming for from the beginning. John rolled his eyes.

"Fine. You'll finish the rest tomorrow."

Sherlock thought it wiser not to reply to that. They finished eating in silence, Sherlock not quite daring to leave the table even after he'd had his fifteen mouthfuls. He settled for watching John eat absent-mindedly, still trying to find the missing piece to the puzzle. The murder had been premeditated. Revenge was one thing, but why would she kill Brad and not Henry? Why not both? Well. Perhaps both, the consulting detective thought grimly. But no. Not yet. They hadn't found a body. Why blow up the house? If she had wanted to destroy one thing in particular, she could have easily done it when she went in to kill Brad and set the bomb. There must be something he was missing.

"—and then the dog sprung wings and flew out into the sunset."

Sherlock blinked. "...what?"

John's eyes managed to be sparkling both with amusement and irritation. "You weren't listening."

"Why would I listen to you talking nonsense?" Sherlock countered rather weakly. He tried to find any signs of reproach in John's demeanour, but didn't see any. His voice had been fond.

"It wasn't nonsense at the beginning."

"I see."

John scoffed. "We need to talk."

"We've been talking."

"I meant, not about the case."

Sherlock tensed up again. Oh. So John did need small talk.

"How was your day?" he asked tentatively.

"What?"

Sherlock stilled himself. Sherlock Holmes did not fidget. Wasn't asking about his day the thing to do? He had no idea what else he could ask about.

"At the clinic?"

Now John looked clearly dismayed. Sherlock had no clue about what he should say to make it better.

"Sherlock, I don't know why you're trying to avoid the conversation, but I need to know—"

"I'm not avoiding the conversation!" he protested promptly.

"Oh come on! The clinic? Please. That was a very poor way to change the subject."

"I wasn't trying to change the subject," Sherlock snapped. John didn't seem convinced. "I was just trying..."

He fell silent. This was stupid.

"Trying to what, Sherlock?" John asked a lot more softly, leaning towards him.

Sherlock looked away. He hated this. He hated John for making him feel so inadequate, and not doing anything about it.

"I don't know how to make small talk," he let out at last.

Sherlock was looking everywhere but at John, whose eyes widened as he understood what was going on with a pang of guilt.

"Right. See, this is what we need to talk about."

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to his flatmate in alarm. John swallowed.

"I... Sherlock. What do you want?"

Something close to panic flashed in Sherlock's eyes, and for a second he looked like a trapped animal. John felt even worse.

"That's a rather vague question," Sherlock answered.

"I realised today that I hadn't actually asked you what you wanted at all. You said it was 'good', but that's rather vague too. So I'm asking you now. What do you want, Sherlock?"

"From what, John? With what?"

"Us," John said bluntly, and straightened up a bit. The military stance, Sherlock thought. He blinked. Something suddenly occurred to him.

"Did Mycroft ask you to propose to me?"

John was glad he hadn't been eating or drinking, or he would've choked.

"What? No! Where the hell did you get such an idea?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock said defensively. He was starting to become quite irritated with the whole thing. "In fact, I don't know what you're talking about."

"Us. Our relationship."

"Oh." Sherlock fell silent again. This was... good. If John was truly willing to discuss things, it should be... good. "What did you want to talk about?"

"What I just said. About what you want."

"Fine. Well," Sherlock began. He wasn't sure how to put this diplomatically. He caught John's eye. Non-diplomatic would have to do, then. "I'm glad that you stated how you felt and am amenable to an adaptation of the parameters of our partnership. But I'm not exactly satisfied with how you've been handling, or rather, failed to, things so far."

John gaped. He couldn't think of anything to do but gape. His mind was having a hard time wrapping itself around everything that Sherlock had just said, and was stuck on "not satisfied" and "failed to".

"John. Stop."

"What?"

"Thinking whatever you were just thinking."

"I—"

"You're wrong."

"How can you say that when you don't even know what—"

"John. We each have our own areas of expertise. Correct?"

"Correct," John said numbly.

"And relationships isn't one of mine, John! You know that. You've always known that."

"Sherlock, I am so sor—"

"Stop it! Do you regret so much loving me?"

Sherlock froze. He hadn't meant to say that. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"What? Sherlock—"

"Forget that last part."

"But—"

"It doesn't matter."

"Sherlock—"

"Let's just discuss—"

"Sherlock! Will you let me speak?!"

Sherlock looked almost... sheepish. He averted his gaze, pursed his lips, and sulked. Or so John thought, anyway. He stood up, walked around the table, and squatted down in front of his friend, putting his hands on his knees.

"All right. I think we've been speaking at cross-purposes. I... Sherlock, that's why I need to know what you want."

"And what do you want, John?"

"I don't want to lose your friendship."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I want to stay with you."

"Good. Then we do have a common goal. This shouldn't be so difficult." He clicked his tongue. "Why is this so difficult?"

John gave him a weak smile.

"Relationships," he said.

"I see." Well, he didn't, not really. But from the look on John's face, he knew, and so Sherlock did not expand on the matter. He'd admitted to enough of his shortcomings for one day. Or one week.

"You're right," John resumed, "I haven't been handling things properly. In fact, I haven't been handling them at all. But Sherlock, you've got to understand, this..." John waved his hand uncertainly. "...this is so far from anything I've known. It doesn't fall under any of the usual relationship parameters."

"And that's bad?"

John shook his head with a smile.

"No, Sherlock. It just is. And if you want my opinion, I think it's good. God, more than good." His hands tightened around his friend's knees. "I... This is new for me too, okay? So you'll have to put up with me. And Sherlock, you must promise me something."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You must promise me not to do anything you don't want to do. I'm not leaving, so I... If you wanted it to remain just as—"

"John," Sherlock interrupted somewhat curtly, not wanting to go there again. "We've always found compromises. We've both adapted ourselves to each other's needs and habits. I know I am not the easiest person to live with. But we've managed until now. There's no reason we shouldn't be able to manage further."

John didn't want this step to be a "compromise", but nodded nonetheless. "All right. I still want your word. It's important that you tell me if—"

"You have it," he cut in. "You have my word. Happy?"

John's face broke into a smirk as he stood back up. "Very."

"I expect reciprocity," Sherlock pointed out. John looked lost, so he felt compelled to develop: "You too will have to tell me when you want something or do not want something."

"Right. Of course."

Sherlock repressed a sigh. That had been a lie, if he'd ever heard any. He considered for a second calling John on it, then changed his mind. He stood up, picked up his violin, and resumed playing.

He didn't stop until a few hours later. The flat was quiet. John must have gone to bed.

Sherlock went into the bathroom to shower, and could smell John's shampoo. He hadn't noticed that he had taken a shower tonight. In fact, he had no idea how John had spent his evening. It was rather ironic, considering Sherlock himself had been thinking as much about John as about the case. He had come to the conclusion that the problem between them wasn't just about sex, but about feelings too. John had seemed persuaded enough that Sherlock indeed wanted them to remain together, so that was at least something. But if he had to be completely honest, Sherlock did not care much in what respect they remained together, as long as John remained his friend and flatmate and colleague; as long as they shared quarters, went on cases together, and remained in each other's presence more often than not. The rest was just technicalities.

Having come to a decision, Sherlock turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He realised as he dried himself that he had used John's shampoo — probably because he had been so engrossed thinking about him. Oh well. John probably wouldn't mind. Sherlock walked back to the living-room, switched on John's laptop, and ordered something via the internet. He erased all traces of his search, turned the laptop off, and went to his bedroom.

John wasn't there. Surprised, Sherlock walked quietly up to John's room. The light wasn't on, but the door had been left opened. Sherlock smiled unwittingly and stepped in.

His face broke into a full grin when he saw that the shape under the sheets wasn't that of a man. He probably should've felt guilty about making John feel abandoned enough that he transformed into a manul, but all he felt as he lay down next to him and gathered him into his arms was glee. He couldn't help himself.

"John," he called, scratching the cat between the ears. "John. You're a manul. John."

Finally, the cat opened one sleepy eye and nuzzled him groggily. Sherlock smirked.

"So much for telling me what you wanted," he remarked.

John blinked. Sherlock wondered just how awake he was.

"Not that I'm complaining," he murmured, and cuddled his friend comfortably. He felt the muscles in his own body relax as the manul snuggled up closer to his chest, purring softly. His last thought before falling asleep was: yes. They would manage.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"John."

Soft and warm. John was never one to linger in bed in the morning. He enjoyed taking his time at breakfast, reading the paper with a cup of tea.

"John."

But procrastinating in bed, unless he was in good company for some specific physical activities, wasn't something he indulged in. And John certainly did not remember having gone to bed with a woman last night.

"John."

Plus, that was Sherlock's voice. John smiled in his half-asleep state. If Sherlock was here, it meant he was home. In his own bed. With Sherlock. John could get used to that kind of morning. He snuggled up closer to the source of warmth.

"John."

There was a whiny quality to the voice now. Why was Sherlock annoyed? Was he not as comfortable as John? Maybe he needed some kind of vocal acknowledgement.

"John."

"Mmmm."

There.

"Get up. I think I know where Henry is."

Henry? Who was Henry? Didn't matter. Sherlock's voice had taken an edge of pride and pleasure. Remotely. Still, that was progress from the annoyance. John nuzzled up closer to his friend, not quite sure what he was nuzzling – Sherlock was flat and angular no matter the limb.

"John. Get up. Let's go."

Now, that wasn't something John felt very inclined to do. At all. He groped for something to grab and stroke and possibly kiss, hoping to convince Sherlock that getting up wasn't necessary. Not just yet. His hand met silky curls and he smiled. He brought Sherlock's head closer to his and caressed his hair down to his ear, massaging the soft skin behind it, continuing down to the nape of his neck – and pressed a kiss to what was probably his chin. John heard a groan.

"Oh for goodness' sake... John! We have a case!"

Sherlock was really being difficult.

"John. You are naked and wrapped around me. Also, I believe you have an erection."

The words "naked" and "erection" in Sherlock's mouth just sounded wrong. John's eyes snapped open. Sherlock was fully clothed, looking as pristine as ever. Obviously he had been awake for a little while. He did not seem flushed in the slightest, simply giving John a pointed look. John closed his eyes again.

"Oh God."

"No, it's just me."

John groaned and buried his face into the pillow.

"John! We don't have time for this. Come on, get up."

He himself stood up from the bed, then stopped at the door.

"Or do you need help with anything?"

John raised his head and gave his friend an inquiring look. Sherlock simply glanced at his crotch under the sheet – well, technically, at his bum, since John was lying on his stomach, but the message was clear. John sat up abruptly and pressed the heels of his palms to his face, rubbing away the last shreds of sleep from his eyes.

"Are you serious?" He chanced a quick look at his friend. "God, you're serious. Okay Sherlock, look, I'm not having this conversation first thing in the morning."

"I thought that was an affliction specific to the morning," Sherlock stated as if they weren't talking about John being hard right now. John took a deep breath.

"Just... give me five minutes. I'll be down in five."

Sherlock seemed about to remark on the redundancy of his statement, but appeared to think better of it, and nodded instead.

"I'll be waiting for you in the cab."

"How did you find where Henry was?"

Sherlock grinned, not helping his friend's "affliction".

"Visiting friends from California, John!"

And with those brilliantly unhelpful words, he was out of the room. John sighed.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"So where are we going?" John asked as they got out of the cab somewhere in Helena's neighbourdhood.

"To the house we wanted to move in."

"What?"

Before he even explained to John what was going on, Sherlock walked up to the door of a house and rang the bell. John came to stand beside him.

"And who are we today?" he said.

The door opened and a plump woman in her forties blinked up at them.

"How may I help you?"

Her Italian accent somehow didn't have the friendliness of Angelo's. Sherlock took out a badge as a man appeared behind her.

"Lucretia, what is it?"

"Inspector Dimmock," Sherlock introduced himself. "May we come in?"

The man stepped in front of the woman, a frown on his face. Definitely not as friendly as Angelo.

"What is this all about?" he demanded.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to answer when John's phone rang. The consulting detective gave him a rather miffed look, and John grumbled an apology as he picked up.

"Yes, Inspector Lestrade?"

"John? What's with the title? No, don't answer that. Are you with Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"We are investigating a murder," Sherlock was telling the couple, "and a disappearance."

"What does that have to do with us?" the man asked.

"We've found Henry's body," Lestrade said.

John's hand tightened around his phone.

"What?"

"We'd just like to ask you some questions. Can we come in?" Sherlock said.

"He was found earlier this morning in the Epping Forest. He shot himself with the same gun that killed Brad."

"We don't have anything to do with a murder," the man said.

John grabbed Sherlock's arm, earning himself a glare.

"It's Greg," he said gravely. "They've found Henry's body."

"What?" Sherlock and the man said at once.

"Thanks Greg. I'll call you back."

"Wait, John, where–"

John hung up.

"Epping forest. This morning. He shot himself with the same weapon that was used to kill Brad."

Sherlock's features had become tense. John could see he was both dismayed and already thinking ahead. He must've counted on Henry to get some of the answers.

"Someone else is dead?" the man asked. He had the decency to sound calmer now.

Since it didn't look like Sherlock would answer any time soon, lost in thought as he was, John nodded. The woman brought her hand to her mouth and shook her head.

"Bless his soul!" she said.

Sherlock looked at her like she had just brought him a serial-killing case on a platter.

"Yes... his soul!"

The woman blinked at him, and John just eyed him warily. Sherlock was on fire again.

"Thank you very much for your time, and my apologies for having disturbed you so early in the day. Since our prime suspect was just found dead, I believe our case is closed. Have a wonderful day!"

And just like that he turned and left. John just nodded a goodbye and ran after him.

"What the hell was that about?"

"Call Lestrade. Tell him to arrest Helena Whittaker and the Venuccis."

"Who?"

"The Venuccis, John! The couple, just now."

"Oh. Wait, what?"

"Just call him! We're going to Henry's flat."

John groaned, but still dialled Greg's number.

"Why are we going?"

Sherlock smiled.

"I think I know why she blew up the house."

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

.

.

tbc

…

Chapter Text

A.N.: This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron. Hope you enjoy reading! :)

.

.

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 21

And so will I have mine

.

When they arrived at Henry's flat, John was no closer to knowing what they were looking for. When asked, Sherlock had simply replied: "His soul, John, his soul!" As if it were obvious. By now, John was used to it.

The door creaked open and he didn't ask his friend why he still had the keys to the flat. That, too, was evident. Because it could still be useful. Because Sherlock did not care much for Lestrade's requests, or his orders. John shook his head, followed the consultive detective in silence, and closed the door behind them.

"So," he began, looking around. "His soul."

There was a question there, and Sherlock must have heard it, for he turned to his partner with a suspicious frown. John smiled to assure him he wasn't being sarcastic. Somehow, he could always tell when Sherlock was wondering whether he was being laughed at. To be fair, he often was. John had never met anyone so talented in eliciting envy and irritation within the first minute of acquaintance.

"Josiah Brown," Sherlock said as gave John a pair of rubber gloves and started to nose about. John put on the gloves and mimicked him.

"The friend you had coffee with?" he asked, going through the chest of drawers.

"Lunch. Yes."

"You actually ate?"

Sherlock gave him a look. John shrugged.

"He said Henry often told him that Brad had entrusted him with his soul," Sherlock went on, discarding the question.

John put down the book he had been looking at, and raised an eyebrow.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock had a half-smile that made him annoyingly kissable. It was silly, really, how much facial expressions mattered to endear. Not that Sherlock was consciously trying to be endearing, of course. John looked away.

"I was hoping you would tell me," Sherlock answered obliviously. "But of course, you wouldn't."

There it was again. John made a face. "Of course."

Sherlock was moving things around, searching the desk, and clicked his tongue.

"I mean you wouldn't because it wasn't about sentiments, John! His soul didn't mean his soul. Not really."

"Oh, so we're not actually looking for a soul. Thanks for clearing that up."

The consulting detective glared, but it only made him look more eatable. John averted his gaze again. He really was doomed.

"The therapist," Sherlock continued, resuming his search, still not telling John what this was all about. Probably getting revenge for the teasing. Oh well.

"The therapist," John repeated to indulge him.

Sherlock moved on to the kitchen and started going through the cupboards. John followed him, not sure what to do to help.

"Brad told her he couldn't forgive his wife and felt betrayed because he too had left part of his soul behind," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "Something about their having decided to give it up together, but Helena not keeping her end of the promise."

"Precisely. And then, that friend in LA sent him evidence that Helena still had 'bonds' there."

John blinked. Sherlock groaned with frustration as he slammed the last cupboard shut, and moved to the toilet.

"You mean... Soul refers to their job as hitmen?!"

"Helena was a hitwoman," Sherlock deadpanned as he looked behind the calendar with cat pictures. John rolled his eyes.

"So what are we looking for, exactly?"

"Evidence, John."

"What the friend from LA sent Brad."

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Are you saying that Brad had in his possesion documents that proved Helena was still a hitwoman? Why didn't he tell the police?"

"John. He'd been a hitman too."

"Right. Then why did he keep them? What could he possibly do with them?"

"Irene Adler."

John froze. He looked at Sherlock, but he was too busy opening every drawer in the bathroom to notice. "What?"

"Protection, John! Brad knew his wife. He must have predicted that she would, at some point, try to avenge herself."

"He knew she would kill him?"

"He knew she would try, and in all likelihood, succeed."

John swallowed, all thoughts of Irene Adler and unease and jealousy replaced by compassion. It was strange that he should feel sympathy for Brad at all; the man had been, after all, someone who killed for money. Yet there was something pitiful in the way he had finished his life. Knowing that every day he spent with his new lover might be the last. And Henry...

"He didn't think she would target him," he murmured. "How odd."

Sherlock glowered at the bathtub as if it were responsible for his not finding what he was looking for, and walked back to the main room. "Why is that odd?"

"If she wanted revenge, wouldn't she target what was most precious to her ex-husband?"

Sherlock's eyes were scanning the room. He was standing very still, only his hands, twitching with tension, betraying his impatience. John wondered whether he had heard him at all.

"She couldn't do that," Sherlock said absently. "Brad would have given the documents to the police right away. Henry was the one thing he would not bear to lose. Having lost him, he would not care if he ended up in prison as well."

"He had children," John pointed out weakly, but he could see the logic in Sherlock's words. He was probably right.

A shiver ran down his spine. So the couple had been involved in a cold war since their divorce. Helena could not do anything to Henry directly, so she had to devise a way to get revenge on the both of them without being caught. She had to kill Brad first, but in such a way that he would know she'd go after Henry when she was done with him. What a terrible way to go. John couldn't imagine how he would feel if he died knowing for sure that Sherlock would be next. He tore his gaze away from his friend, and looked around the room. His eyes stopped on the picture of Brad and Henry on the wall. They seemed happy. Was John imagining the pain behind the fondness on Brad's face? Henry's unbearable innocence?

"John. Are you all right?"

Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his gloom. "Yes. Sorry. I just..."

He stopped. His soul, Sherlock had said. Brad had entrusted Henry with his soul. John walked towards the picture on the wall, the glass still cracked after a mug had been thrown at it. Gingerly, he lifted it up. There was a safe behind it.

"Sherlock," John said, but his friend was already standing right beside him, the warmth of his body pervading John's space. He swallowed and stepped back.

"Brilliant," Sherlock whispered excitedly. He moved in closer, brushing past John, who shivered again. He watched as Sherlock's nimble fingers played with the lock and entered the numbers as if he had always known them.

"3101?"

"January 31. The day they met."

The safe opened with a patting sound, revealing a thick brown envelope. Sherlock took it carefully.

"How did you know where the safe was?" he asked as they left the flat once and for all.

John had a subdued smile.

"Sentiments."

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Sherlock, I need–"

"Evidence," Sherlock announced as he dropped the brown envelope on Lestrade's desk. The D.I. furrowed his brow.

"What's this?"

"The reason Helena blew up Brad's house," John put in, earning himself a miffed look from Sherlock, who clearly did not appreciate being interrupted in his moment of glory. John gave him a sheepish smile.

Lestrade opened the envelope and started going through the documents. His eyes widened.

"That's–"

"Brad and Helena worked as hitman and hitwoman back in the United States. They decided to change their lifestyle and leave everything behind when Helena got pregnant. Helena did not tell Brad that she continued to perform her job, and he felt betrayed when he found out. Someone sent him those documents to prove that she had not given up anything. Brad fell in love with Henry, divorced Helena. She could not get revenge by killing Henry directly, because Brad would have gone to the police with these documents. Conversely, as long as Henry was alive, Brad was reluctant to sell his wife to the police, because it would've put him in jail as well. I assume he did not believe she would break the statu quo. He underestimated her."

"Oh God."

Sherlock remained silent. He still looked tense, upset. John instinctively moved closer to him.

"Did you arrest the Venuccis?"

"I can't arrest people without evidence, Sherlock!"

"Well, you have it now. They're accomplices. Mentioned in there. Helena staged Brad's murder. Her alibi is flawed. I hired a car and retraced the route Helena claimed to have taken the morning of Brad's murder. She could have gone to his house, killed him, set the bomb, left. The Venuccis moved into a house in the neighbourhood some time before she enacted her plan: send the letters to frame Henry, kill Brad, kidnap Henry, keep him alive for a while to corroborate the hypothesis that he was the culprit, kill him and make it look like suicide."

"But Sherlock–"

John tuned out Greg's very legitimate questions. His attention was focused on Sherlock, who stood still and rather stiffly, whose voice was cold and detached, whose hands no longer twitched but were a little curled, tight. He answered the D.I.'s questions smoothly, almost offhandedly; but he didn't fool John. He was upset. John found he did not like this. He did not like it at all.

After another ten minutes of interrogation, Lestrade sighed and fell back into his chair.

"Fine. We might need to call you again for testimony, but for now you can go."

Sherlock gave a curt nod, turned on his heels, and left the room without another word. Greg did not ask what was wrong with him, and simply nodded at John wearily. John nodded back, and followed Sherlock out swiftly. Perhaps some day Sherlock would see what a good friend Lestrade truly was. How well he understood him.

Perhaps he already knew.

"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said tonelessly to the cabby as John shut the door behind him.

An unpleasant silence settled between them. John shifted a little and sat closer to his friend, their knees brushing.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"You did well."

Sherlock snorted.

"What am I, a child?"

John smiled. "Yes, but that's beside the point." He moved even closer as Sherlock darted a glower at him before looking out the window again.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

Annoyance. But behind it, something like shame.

"It's not your fault that Henry was killed."

"I know that!" Sherlock snapped.

"You couldn't have saved–"

"You're wrong."

John fell quiet. Sherlock went on, his voice low.

"It's not my fault that he was killed, but I could've saved him."

"But Sherlock–"

"She waited, John! She waited. Until last night he was still alive."

John didn't know what to say to that. He only knew how much he hated the expression Sherlock wore. His body moved before he could think about it. His hand came to rest on Sherlock's leg as he leant in, and pressed his lips to his.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Feeling John's hand on his thigh, Sherlock turned his face towards him only to be met by John's lips. He froze under the kiss, too stunned to return it even if he'd known how to. It was gentle and comforting, warm and supportive. Sherlock did not know what to make of it, but it felt like a gift or a smile or a hug without the awkwardness.

It stopped all too soon; too soon for him to react, too soon for him to even think that he should react and to panic because he did not know how.

John sat back with a small smile. Sherlock searched his face. He couldn't read him. Couldn't tell whether the slight blush in his cheeks denoted arousal or embarrassment, or both. There was fondness, worry, and uncertainty in his gaze. When the latter began to win over his general demeanour, Sherlock moved mechanically, grabbing John's wrist before he could retreat farther. John's face lit up again, and Sherlock felt the weight of a sigh lifted from his chest.

He swallowed. John's pulse under his palm was erratic, and Sherlock thought of a fluttering bird caught in some snare. It was warm. John's skin was rough against Sherlock's fingers, and he suddenly felt the urge to stroke it to smoothness. It did not make any sense. Fortunately, he still had enough not to act on it. Their eyes remained locked until the cabby's voice abruptly brought them back to the present.

"221B Baker Street."

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock blinked, fumbled a little to take his wallet out and handed a £20 note to the driver. He stepped out of the car quickly, and John waited to get back his change. His heart was pounding, and he too wanted to get out of the cramped space that had felt even more stifling after he'd kissed Sherlock, but that was no reason to throw money out–

Kissed him. He had kissed Sherlock. And apparently sent him into a state of shock. John groaned as he pocketed the change and got out of the cab. Sherlock was waiting for him by the front door, still looking floored. Still looking handsome and irrationally eatable. They climbed the creaking stairs in silence. When they got into the flat, Sherlock was still in a daze. John closed the door behind them, and coughed a little.

"Sherlock?"

"I was awake this time," Sherlock remarked.

John blinked. Right. Last time he'd kissed Sherlock, he had taken advantage of his sleeping form. It had been particularly insulting because to John, it'd been a test, a way to check whether he would be repelled by a man's touch. This time, in the cab, it hadn't been a test. It had been spontaneous and almost natural, as if they had always comforted each other that way.

"How did you find it?" Sherlock asked.

John looked at him with surprise. Wasn't that his line?

"How did you find it?"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought we were supposed to answer such questions truthfully and clearly, John."

Yes. They were. But John had been the one to initiate the kiss, so why would Sherlock... Oh. Last time had been a test. One that was interrupted by Maggie. Of course Sherlock would ask.

"I liked it," John said.

Sherlock's gaze was quizzical, and fell to John's crotch pointedly. John blushed, hard.

"Not like that!" he protested.

"Like what, then?"

"Like... I..."

He faltered. What could he say? That it had been a show of tenderness and support? That he hadn't thought about it at all, and acted on impulse? That it had simply felt right? That would have been incredibly presomptuous of him, considering he didn't know the effects of his gesture on Sherlock.

"You looked upset," he finished lamely.

"...You kissed me because I looked upset?"

John repressed a groan. That hadn't sounded right at all. Thankfully, there was no hurt in Sherlock's voice. Just something low and almost dangerous that made John shiver. The fact that Sherlock was now walking towards him like a predator didn't help.

"I..."

He was interrupted by Sherlock's mouth on his.

Later, John would think that he must have leapt into his personal space to silence him before he spouted any more nonsense. But for now he was too astonished to think anything at all.

The kiss wasn't chaste. It wasn't brutal exactly, but it wasn't gentle either, as if Sherlock were compensating his lack of experience with urgency and assertiveness. His hand was squeezing John's good shoulder a little too tightly, pinning him against the wall. When John's lips parted in shock, Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and his tongue was tentative as it stroked John's upper lip.

This was the last straw. The jolt of arousal that ripped through John's body snapped him back to reality. He pushed Sherlock back abruptly, holding him at arm's length. Breath short, he looked at his partner's face, trying to ignore the inviting glistening mouth and the dissecting gaze. John wanted nothing more than to lean in and embrace him.

"Sherlock, what was that?"

"You looked upset."

John stared. He couldn't tell whether his friend was being smug or cheeky or insecure. There was a glint of satisfaction in Sherlock's eyes, his mouth curved into the shadow of a smirk. But his features still held a trace of uncertainty.

"Sherlock, you can't... You can't just do that."

"But you liked it," Sherlock pointed out, eyeing the obvious bulge in John's trousers. John swore under his breath.

"That's not the point."

"I thought that was exactly the point."

"Do you want this, then?" John snapped. "Do you seriously want to have sex with me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was completely unfazed. "Sure. If you want to."

That was too much. John fought back the surge of anger that threatened to overwhelm him. And with anger, against Sherlock and against himself, came shame. Shame of being aroused when Sherlock clearly wasn't. Shame of having such desires when clearly there weren't returned.

"No," he said as calmly as he could. "I don't want to. And you don't want to either."

Sherlock stiffened, his face becoming blank.

"I see," he said curtly, and stepped back.

John let him go. He wished he could hug him, but although his erection was now deflating, he wasn't sure he could take much more contact. Sherlock turned away.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

To say Sherlock was displeased was an understatement.

John's answer had been limpid. Yet the consulting detective wasn't entirely convinced. His flatmate had kissed him first. And the second time, he had displayed indubitable signs of arousal.

But perhaps John was right. This was not the point.

With a sigh, Sherlock sat up in bed and considered giving up sleep altogether. His fingers twitched for a cigarette. His eyes fell on his violin case and he entertained the idea of playing something, anything, to rid his system of whatever poison was racking his nerves. But this was not an option. He might wake up John, and then his flatmate might come down to protest or, worse, to inquire what was wrong. Sherlock did not feel like talking to John, or facing him in any way. He had no idea of how he was supposed to act in his presence.

The point was that John, whether he felt attraction towards him or not, refused categorically to act on it. He'd admitted to liking the first kiss – the one that had not resulted in exciting him. Did he feel threatened in his masculinity when he reacted too much to Sherlock's touch? Or was the problem that Sherlock himself did not get aroused?

Sherlock wished he knew. Clearly his response had not been the correct one. He had only managed to anger John more.

Their day had been a long one after that. Sherlock did not have a case, and the one he had just solved left him with a sense of failure. He was restless, and the memory of Maggie's words did nothing to help his mood. The fact that he did not manage to delete them only furthered his annoyance.

"You're pathetic."

Thankfully, John had been out of the way most of the time, and so Sherlock did not take it out on him. Perhaps he'd needed some air. Perhaps he'd guessed Sherlock needed some space. The consulting detective hadn't even noticed his friend was gone until he came back, late in the afternoon. John did not say where he had gone. Sherlock did not ask.

"You're an idiot, and worse than that, you're completely self-deluded."

The evening too had been quiet. Sherlock pointedly avoided speaking, for he did not trust himself. He could not help but wonder.

If John was regretting any of this.

If the issue was that Sherlock was a man or that he was... well, himself.

If John had seeked someone else that afternoon to compensate Sherlock's shortcomings.

That last thought was preposterous, and Sherlock knew it. All the more reason to remain quiet and not make the situation worse.

"You think you're so smart, so strong, that you need nobody, but in fact you are completely dependent on people!"

So they had spent the evening in silence – not their usual, comfortable silence, but one that was off, like a false note – and finally John had retired for the night, saying he was tired. As if he needed to explain himself. As if Sherlock would question his decision to go to bed.

John had not offered they shared a room, so Sherlock hadn't either. Perhaps that was the safest course of action for now. Silence.

"You need people to distract you, people to make you eat, to obey your every order, even to save your bloody life..."

Sherlock got out of bed but did not walk up to his violin case. Instead, he started pacing the room, like a tiger in a cage.

A tiger. He let out a mirthless chuckle. Yes, that was a solution. Always a solution. Or perhaps, the heart of the problem. Maybe what John needed from him was a giant pet.

"You're completely worthless."

Well, in all likelihood, he would get it tomorrow. Would John be happier then? Certainly he was always more relaxed when Sherlock was in tiger form. That had been the trigger to their mild physical relationship. Before their transformations, Sherlock could not remember John touching him much. He had never hugged him for sure. Never caressed him.

Sherlock groaned. Why would John want to caress a man? Why would he ever want to caress him?

"You're so lucky to have met such a kind man as John, and that he got besotted with you."

But he had. Touching a tiger must have been easier, and John must have forgotten most of the time that it was Sherlock. But it had been Sherlock, all along.

Sherlock refused to feel miserable over the realisation that John's fondness for him was in fact more for a tiger which he hardly ever associated with his flatmate. The thought was stupid, just like most of the thoughts he'd had tonight. Unfortunately, Sherlock did not know how to stop thinking, even when his thinking was flawed.

"Enjoy it while it lasts..."

The sigh he let out as he slipped back into bed was heavy with frustration. Fine. If he could not find sleep, he would wait until it came to him.

"Such an obnoxious, twisted, disgusting freak like you is bound to live and die alone."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock's curls were surprisingly soft against his fingers. The nape of his neck was warm, unwinding under John's touch. It quivered when John ran his thumb over the delicate skin behind the earlobe. He moved in closer and embraced the warmth.

His bed was cold when John woke up.

It took him a minute to remember the previous day, and he was surprised to find himself in human form this morning.

"Do you seriously want to have sex with me, Sherlock?"

"Sure. If you want to."

John groaned and buried his face into the pillow. He was not ready to face the day. This wasn't even a clinic day, so he would have to face Sherlock as well, unless he elected to flee the flat and wander aimlessly throughout London (and how long would it be before Mycroft sent a car to have another lovely talk with him?).

Man up, he told himself. He knew he would have to explain to Sherlock why his reaction the previous day had angered him, but he still had no clue as to how he should convey his feelings. In fact, he wasn't sure himself why he felt that way. It had all been exactly like he'd thought; Sherlock was ready to indulge him and add a sexual dimension to their relationship, but he had no desire to do so. It made John feel sick that his friend was ready to go that far to ensure the success of their... couple. God, they were a couple now, weren't they?

John got out of bed with determination, put on his dressing gown and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast. Sherlock had been right. He was new to this, and John should have been the one to guide him through it, not snap or run away every time some difficulty came up.

For the first time since his unplanned confession, John became aware of how much he wanted this to work. He hadn't thought of it that way before. Rather, he had treated the whole thing like a huge blunder he had to make up for. Keep their relationship as it had always been. Reassure Sherlock that John's feelings didn't entail anything new, anything he hadn't signed up for when they moved in together. Because John had never mentioned this when they'd met – "You know how you said potential flatmates should know the worst about each other? Well, I'm not gay, but I might fall in love with you. Would that be a problem?"

No. That hadn't been part of the contract. Their relationship had quickly gone beyond that of flatmates, and in fact, Sherlock had lured John in with more than just flatsharing – adventure, danger, thrill. They'd become friends, and for someone like Sherlock, that meant a lot. It shouldn't have become anything more complicated than that; there shouldn't have been anything more.

John opened the cupboard to take two mugs and his eyes landed on the "Better" and "Half" ones. He smiled, took the "Better" one for Sherlock, and his own from the Royal Army Medical Corps with the regimental motto. He left them on the kitchen table and walked down the hallway to Sherlock's room, knocking softly on the door. His friend was always up early, so John guessed that either he had already gone out, either he was sulking and avoiding him. Sherlock had been cold the previous day after their talk – fight? – and John knew he had to make amends. He couldn't keep giving mixed signals like this. He had to make it clear that his physical tokens of tenderness did not imply that Sherlock should answer with sexual favours.

John knocked again, a little more firmly. Still nothing. He frowned, and assumed Sherlock must have gone out. Maybe he'd been more upset than John had thought. That, or... He swallowed, and pushed the door open cautiously, glancing inside. What he saw filled him all at once with delight and concern.

A tiger was lying down on the bed, his head resting on his front paws, his tail curled on his side. He was completely still, but raised his neck when John came in. He looked like a Sphinx, and John felt a shiven run down his spine.

For a second, he wondered if this really was Sherlock. It was an absurd idea, for there was no reason there should be a tiger in Sherlock's room if it wasn't Sherlock. Yet his friend in tiger form had always been recognizable – or at least, John had growned used to recognizing him instantly. When Sherlock woke up as a tiger, he usually looked disgruntled, or haughty, or both. But the feline lying on the bed now did not look anything. His face was blank. It looked like a tiger, and not like a person. John felt a lump form in his throat.

"Sherlock?" he said tentatively.

The tiger kept his gaze locked on John's for another minute during which John wondered whether he was dreaming. Perhaps he hadn't woken up at all, and was still in his bed having some kind of nightmare. Eventually, the tiger broke eye contact, and resumed his previous posture, head resting on his front paws. John took a step towards him.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The tiger did not bulge, so John came up closer and put a hand on his back, skin against fur. The tiger growled. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock?"

The tiger pushed his hand away and bared his teeth. John backed off but straightened visibly, his shoulders becoming stiff. He glared.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

For an insane moment, John really thought that this couldn't be Sherlock – maybe he'd transformed and this time, had forgotten all about being human. Maybe he didn't remember who he was, didn't remember John–

No. If this had been a real tiger, he probably wouldn't just lie there and merely push John back when he touched him. A real tiger would've bitten him, surely. Right?

"Sherlock, please tell me what's going on."

That was stupid. Even John realised it as he said it – how could Sherlock tell him anything? But the tiger did not snort. The tiger didn't arch an eyebrow or scoff or roll his eyes. He simply gave John one last glower before falling into blankness again. The lump in John's throat was becoming bigger by the second.

"Sherlock, please... Wait."

John ran out of the room and went to get his laptop. Then he looked around for the keyboard with larger keys. When he finally found it, he hurried back to Sherlock's room, only to find the door closed. And apparently, locked. Well, that dispelled any lingering doubt he might've had that this wasn't completely Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?! What is this all about?"

Silence. Of course, silence, John berated himself. Sherlock couldn't answer. And now that he had loked the door, there was no way they could communicate. Was Sherlock that angry with him? He had never acted that way before. And how would he turn back, if he refused to let John touch him?

"Sherlock, please, open the door. I've brought the laptop and the keyboard. We can talk."

Nothing. John clenched his fists.

"Fine. Suit yourself."

He turned on his heels and marched back to the kitchen. If Sherlock wanted to sulk all day, then so be it. He certainly wasn't going to worry. What he done anyway? He'd told Sherlock he didn't want to have sex with him – a lie, admittedly. But couldn't Sherlock see where the problem was? Sherlock didn't do sex, he didn't do romance, and yet he was ready to do all of those for John's sake. John was never going to treat his friend like some sacrificial lamb.

His eyes fell on the two mugs he'd left on the table. "Better", one said. "In Arduis fidelis", said the other. Faithful in adversity. John pinched the bridge of his nose. Okay. Okay.

"Sherlock?" he tried again, knocking softly. "Listen, I think I got the message. You don't want me anywhere near you right now, and I'm not going to ask why, because obviously you don't want to answer that either. But please unlock the door. If you don't, I won't leave you in peace, because I'll keep worrying that something might happen to you in there and–"

The door unlocked.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

.

.

tbc

…

Chapter Text

A.N.: This chapter was not betaed. My apologies for all the remaining mistakes and typos! I hope you can still enjoy it. Oh, and Merry Christmas to you all! :)

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 22

For every evil under the sun

.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, knocking softly. "Listen, I think I got the message. You don't want me anywhere near you right now, and I'm not going to ask why, because obviously you don't want to answer that either. But please unlock the door. If you don't, I won't leave you in peace, because I'll keep worrying that something might happen to you in there and–"

The door unlocked.

John stared at it for a second, then pushed it open. He briefly wondered how Sherlock had managed to lock the door with paws, but all thoughts about logic and ability deserted him when he saw that Sherlock was not in bed. He was facing the window, stiff and still. John's eyes raked over the straight back and the tenseness in his shoulders. For a moment, the doctor believed that Sherlock might not even be breathing. Then there it was. Shoulders sagging slightly, then rising again. One more time. And again.

"Thank you," John said, so quietly he wasn't sure his friend heard him.

He sat down on the bed and watched Sherlock's back. Before he'd noticed, he had started to match his breathing pace, the rise and fall of their chests the only thing that disturbed the stillness in the room. John sat, and breathed, and waited, until the tension turned into simple silence, then into shared silence. The space between them seemed to have become solid, the distance something physical John could have touched if he had reached out. He did not. He sat, watched, and waited.

He could tell that some significant amount of time had passed when the light changed outside and the shadow of the tiger before him stretched and shifted on the floor. Sherlock turned to him, his gaze placid. John held it. Deliberately, the tiger walked towards him, each step eating at this space between them, until the distance felt like a wall of thin paper. Sherlock stopped in front of John and sat so that their eyes were level. John did not look away. He did not reach out either.

"I'm sorry," John said, and forced himself not to shiver under the tiger's impassible gaze. "I made you feel miserable enough that you changed into a tiger, and for that, I apologise."

Sherlock made no sign that he was even listening. He kept staring at John, expressionless, doing nothing to encourage his flatmate to go on. John gulped back a sigh. He raised his hand and moved to touch his friend, but before his palm could make contact with the fur, Sherlock had stepped back. John's hand retreated, and fell back limply on his lap.

"Okay," he said, trying not to be hurt by the obvious rejection. "Okay."

He wasn't sure what else to say. Sherlock would not let him touch him. Until now, all the talking had eventually led to touch, as if it had always been what they both really craved. Comfort. Warmth. An amicable presence.

Both? Really? What had Sherlock craved? Would John ever know?

"What do you want?" he murmured, unable to keep the helplessness out of his voice. "Tell me what you want."

The tiger just stared. John laughed bitterly and ran a hand through his hair. Yeah, right. The keyboard. The laptop. Those transformations made communication almost impossible when they needed it the most.

"Well, I got that you didn't want me to touch you. That's a start."

John stood up and walked to the door.

"Would you like breakfast?"

Minutely, the tiger shook his head. John nodded, and walked back to the kitchen. He made himself some tea, some toast, although he had rather lost his apetite.

At some point, Sherlock walked past him and into the living-room, settling on the couch. Ignoring him. Not even pretending to ignore, but truly, unquestionably, acting as if he weren't even there. That had happened in the past. When Sherlock got too engrossed in something, he would completely lose track of John's whereabouts, would not see him, would not hear him.

But that was when Sherlock had a case. Sometimes, an experiment. Not when he was doing nothing. Not even when he was brooding. The way he simply erased his presence from the flat made John feel like his heart had suddenly decided to pump ice instead of blood in his veins. He smiled, self-deprecating, thinking how Sherlock would have reacted had he voiced that image. Ice in your veins, John? Quite a colorful and inaccurate phrasing for a doctor. Not to mention that in a body, the heart is hardly the organ that decides anything...

Except that Sherlock would not have reacted thus even if John had said it out loud. Not just because he was a tiger, but because something was seriously wrong with him. With them.

At last, John had enough and went to sit down with a cup of tea in his armchair, moving it closer to the couch.

"Sherlock. I need you to tell me what's wrong."

Again, the tiger stared. But this time, John was expecting it. He pushed the laptop and keyboard towards him.

"Don't give me that look," he said, even though Sherlock was hardly giving him any look, "you know as well as I do that you can type an answer. Or you can move my hands with your...paws, if it's easier."

Sherlock looked away.

"No, please, don't do this," John pressed, putting a hand on Sherlock's paw wihout thinking. It happened in a flash. The tiger emitted a loud growl and scratched John's hand away, drawing blood. The doctor's eyes widened, but he made no sound, eyes fixed on the gash and already knowing it would require stitches. The pain hit him later, but when it did, his brain came back online and he rushed to the bathroom to avoid shedding blood everywhere.

"Shit!" he cursed under his breath.

Now in full doctor mode, his priority was to treat the wound. He closed the door behind him to reach the first aid kit which was probably not the one you found in every household. But this was his and Sherlock's flat. And, unsurprisingly, they both hated visiting hospitals in anything but a professional capacity. Both had a tendency to self medicate, and take care of minor injuries themselves. This was minor. Painful as hell and annoyingly messy, but minor.

As he mounted the needle with attached suture into a needle holder and pulled through, tying the thread into a surgeon's knot, he calculated his chances of managing five horizontal mattress stitches for the five gashes on his hand. His right hand. Of course. The answer was: close to zero. A continuous stitch would be quicker, but perhaps a bit risky if Sherlock decided to play around with that hand again. John gritted his teeth. Played around. Right. Damn, he had no time for that.

Refusing to become distracted at the moment, he put aside the pain and focused on getting his stitches right. In the end, he went for the interrupted stitch, because he could not trust his left hand to perform anyhing more complicated on himself. Not with Sherlock whimpering behind the door, scratching at it. Not with blood pounding in his ears and anguish blooming in his chest. He hardly recognised the consulting detective this time. John had no idea what was going on, but if the tiger decided to hurt him again, there would be blood. On both sides.

When he was done with the stitches, John took his time to clean the sink and put everything neatly away. He kept a scalpel in hand, and opened the door.

Sherlock crawled back hurriedly to avoid receiving the door in the face, and let out a low whining sound. John took a look at him, and Sherlock took a look at the scalpel, then at John's stitched hand. Their gazes locked.

"I'm going to ask you something Sherlock, and I need you to answer me. Nod or shake your head. That's all I'm asking. But you must answer me." He raised his hand holding the scalpel. His gaze hardened. "Am I going to need this?"

The tiger backed up against the wall. John took a step.

"Answer me, Sherlock. Was that you latching out at me because I forgot you didn't want me to touch you, and you couldn't control yourself, or am I going to have to defend myself?"

This time, Sherlock shook his head.

"No? Are you saying I am not going to need this?"

Sherlock nodded. John sighed.

"Okay. Good."

He turned and put away the scalpel before emerging from the bathroom again, just in time to see Sherlock retreat to his room.

"Now wait a minute. Where do you think you're going?"

He followed his friend into the bedroom and glared.

"Don't you think you owe me an explanation? Goddamn it, Sherlock! You do realise that you will have to let me touch you to turn back into a man, right?"

Sherlock growled.

"Stop it! Stop that. I don't understand. I can't understand if you don't tell me what's going on! So please, tell me. Is this... Is this about sex?"

The tiger blinked. John tried to scowl away his own flush.

"I mean about yesterday? Are you refusing to let me touch you because I said I didn't want to have sex with you?"

Sherlock looked away. John stared.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Sherlock just growled.

"Sherlock, look at me. Please."

The tiger turned his head towards him, glowering. John sighed.

"You know what? Fine. Let's ignore each other for the day and just snuggle up together tonight. That will go really well, I'm sure. But what can I say? You're just too uncooperative. I don't know what to do, Sherlock. I really don't know what to do."

And with those words, John left the room. He had breakfast, read the paper, showered, went out for a walk and some grocery shopping, came back, and went on his blog. All the while, whether he was in his bedroom or on the couch, he paid no attention to Sherlock. He was not completely ignoring him per se, but he was certainly keeping a safe, unthreatening distance.

He was stretching on his chair, standing up with the intention of preparing an early dinner, when Sherlock entered the living-room and blocked his way to the kitchen. John frowned.

"Sherlock..." he warned.

To his surprise, the tiger did not growl, nor did he snarl or scoff. He simply forced the doctor back into his chair and put his two front paws, as well as half his weight, on his lap. John stared.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock remained silent and rested his heavy head on his front paws, still looking up at John's face. It was almost... affectionate. John could make no sense of it.

"So you're the one touching me now."

Sherlock nodded seriously. John gave him a look.

"Are you going to attack me again if I try to touch you?"

Just as gravely, Sherlock shook his head. John raised a tentative hand towards the fluffy head, and patted the tiger between the ears. Sherlock snuggled up closer and purred into the touch. John's eyes widened.

"Sherlock, what the hell has got into you? You ignore me, reject my touch all day and refuse to communicate, and now this? What's going on in that crazy genius head of yours?"

While he spoke, he kept scratching Sherlock behind the ears. But as no reaction seemed to be forthcoming from his friend, John cupped his white furry cheeks and whiskers and made him look at him. The tiger pouted.

"Sherlock. Are you ready to tell me what's going on?"

The tiger raised an eyebrow. Apparently, he did not deem such a question worthy of an answer, for he shook his head to break free of the embrace and nuzzled John's jumper once more. John sighed.

"Sherlock—"

"Sherlock! John!"

John jumped to his feet at once. The front door had just opened and Mrs Hudson was calling them from there. But if she was shouting their names from downstairs, as if in warning, it could only mean one thing.

She wasn't alone.

"Your bedroom! Now!" John whispered, pushing Sherlock towards the corridor quickly. In the staircase, steps creaked. "Hurry!"

Sherlock groaned but blessedly obeyed. John had just returned to his chair when there was a knock on their door.

"Sherlock? John? May I come in? You have a client."

Mrs Hudson was a kind woman, John mused. It was obvious to anyone that the one who had clients was Sherlock, not him. Yet she included him in her statement naturally. More than anything else at the beginning of his flatsharing with Sherlock, their landlady was the person who had truly managed to make John feel at home in 221B. Now, Sherlock had become so much part of John's life that he could hardly conceive a home without the mad genius in it.

"Come in," John said, breaking away from his own thoughts and trying to focus on the situation at hand.

The door opened on Mrs Hudson and a male stranger carrying a suitcase and dressed elegantly in a grey trench coat. He was tall, blond, handsome. John tried to ignore how shabby he must have looked in comparison. Like most of their clients, the man looked tired and concerned — there was a tightness in the way his lips pressed together in a polite if forced smile, tension in the straightness of his posture and the squareness of his shoulders.

"Hello, John. Is Sherlock out?"

The look Mrs Hudson gave him despite her perfectly convincing tone told John that she had some idea of where Sherlock was and in what shape. John smiled as agreeably as possible. This was such bad timing. Just when he was about to finally get Sherlock to talk to him... Now, with a case, who knew when the consulting detective's mind would be available again?

"Yes, he's on a case. He said he might not come back at all tonight."

At this, their new client looked slightly appalled, but soon his face broke into a fond, melancholy smile that made John wonder. The man stepped in front of Mrs Hudson and into the flat.

"May I wait here in case he comes back tonight?"

"I'm afraid this is going to be—"

"Are you his partner?"

John stuttered and felt himself flush.

"What?"

"Do you work with Sherlock?"

Oh. That.

"I do. I am Dr. Watson. Pleased to meet you," John greeted, looking anything but. He extended his hand to the client nonetheless.

"Victor Trevor. It is my pleasure, Dr. Watson."

They shook hands, and John's mind was sent on a loop. Trevor? Had he just said Trevor?

"Victor Trevor?" he repeated dumbly.

"Indeed. Perhaps you have read about me. I own a chain of luxury hotels in—"

"You knew Sherlock."

The two men stared at each other, openly scrutinising. Mrs Hudson cleared her throat, reminding them of her presence.

"Well dear, I'll leave you to it. If you need me for anything, just call! Though remember, I'm your landlady, not your—"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

John heard her retreat down the stairs, closing the door behind her. His gaze was fixed on Victor. Victor Trevor. John wasn't sure how he felt about this, but it was nothing good.

"Well, Mr Trevor, please take a seat. Would you like some tea? Coffee?"

"Do you have anything stronger?" Trevor asked with a small smile.

"I'm afraid not," John replied coolly.

Victor's smile became a little more shaky. "Just water, then, please."

John went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and started to fill it with tap water. If the prick complained and asked for mineral water, well, God help him...

John scowled at himself. What was he doing? This poor man had done nothing to elicit his ire. John was annoyed with Sherlock (and yes, fine, worried about him, too) but this had nothing to do with their new client.

Yet his irritation with Trevor came back full force when he entered the living-room to find their guest examining the skull. He had picked it up from the mantelpiece and was freely touching it. The way he moved about as if he owned the place was off-putting to say the least.

"Here," John said icily, handing him his drink. "Please take a seat and tell me what you came for."

He tried to keep his tone professional, and was counting on the fact that this man did not know him, and might simply take him for a cold, to-the-point person.

Victor put the skull back in place and took the offered glass of water, but made no sign of sitting down, electing to pace the room instead. His eyes were roaming, taking it all in at leisure. For the first time, John considered the curious gaze of a client like an unbearable breach of privacy.

"If you do not mind, I would rather wait for Sherlock," Trevor said with a charming, casual smile. "I know you are his associate, but—"

"Then perhaps you can come back tomorrow?"

Victor shifted restlessly, and his grasp on the glass of water tightened.

"Dr. Watson, this is of utmost importance to me. I'm sure Sherlock would understand. Even if he comes back very late, I would like to talk with him as soon as possible. If he is still half the man I knew, he will be more than happy to get a case, even if it is the middle of the night."

In his own mind, John reluctantly agreed. Out loud, he said:

"Whether he's the same man or not, even he needs sleep, especially between cases. I am also his doctor, and I would appreciate it if you contacted him at reasonable hours."

Trevor watched him strangely for a moment, before putting down the book he had picked up from the table and that John had been reading lately — A Tale of Two Cities.

"Are you anything else to him?"

John's jaw clenched minutely.

"I'm afraid that's none of your concern. If you don't mind, either tell me about the case or go wait somewhere else."

Victor smirked. Smirked! John couldn't believe his eyes.

"You have little patience for your clients, doctor."

"I have little patience for a man who barges in unannounced and one-sidedly chooses to stay in my living-room without telling me what he is doing there."

This made Victor pause.

"Your living-room?"

"Ours," John amended.

"You live with Sherlock? As in, 24/7?"

In any other circumstances, John would have felt flattered by the genuine disbelief in Trevor's voice. But in this case, he only felt cavemanly possessive. He slapped himself mentally and tried not to sound, or look, like he was marking his territory.

"Yes."

"Well, that's... unexpected."

They stayed silent for a moment, engrossed in a new staring contest. Finally, Victor looked away, running a hand in his hair and letting out a low chuckle.

"I'll be damned," he murmured, then turned to John again. "Doctor...what's your name again?"

"Watson."

"No, your first name."

John hesitated, then thought, to hell with it.

"John."

"John." Victor smiled. John did not like that smile one bit. It was fond and polite in a condescending way, as if he expected nothing more than a trite, common name for such a trite, common man.

Okay, so perhaps John was overinterpreting things here. He had to admit that he was naturally feeling defensive with Trevor, for whatever reason.

"John," Victor started again, "I think we left on the wrong foot, you and I. Let me buy you dinner tonight, and we can get to know each better."

"I'm sorry?"

"Don't be. Do you have a place in mind? Or I could look up a restaurant nearby if you'd—"

"Wait, just, wait. You don't have to buy me dinner."

"But I'd like to. And as you said, you don't want me cluttering your living-room if I'm not talking business. So let's go somewhere more comfortable to have a chat."

"I am quite comfortable here, thank you. And I have no wish to have a chat with you."

Trevor seemed sincerely pained at those words, and John felt a bit guilty. Just a bit. He knew he wasn't being very fair to Trevor, but wasn't sure why. What he knew for certain was that he was eager to finish his 'conversation' with Sherlock and would much rather spend the evening cuddling his friend than having dinner with—

"John, I'm sorry if I have offended you in any way. If you know who I am, then you know I have not seen Sherlock in a very, very long time. I am nervous. And I wasn't expecting him to be working with anyone, not to mention living with someone."

His pace became a little more erratic.

"I just flew in from Singapore, and I am exhausted. I do want to talk to Sherlock as soon as possible. I came here straight from the airport. But of course I will wait until morning if you think it best. I do not want to alienate Sherlock before I even tell him about the case."

John nodded his understanding. Maybe he'd been too harsh with the man. After all, he was an old friend of Sherlock's, and how many people in the world could claim that title? Also, when would John have an opportunity to learn more about a younger Sherlock again? Sure, there was always Mycroft, but John wondered if he and Sherlock had ever had a close relationship. He would have to ask Sherlock, some day. When the consulting detective was relaxed and content, like after...

John closed his eyes and shook the thought away. What was he thinking? Maybe dinner out was good. Yep, definitely good.

"All right. Let me get ready. Just wait here."

Before he could change his mind, John went straight to Sherlock's room and found the door open. Of course the tiger would want to listen to everything that was being said. He must have been especially keen after hearing the words "new client" from Mrs Hudson. John went into the room, and closed the door behind him before giving Sherlock a seizing look.

The tiger looked neutral enough, but his tail was quivering with excitement and there was a glimmer in his eyes. John wasn't sure whether that was excitement or not, but one thing was certain, Sherlock seemed clearly displeased that John was going out. He made his disapproval unmistakable when John moved closer to the door, and he growled.

"Look, I've been rude to your friend. And don't you look at me like that! He is your friend, or was. I'm not sure I can manage to kick him out if I don't accept his invitation."

Sherlock looked decidedly unconvinced. John rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to threaten him with a gun, Sherlock!" he murmured. "And I can't talk with you now. He'll think I'm crazy, or a liar. Now, you don't want him to find you in this state, do you?"

Sherlock shrugged. His look said it all. He brought me a case. Let him give me my case, whatever my form!

"Oh, you insufferable... Look, I'm going out to dinner with him. But I'll be back. Just wait here, and trust me. I won't leave you hanging in this form. I know you need me tonight. I'll come back."

He kissed the fluffly brow and left the room swiftly, ignoring the glare that followed him down the corridor. When he joined Victor in the living-room, he found him finishing a phone call. Good. At least he hadn't heard him whispering in Sherlock's room.

"I've booked us a table at a local Italian restaurant. I hope that's fine with you?"

"Sure. Great." Then a small doubt poked at his mind. "What's the name of the restaurant?"

"Angelo's."

John groaned.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"John, it's so good to see you! How's Sherlock? That Mafia thing, dreadful business."

"He's fine, thank—"

"And who is this?" the Italian asked. His tone was definitely accusing. John refrained from hitting his head against the nearest wall.

"I just called you fifteen minutes ago to make a reservation," Victor said politely, oblivious. "The name is—"

"He's a friend of Sherlock's," John interrupted. "And not my date."

At these words, Victor arched an eyebrow, and Angelo mellowed. "Good, good. You're most welcome, of course! And naturally, John, I never doubted you. We wouldn't want to get Sherlock hurt, would we?"

The threat in his smile made John shiver. He thanked the gods that Angelo had never seen him on the street with one of his girlfriends before. Who knew what Angelo's 'family' was capable of? Secretly, though, John felt grateful for the man's fierce attachment and loyalty to Sherlock.

Victor and himself were seated at a table in a corner, the candles thankfully removed. Once they had ordered, Trevor noticed John's bandaged hand, and frowned.

"I'm sorry I did not notice you were injured earlier. We could have had food delivered."

"That would have defeated the purpose of getting out of the flat." John smiled. "And I would hardly call that a serious injury."

"You've been in the war?"

John stiffened. Victor laughed.

"Don't be nervous, I have none of Sherlock's skills. I just know him. Or, knew him." He looked wistful again. "I just assumed that you'd have to be at least an army doctor to put up with him."

"At least," John muttered.

"John. I wasn't trying to imply that you need be anything more. It seems I can't help but offend you with everything I say."

"No, I'm sorry. I've had a long day."

"Do you still work as a doctor?"

"I have a part-time job in a clinic."

They continued in this verve until they were served, then ate in silence. John learned that Victor had married the heiress to this luxury hotel chain he now owned, and that his wife had died of breast cancer merely two years after their wedding. Trevor retained his composure throughout the conversation, but John could tell he was still affected, and that he had loved his wife deeply. But life continues, he'd said, trying to sound cheerful. "The thing with illnesses, doctor, is that you've got no one to blame." John knew. Losing someone to illness was very different than losing someone to war. Both were terrible. The pain was just different. "And although it seems impossible when you lose someone, it is true that you can love again. That's one of the wonders of the human heart." John nodded politely, trying to imagine what it would be like losing Sherlock. He could not picture himself falling in love after Sherlock's death. But who knew? At least he'd have more luck with random girlfriends without Sherlock around. The thought made John shiver, and he shirked away from further speculation. He did not want to know what kind of man he might become without Sherlock. John smiled vacantly and focused on their client again,

Victor had skilfully avoided the topic of his reason for coming, and what case exactly he had to present to Sherlock. What could possibly justify requesting the skills of a man he had stopped seeing so long ago, and with whom he had parted so abruptly?

Once they had exhausted all the topics they could think of that did not include why Victor had felt the need to fly from Singapore to London to hire one consulting detective's services, John felt entitled to dive into the man's shared past with Sherlock. He realised now why he had felt so annoyed with Victor from the beginning. It wasn't just that he had once been a good friend of Sherlock's, the only one, in fact, before John; it wasn't even that he had interrupted them at an important time today. No, what bothered him...

"Mr Trevor—"

"Victor, please. I've been calling you John all evening."

"Victor. I hope you won't find me rude, but I've been wanting to ask you. You don't want to tell me why you came back, fine. But..."

John paused. In the end, he could not stop himself from asking.

"Why did you leave?"

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

.

.

tbc

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

A.N.: This chapter was kindly betaed by Wingatron :) Hope you enjoy!

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 24

If there be one, seek till you find it

.

John missed the tiger. As he stared out of the window of the limousine that had come to pick them up at the airport, he admitted to himself that there was no doubt on the matter: he wished Sherlock had not transformed back just yet. Since his flatmate had spent most of the previous day — or was it two days ago? Now John could sympathise with Victor being jetlagged — sulking, John had had little chance of cuddling him or playing with him. Victor had arrived just when things were starting to get smoother, and now John felt distinctly cheated of his time with Sherlock. Sure, Sherlock was presently sitting next to him. But he was chatting with Victor, or rather, Victor was chatting away at him, while Sherlock was indulging him, and John felt miles away. Perhaps it was because he had found it difficult to sleep on the plane after the consulting detective's revelation of Victor's less than straightforward motivations. Or maybe he just felt like a private conversation about them and what in the world had got into Sherlock when he had scratched him was long overdue, but knew that it was not going to happen any time soon.

John glanced at his friend discreetly. Yep, pensive, nervous to get started, absently cataloguing information about Victor as he spoke... Sherlock was already in case mode. He would find John absurd if the doctor suddenly decided to confront him about personal issues. The Work, after all, always came first, didn't it?

John scowled at his own pale reflection on the windowpane. No need to be so bitter about it, he thought. He was quite taken himself by the case, and was burning to ask Sherlock what he had meant about Victor hiding things from them, lying. How could Sherlock even know? He knows, John reminded himself firmly, because that's what he does. That's his talent. He can tell when somebody lies to him. It has nothing to do with the fact that their client was a long lost friend. Nothing at all.

John's gaze unwittingly landed on Victor. A long lost friend. He hadn't seemed so lost when John had seen him smoking one of Sherlock's cigarettes in their living-room, Sherlock stark naked holding the lighter for him. The scene had been beautiful. Not just the gestures and positions, but the two figures in themselves. With his slightly tanned skin and his blond hair, Trevor looked like the complete opposite of Sherlock Holmes. Yet they fit together. The grace they each had, though not quite the same, was similar. Even though Victor was someone from his past, with him Sherlock had not acted like a child at all. Standing there nude lighting a cigarette, he had seemed so much older to John, almost a different person in his ease.

After their encounter with Irene Adler, John had been quite certain that Sherlock had no experience whatsoever in any kind of physical intimacy. Seeing him with Victor had strongly rattled his certitude on the matter.

"There we are!" Victor announced with flourish as the car took a turn and the hotel came into view.

It was a stunning building. Old-colonial in style, it shone brightly on the seashore in the warm noon light, silhouetted against a vividly blue sky.

"The Grand Hotel is very popular because it has a unique architectural style in the city," Victor went on smugly. All right, maybe not smugly, but with a distinct sense of pride. Which, John was forced to admit was entirely deserved. "But naturally this does not mean that we lack any of the modern facilities our customers might wish for. Feel free to use them during your stay! I can give you passes to the SPA if you are—"

"Not exactly what we came for," Sherlock cut in, not waiting for the porter to open the door and getting out of the car the moment it had stopped.

Victor sighed.

"Can't you blend pleasure with professionalism?" he asked as he followed Sherlock out.

"Hardly," was the dry reply, and John smiled privately, thinking: that's not quite true. Sherlock got off on cases. He couldn't imagine anything that would shake his boat more, definitely not a SPA.

But thinking about Sherlock getting off on anything wasn't wise. Refusing to blush, John got out of the limousine too, wondering how such an uncomfortable car could be so prized amongst the wealthy.

"Who knows? Maybe you'll need to use some of those facilities for the case," Victor was saying, smiling himself. Teasing, John realised. "If so, just ask me. I will make sure you have everything you need."

"The first thing we need is more discretion," Sherlock informed rather coldly, almost scowling at Trevor. John rolled his eyes.

"Of course," Victor concurred with a full-on smirk. Once the porter was out of earshot, Victor leant towards Sherlock and whispered, "Shall I sign you in under another name?"

John felt his face heat and looked away. Get a grip, he told himself. For once, someone is giving Sherlock some friendly touches, and he is accepting them. Nothing wrong with that.

As they walked up the few steps to the main entrance, John noticed Sherlock staring at a couple waiting in front of the hotel. Well, maybe not a couple, but a man and a woman. John couldn't see the woman's face, as she was standing back to them, offering only her lush copper hair to his sight, and the man did not look familiar or particularly noteworthy. In fact, he was really nondescript. John glanced at Sherlock again. The consulting detective was still watching them, eyes turned to slits. John frowned.

"Come in, come in," Victor said, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist and pushing him inside, "and make yourself at home!"

John diverted his glare to his shoes, and took a deep breath before following the pair inside.

The main hall of the hotel was as beautiful as the outward appearance of the building. It was also exactly what one would have expected from such an exterior. The floor was covered with a tufted velvet carpet of a deep crimson colour near the exit, but turned to marble after the front desk when you approached the gigantic central stairs. The ceiling was adorned with a large painting of a tiger being hunted, though it was almost hidden being the immense crystal chandelier that cast nacre lights on the creamy white walls. Luxuriant green plants here and there completed the decor, and John felt like he had been transported a century or two back in time. He frowned at the ceiling, and Victor must have caught his disapproving look.

"This was painted long before the current legislations about tiger hunting, of course. But it is quite a work of art, isn't it?"

"Quite," John replied absently, thinking that the painting failed to convey properly how warm and soft a tiger's fur truly was. But he kept his mouth shut and followed their host.

"Mr. Trevor!" a tall man in his forties exclaimed as they approached the front desk. His features were a little stiff and dry, his face angular, but his eyes held a gleam of intelligence and curiosity as they moved quickly behind thick round spectacles. "It is so good to see you back. Where have you been?"

"I had an emergency in Europe," Victor replied smoothly, smiling at the stranger.

"It must have been quite an emergency indeed, for you to leave while a murderer is still on the loose, perhaps in you very own hotel."

John glanced at Victor, but saw no trace of annoyance on his face. His features were the picture of friendliness and took on a contrite expression as he presented to the man his apologies, then turned to introduce them.

"Sherlock, John, this is Mr. Leverton, a customer who has been staying with us for quite some time and whose wife had the misfortune to find a body in their wardrobe."

"Yes, that's what I'd call unfortunate," John muttered. Sherlock gave him a look.

"Mr. Leverton, this is Mr. Holmes, a very old friend of mine from 'varsity, and his husband, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, yes, very nice to meet you," Mr. Leverton said perfunctorily. "Mr. Trevor, I'm glad you're back. I must go on a short trip in Sumatra again, and I was worried about leaving my wife alone again, after what happened last time. But now that you are back, I'm sure everything will be safe, won't it? Have you talked to the police? Any news?"

"I have talked to them, but there is nothing new to report, they said. I am sure we will catch the murderer, Mr. Leverton, and I can assure you that your wife is quite safe with us. No customer of this hotel was harmed, after all. I will ensure that it remains that way."

Mr. Leverton nodded, gave back his key to the pretty blonde receptionist, and left. John caught Sherlock watching him go and join the man and the woman waiting outside. The man looked up and locked gaze with Sherlock, holding it a second before nodding minutely, smirking. In an instant it was over, the three of them turning and walking away.

"What is it?" John asked quietly, moving closer to Sherlock.

"Nothing," he replied.

"Are you sure?" the receptionist was saying. "But sir, that is the key to—"

"Miss Danes, I know exactly what key it is, and so do these gentlemen. May I please have the cards now?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Victor, who shrugged and led them to the lift. The porter from before was waiting there with their suitcases.

"Thank you, Nicholas. Bring my luggage to my suite, please. We'll carry this one ourselves from here."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll have that package you gave me earlier delivered to your room," Victor added, turning to Sherlock. John wondered what that was all about, but dropped the matter as the porter put their suitcase in the lift for them, then stepped back with a little bow. The doors closed and the lift started moving up.

"That's almost military discipline," he remarked lightly.

"Nostalgic, John?" Victor asked with a smile.

John just gave him a look. Victor laughed.

"You two are quite the pair," he said, but before either of them could ask what he meant, they had arrived to their floor, and followed Victor to their room.

"This is it!" Victor took out of his pocket the two cards that served as keys to room 212. "You each have one, but should you lose it or forget it inside the room, you may ask the receptionist to open the door for you. Copies of all keys are kept at the front desk."

Just as he finished his sentence, the door next to their bedroom, further down the corridor, opened. A plump and pale red-haired man with tiny blue eyes came out, and stopped as he saw them.

"Mr. Trevor! I have not seen you much around lately."

"I was away for the past forty-eight hours or so. How are you today, Mr. Leblainpié?"

"Good, good. And these gentlemen are from the police, I presume?" the man asked, eyeing their suitcase with some confusion.

Victor laughed.

"Not at all, Mr. Leblainpié. They are customers, though not as regular ones as you. It is their first time here."

"Dr. Watson," John introduced himself, extending a hand and shaking the other's.

"Ferdinand Leblainpié," the red-haired man said with a small nervous smile. "Doctor, you say? What is your field of expertise?"

Slightly surprised by the query, John replied, "Medecine. I have been a surgeon, but mostly just practice as a GP now."

"Indeed, indeed."

"And this here is a friend from my uni days," Victor added, seeing that Sherlock was not bothering to introduce himself. "Mr. Holmes."

"Very nice to meet you," Ferdinand said, extending his hand. To John's surprise, Sherlock shook it with a polite smile. "So, you are going to stay in...this room?"

He seemed decidedly ill at ease. John understood. It made little sense that they would be put in a room where a murder had recently been committed, especially if they were old friends from the owner of the hotel.

Victor chuckled.

"Well, the truth is, Mr. Holmes here has a rather peculiar profession."

Sherlock glared at Victor, warning clear in his eyes. Victor didn't even spare him a glance.

"You see," he went on, "he writes mystery novels."

John gaped, then repressed the urge to laugh at the look on Sherlock's face.

"He publishes under a pseudonym, of course. But when I told him about what was happening in my hotel, instead of sympathising with me and understanding what a difficult situation I was in, he was excited and requested that I let him stay in this room. I'm afraid my troubles were deemed a good source of inspiration."

Mr. Leblainpié seemed most excited at Victor's introduction.

"Indeed! A novelist, how interesting! My wife loves detective novels. Perhaps she has even read some of yours! At any rate, I am sure she would be delighted to talk with you. If you have time, of course," he added quickly, seeing the icy look Sherlock was giving him. "She is resting at the moment, anyway. It was very good to meet you, gentlemen, but I must go. I am sure I will see you around. Mr. Trevor."

With a nod, he was gone. Sherlock waited until the lift doors had closed behind him and turned to Victor.

"A novelist?"

Victor shrugged, but John noticed on his face what he now considered his trademark lopsided smile.

"Like that you can just be your quirky self. No one will question the excentricity of a crime novelist."

Sherlock seemed to have nothing to say to that, and simply scoffed his disapproval. Victor opened the door for them and let them in.

"There you go. This is the small sitting room. Your bedroom is on the left, and there is an adjoined bathroom. Text me or email me if you need anything. I always have my phone with me."

He winked at them — or, most likely, at Sherlock, John thought with displeasure — and left, closing the door behind him.

The moment he was gone, Sherlock was crossing the first room quickly to get to the bedroom. The crime scene. John let out a sigh, and followed.

"That was quite a trip," he said, sitting down on the gigantic bed. It wouldn't even encourage them to cuddle.

Sherlock was already inspecting the room and did not reply. Even though John burned to start a discussion about what had happened while Sherlock was a tiger, he knew his attempt would just be ignored. Resigned, he tackled a topic he knew his friend would respond to.

"So, what did you mean by Victor lied?"

"He doesn't like Mr. Ferdinand Leblainpié," Sherlock stated.

John blinked at the non-sequitur.

"What?"

"Just now," Sherlock said, and there was a tinge of annoyance in his tone, like every time he was impatient and felt that John should have been keeping up with his thought process better. "Didn't you notice?"

"No," John answered flatly, feeling more tired than a minute before. "What was I supposed to notice?"

"Everything! His smile, his tone... Come on, John, it was obvious that he disliked the man!"

"Obvious to you, perhaps."

"Obvious to anyone who knows him," Sherlock countered.

John looked away.

"Right," he said.

Obvious to anyone who knows him, huh? So fifteen years were nothing, or a day was enough to get reacquainted with a friend from one's youth? Either alternative made something in John feel cold and dead, while something bitter and biting rose. He could not quite believe the effect of inadequacy he felt not only with Sherlock but with Victor too, now. That man just popped up from Sherlock's past seemed to understand him better than even John did.

A hand on his shoulder made John jump and come back to the present. He looked up in Sherlock's eyes.

"What?"

"You're wrong."

"Of course," John grumbled. "What about?"

"Whatever you were thinking just now."

"Stop pretending you can read my every thought," John snapped, trying to shrug off the hand on his shoulder, and failing as the geip just tightened on his shoulder. Then in a blink Sherlock's face was just an inch away from his own. John's breath caught in his throat.

"You're wrong," Sherlock murmured. John shivered at the warmth of his friend's breath against his skin. "He doesn't know me better than you do. I know him better than you know him."

Just as soon, he was gone, and John was left to catch his breath while Sherlock was examining the wardrobe again. Tiredness and frustration never helped to fight off arousal, but John still managed to cool down, and decided to change strategy. Fine. So talking about Victor led to a dead-end. He would find something else. He had plenty of questions, after all.

"Do you know that man we saw outside?" he asked.

"What makes you think I do?"

"He smiled at you."

Sherlock closed the wardrobe door and turned to look at John.

"Is it a problem that other men smile at me?"

"What? No! Don't be ridiculous. That has nothing to do with it."

"Really?"

This time John had had enough. Sherlock was standing there looking fresh and perfect, on fire for the case but stubbornly refusing to share that fire. He looked as graceful and aloof as Victor, and John just felt shabby and exhausted. He stood up, fists clenched at his side.

"What's wrong with you? What's so fun about keeping me in the dark? Scared you might miss your minute of glory when you solve this, if I'm not here to applaud? Is that why you wanted me to come along? As an audience?"

"John, now you're being sil—"

"Don't," John cut in sharply. "I'm tired of this. Actually, I'm just tired. I haven't slept in God knows how many hours and if you don't want to tell me why the hell we're here, then don't. I'm just going to take a good hot shower, then try out that nice king-sized bed. You do whatever you want."

John saw Sherlock blink at him, and turned towards the bathroom before he changed his mind.

"I'll go to the games parlour," Sherlock said behind him, and John froze. "Rest well."

John heard the door open and close, and did not turn to see Sherlock go. Taking a deep breath, he just entered the bathroom, stepped into the bathtub, and turned on the shower. Not quite hitting his head against the wall, he still rested his brow against the tile as hot water poured down on him.

"Sherlock," he sighed. "What the hell are we doing?"

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Mrs. Leverton, I presume?"

Sherlock smiled down at the woman who had just been left alone at a bridge table when her friends had taken leave of her for an early dinner. She was a slender brunet in her late thirties, usually wore glasses but apparently not in public, was dressed like a rich housewife but had the hands of a scientist, had been married twice, and used the same citrus shampoo as her husband.

She greeted Sherlock with confusion and he had the distinct impression that she tried to dull the sharpness of her gaze as she took in his appearance. He sat down across from her.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I met your husband earlier."

"Did you?" she said, sounding as dull as all the other women in the room did. But the consulting detective could tell from the movement of her eyes that she was trying to remember whether she had ever come across the name before.

"A charming man, I must say. Quite in a hurry."

"You'll forgive me," she said as she stood up, "but I find myself quite in a hurry too."

"Please wait," Sherlock said, catching her wrist. "This is important. Will you hear me?"

Their gazes locked, and Sherlock saw hesitation in hers.

"Ah, Mrs. Leverton! How are you today?"

Sherlock stifled a groan and tried not to glare at the intruder.

"Mr. Leblainpié," Mrs. Leverton greeted with a nauseatingly sweet smile. "I am quite well, thank you. I do not see you so often in here."

"Indeed, indeed," Ferdinand mumbled. "Mr. Helms, fancy seeing you here! I can see you have found rather quickly the best company there is to have in this hotel."

"'Indeed'," Sherlock quoted, and would have sworn that Mrs. Leverton's eyes flickered to him with amusement for a second. As for Mr. Leblainpié, he kept on smiling and glancing around obliviously.

"Mrs. Leverton, I was actually looking for your husband," he said.

"I'm afraid you just missed him! He's gone on a trip to Sumatra again. He should be back in a couple of days."

Mr. Leblainpié appeared excessively disappointed at the news.

"Oh, that's a pity. A pity, truly," he deplored, wringing his podgy little hands.

"'Indeed'?" Mrs. Leverton said, glancing briefly at Sherlock.

"Yes, you see..." He threw a cautious look at Sherlock, then at Mrs. Leverton. Finally, still fidgeting, he leant in towards her and whispered in a way that was everything but discreet, "You see, I have been having some difficulties falling asleep lately, since all this dreadful business, and I was wondering if your husband still had some of those..." Cleverly, he glanced at Sherlock again, and continued in an even more ridiculously hushed voice, "...some of those claws."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at Mrs. Leverton, who seemed torn between exasperation and amusement. But it was with a perfectly polite and friendly smile that she replied, quietly but with no theatrics, "I believe we still have some. I may be able to give one to your wife if you send her to my room some time tomorrow. In fact, tell her I'm inviting her for tea. Can you wait until then?"

"Yes! Thank you, Mrs. Leverton," Ferdinand said fervently. "You're an angel!"

He gave a nod at Sherlock before taking his leave, a silly smile plastered on his chubby face. The consulting detective gave Mrs. Leverton a pointed look.

"Claws?"

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

After his shower, John felt somewhat human again. He found the thought hilarious, considering he probably wouldn't wake up very human if he fell asleep while Sherlock was gone. But after having shaved and examined his hand, there was little he could do in a bathroom, and so he went back into the bedroom, dressed in a bathrobe, a towel on his shoulders. He had no desire to leave the quiet of their room to join Sherlock, but he still wished the consulting detective had waited for him.

He snorted. Sherlock, waiting for him? That was preposterous. He was on a case. What case exactly, John had no idea, since apparently the murder in itself was not enough to arouse Sherlock's interest. But it was still the Work, somehow, and for once John was not even remotely part of it. Sherlock hadn't let him.

For the first time since the beginning of their journey, it crossed John's mind that Sherlock might still be angry with him. He hadn't seemed like it, and hadn't said anything to that effect. But he did keep shutting John out, and the doctor started to wonder if that was his way to way to get back to him. But get back to him for what? That was the question.

John decided it would be pointless to attempt sleep at this stage, or even any kind of relaxation. He had to find Sherlock, deal with the case, and manage to get answers one way or another. He was about to dig into their suitcase for clothes when there was a knock on the door. John looked towars the sitting room with a frown. It wasn't like Sherlock to forget his key.

Cautiously, he went to the door and said loudly enough to be hear in the corridor, "Yes?"

No answer. John furrowed his brow even more, and regretted leaving his handgun home — but there was no way he could've taken it on the plane, and Sherlock had said that it'd be easy enough to find guns where they were going. John privately thought that Sherlock would probably be able to get his hands on weapons anywhere in the world, if he so desired. Not that he did. Prudence was hardly one of his qualities.

There was another knock. "Yes?" John repeated, but once again there was no reply. Placing himself near the wall so that he would be able to defend himself or attack first if need be, John opened the door.

"Come in," he said, and the door was indeed pushed open.

John stared, speechless.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Irene Adler said with a smile.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"Claws, Mr. Holmes."

"For insomnia?" Sherlock echoed, arching an eyebrow.

Mrs. Leverton smiled.

"I thought you had something important you wanted to share?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, taking on a serious expression. "You were the only one who had access to the room where the body of Harry Pinner was found, weren't you?"

Mrs. Leverton crossed her legs and stared at Sherlock.

"So you're a detective?"

"Almost," he said. "A writer."

She instantly glanced at his hands, and Sherlock hid a smile. Mrs. Leverton was nothing if not observant. Thankfully for him, most writers today typed, and he would be damned if that woman was capable of deducing much from his fingers. Sherlock could count on one hand the number of people who knew how to deduce him, and even with those people, it was always incomplete. Mycroft, Moriarty, Irene... Sherlock wasn't sure he could include John in that list, but somehow John's trust and faithfulness did not seem connected to any sort of knowledge about Sherlock. Or was it?

"A writer?" Mrs. Leverton said, and Sherlock snapped back his attention to the conversation.

"A mystery writer," Sherlock said with his most charming smile, which felt more like a rictus to him. But it served its purpose. Mrs. Leverton smiled back, the skin near her eyes crinkling with warmth, as if she and Sherlock shared some kind of secret. And perhaps they did.

"Well, Mr. Mystery Writer, would I be an interesting character?"

Sherlock sat back leisurely and pretended to give thought to his answer.

"I don't know," he said at last. "You slept soundly throughout the night with a body in your closet."

"And that disqualifies me as a good character?" Mrs. Leverton said with what Sherlock presumed was meant to be an adorable moue. John managed it better without even trying, Sherlock mused.

"No, but as a helpful one, perhaps," he said. "So what does your husband do?"

"He is what I would call a specialist in fur. He can identify... what is genuine, and what is fake," she finished with the shadow of a smile. Sherlock appreciated the irony of the statement.

"Can he?" he said idly. "That is quite a talent."

"I would call it a skill," she said.

"I see. And so his travels are linked to his practice, I imagine?"

Mrs. Leverton nodded absently. "You imagine well, Mr. Holmes. It's been pleasant talking to you, but I must take my leave. I have some business to attend to."

"Of course," Sherlock said as she rose, standing up as well. "I hope I will have the pleasure to talk to you again."

"I'm sure you will," she said with a wry smile, and left.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

"You...!"

"What a welcome," Irene said, walking in and closing the door behind her as if she were at home. "Is this your room?"

"You're alive."

She gave him a look. "Clearly."

With the grace and confidence John remembered were so flagrant in her, she went into the bedroom, and looked around.

"One bed! Is there some good news you'd like to share?"

"How are you alive?" John insisted, not entirely sure he was still awake. Perhaps he was dreaming. Hadn't he lied down for a bit earlier? Yes, he was probably sleeping. That was the most logical explanation.

"Sherlock," Irene said simply, sitting down on the bed and making herself comfortable.

"Sherlock knows you're alive," John rephrased, just to be sure.

Irene smiled, and John did not like the emotion he saw there.

"If he knows? Sherlock is the one who ensured I stayed alive."

How? was the first thing John thought. How could he pull it off and fool even Mycroft? But Holmes the elder had said so, after all. The only one who could ever deceive him was Sherlock. John refrained from cursing under his breath. So Sherlock had known. Why hadn't he told him, at least, if not Mycroft? Did he think he could not keep a secret? Had he preferred to keep it for himself, like a precious memory, something for him alone? John must have looked l like such a fool, telling him that Irene Adler had survived thanks to a witness protection scheme. Well, he thought bitterly, nothing new there.

"Don't make that face. Aren't you the one sharing his bed?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Are you curious?" she said seductively, standing up one more.

John did not reply. She walked up to him.

"Well, are you? Sherlock would be."

"I'm not Sherlock."

Irene smiled. "I know," she murmured as she brushed past him. "Perhaps you should put on something else. Not that the bathrobe doesn't suit you, it does. But I believe you would prefer changing."

"Why?" John asked, more and more convinced that he must be dreaming.

"Because there is something I must show you."

John stared at her for a long moment. She did not disappear. He sighed.

"Fine."

He grabbed some clothes in his suitcase and went to change in the bathroom. He was half expecting Irene to have vanished when he came out, but she was still there, beautiful in her green evening dress and amber jewels.

"Follow me," she said, and he did, making sure he took his key before closing the door.

It felt almost surreal, walking down the corridors with the only woman who had ever got to Sherlock — "the" woman. She led him up some stairs, then down another hallway, and stopped in front of room 413. She opened it with a card and held it open for John.

"Come in."

"Whose room is this?" he inquired.

"No one's," Irene said as she stabbed him with a needle.

The last thing John saw was her smile shimmering in the dim light, then the room tipped over and everything went dark.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock wandered a little to familiarize himself with the layout of the hotel. But there was not much more to be done tonight and soon, he headed back to the room. Victor was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock found himself strangely thankful for his unobtrusiveness. If one could apply such a term to Victor Trevor.

As he reached their door, Sherlock slowed down and stopped, lingering in the corridor for a while. John might be sleeping inside, or pretending to be sleeping, or waiting for him. He might be a man, or a manul. For once, Sherlock hoped he would find a man when he walked in.

He opened the door with his card and crossed the sitting room, preparing himself mentally for all possibilities.

It turned out he had not even thought of all possibilities.

Regally spread on the bed was neither a manul nor a man, but a woman, in all her glory. Sherlock's gaze narrowed.

"Irene Adler."

She smiled, full of charm.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

.

.

tbc

Chapter Text

A.N.: Here is chapter 25, and it's been less than four months since the last update! Hurray! :D ...right, I'll just be quiet and hide in shame. Again, sorry for the wait, and sorry I can't promise weekly updated or even monthly updates even now. Hope you guys enjoy this chapter anyway!

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 25

If there be none, never mind it

.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked immediately.

Irene sighed.

"Of course you'd ask about him first." She sat up on the bed. Sherlock scowled. "Aren't you even a bit surprised to see me?"

"Where is John?" Sherlock repeated, refusing to let himself be distracted. Irene's presence was doing enough of that already. He wouldn't let her words get to him too.

"Single-minded, aren't you?" she said as she moved herself to the mini bar and helped herself to the brandy. "Would you like a drink, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock put his hand on her wrist and stopped her gesture. She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw the embers of her old weakness. He smirked. Two could play that game.

"I don't want a drink, Miss Adler," he murmured, not stepping back out of her personal space. "I want you to tell me what you did to remove my flatmate from these rooms."

She seemed to mellow at his choice of words, which was why he'd decided on those in the first place. Clearly referring to John as his flatmate and making his disappearance sound like some professional issue was the right move. She smiled charmingly, which, on her face, looked rather like the grin of a shark, and took a sip of her drink. She did not move back either. Sherlock swallowed and refused to let his breath hitch.

"I asked him to follow me," she said simply, letting herself fall into an armchair. "He was quite... astonished to see me. I'm surprised you didn't tell him about me. Don't couples share everything?"

"I don't know, you tell me," Sherlock replied, giving her ring a pointed look. She laughed.

"Oh dear, this little thing? I'm talking about real relationships, Mr Holmes. This here was just a safety measure."

"Yes, I remember how much you value your safety."

She arched an elegant eyebrow.

"Is that a threat?"

Sherlock grinned slowly.

"Of course not. Why should I need to use threats against you?"

She almost winced, but didn't. Sherlock felt his old admiration for her rekindle at such mastery of her expressions. If only she had as much control on her own emotions...

"I suppose you don't think I can do anything against you, now that I'm not working for Moriarty."

Sherlock shrugged.

"No. I just meant that there is no need to use threats against old friends." He gave her a shark smile of his own, and wasn't entirely surprised to see hunger in her eyes, instead of fear. He snorted. Trust the Woman to be aroused by something feral.

He let his gaze slide over her, taking in all the details. It might have still been hard to read her, had she not been pretending to be someone else. But she was, and reading that fake identity was enough for Sherlock to deduce what she was doing here.

"So you're married to one of the regular clients here, and you're Victor Trevor's mistress."

She smiled, ecstatic.

"Tell me more," she said, finishing her drink in one gulp, her gaze never leaving him. Sherlock started to pace.

"The way you're dressed and the size of the diamond on your ring make it obvious that you're not just working here. Also, you just told me this was a safety measure. And I can imagine you needed a name, and money. You wouldn't have wanted to just keep what I had given you."

She moved closer to him, hovering like a predator.

"Go on."

"You're the reason I'm here. You learned that Victor knew me once, and you convinced him to bring me here. Now, the only way he would have ever told you about me is if you were in an intimate relationship." He turned to look her in the eye, judging her for the first time. "And the only way you could have convinced him to see me again is if he loved you."

Irene's eyes widened slightly at that, but she quickly recovered and looked as composed as ever. Sherlock could tell, though, that she was troubled. This left him with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Bravo," she whispered. "You haven't changed a bit. You're still so... sharp." There was an edge of bitterness, perhaps even pain, in her tone, under the ostentatious playfulness. She smiled. "This calls for some celebration, don't you think?" She took the phone and composed a number. "This is room 212. Please bring us a bottle of Champagne and two glasses. Thank you." She hung up.

Sherlock was still observing her, and she was apparently relishing the attention.

"As... flattered as I am that you went through such lengths to see me again, you must know that this isn't safe for you. Wherever I go, Mycroft knows. I can't imagine you'd want him to be aware you're still alive."

"Is that why you didn't tell John?" she said casually. "Because you thought Mycroft could read him too easily? Did you do it to protect me?" She looked at him then, seductive and vulnerable and tempting. But something was off, and Sherlock was frustrated because he couldn't pinpoint it. "Or is it because you didn't want him to be jealous?"

This snapped Sherlock out of it and he looked at her as if she'd grown a second head.

"Why would he be jealous of you?" he asked, genuine.

Irene let out a self-deprecating little laugh, just as somebody knocked on the door. Sherlock gave her a look, then went to open the door.

"Your Champagne, sir," said the maid. She did not hand him the tray, so he let her in. She walked into the room and set down the bottle and the two glasses. "Would you like me to open it for you?"

"It's fine," Irene said from her sit.

The maid bowed. She was polite in every way, but Sherlock found she looked tired. He wondered if Victor was in such financial need that he was forced to exploit his staff. It just didn't sound like him, but then again, what did Sherlock know?

"How is he?" he asked suddenly. The maid retreated and he thanked her with a nod.

"Oh I'm sure he's fine. I wouldn't actually hurt him, you know that, don't you?" She moved closer to him and put her hand on the Champagne. "Still traumatized that Jim could get to him so easily last time he tried?"

Sherlock stared, and wondered why she would assume he was talking about John when he had just said "he".

"You make it so obvious," she went on, glancing at the name on the bottle. Then she looked up into his eyes. "Everyone who cares to look would know he's your Achilles' heel."

Sherlock watched her fingers slide along the bottle of Champagne, and thought. "Not many care," he said at last. Then he arched an eyebrow at her. "'Jim'?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Just open the bottle, will you? I need a drink. Oh, and don't give me that look. No, I haven't been in touch with Moriarty. And no, we weren't on a first name basis. I was simply trying to rile you, but in fact I'm now quite sure you couldn't care less who I'm on a first name basis with."

Sherlock popped the cork of the bottle and filled the glasses.

"You're wrong."

He handed her one of the glasses, and tilted his to make a tinkling sound. He caught her gaze, and held it. "I do care if you have or will hurt Victor Trevor on a whim to see me."

Her gaze turned cold, and she put down her glass without having drunk one sip from it.

"I see. That's who you were asking about, then? Interesting. Should John worry more about him than about me?"

Sherlock put down his glass as well and gave her a level stare.

"John doesn't have to worry about anyone."

"How sweet."

She didn't try to hide the scorn from her voice.

"Well, then, I guess you should go and get him. I wouldn't hurt him, but there is a murderer roaming around after all. We wouldn't want poor John to come to any harm, would we?"

Sherlock moved before he fully registered what he was doing, and pressed Irene against the nearest wall, holding her wrists and preventing her from moving.

"You will tell me where he is."

Sherlock thought her gaze had been cold before. He was wrong.

"Don't you know the saying, Mr Holmes? Hell has no fury..." She trailed off, voice icy.

"You can't possibly have thought..." he started, then shook his head and got a hold of himself. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked, searching her gaze. He found nothing. Repressing a sigh, he stepped back and let her go.

She stopped at the door and turned back towards him with a lovely smile.

"I'll tell Victor you gave me the 'If you hurt him, I'll hurt you' speech."

"I didn't —"

"I'm sure he'll be... touched. I wouldn't let John find out if I were you, though. That is, if you can find him first."

And with a final smirk, she left.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Victor was on the phone when Sherlock barged into his office.

"Where do you usually meet her?" he demanded.

Victor blinked at him. There was surprise there, of course, but also a trace of the old pain. Every time he looked at Sherlock, he seemed... hurt. Regretful, perhaps, or melancholy. Sherlock hoped he did not wear his feelings on his sleeve like that for everyone to see.

"I'm sorry, something came up at the hotel, may I call you back? Thank you."

He hung up, and faced Sherlock.

"Have a seat," he said regally. "Where do I meet whom?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then thought better of it. What a fool he'd been. Who knew what she called herself these days?

"Your mistress," he said curtly.

Victor paled abruptly.

"Is she in danger?" he asked, and stood up at once. Sherlock observed him closely. No denial. Just sheer panic. Had he looked like that when he'd asked Irene where John was? But no. He hadn't be so scared as angry at that time. Victor, on the other hand, looked terrified.

"We need to talk, you and I," Sherlock said sternly. "But for now, just take me to the room."

In retrospect, it might have been a bit cruel to hide from Victor the fact that Irene was in no immediate danger. But Sherlock wanted to get to the room, and he wanted to get to the room now. Victor fumbled as he opened a drawer and grabbed a card-key.

"Come," he said uselessly, but his voice was so shaky Sherlock forgave him.

He ignored the lift and led Sherlock to the emergency staircase. The moment he left the corridor and stepped into the stairs, he started running. Sherlock calculated that taking the lift probably would've been ultimately quicker, and concluded that Victor did not want anyone to see him like this. Or perhaps his brain was more foggy from the worry than Sherlock first thought.

When they reached the fourth floor they went into the corridor, Victor walking once more, greeting each client they met with a smile. Sherlock knew people were stupid, but he was still stunned that no one seemed to see the dullness in Victor's eyes as he spoke to them and smiled. He was about to reach out and reassure him when Victor suddenly stopped in front of a door and shakily put the card in it. He pushed it open and they walked in, first into a small hall, then into the bedroom.

The room was similar to theirs, and, Sherlock imagined, to all the other rooms in the building, lavish and not even remotely to Sherlock's taste. But he couldn't have cared at this moment if the room had been covered in pink feathers and glitter. On a chest of drawers near the farthest wall, there was a manul, vainly trying to reach out to open one of the windows. Sherlock sighed in relief, and Victor fell into an armchair, his legs finally giving out.

Sherlock ignored him and walked up to John, who had frozen in place when he'd noticed Sherlock and Victor in the room. Sherlock picked him up and buried his face in the crook of his fluffy neck for a moment. John squealed, but didn't give too much of a fight.

"Care to tell me what this is all about?"

Sherlock turned towards Victor, and saw the beginning of anger in his eyes, hardly hidden behind his confusion. Sherlock eyed the bed, then decided it would be too distasteful to sit on it, not knowing exactly what had been going on in it, and sat in an armchair close to Victor's, with John on his lap.

"What's a manul doing here?" Victor asked.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Victor shrugged.

"I'm not entirely ignorant, you know," he said promptly, waving his hand as if urging him to move on. "So?"

Sherlock considered playing a bit with Victor to make him pay for his lies, but John put his paw on his hand, and when Sherlock looked down into his eyes, read his disapproval. He glared, but muttered "Fine" under his breath and turned to Victor once more.

"Why didn't you tell me about her?"

"I didn't think it was relevant to the case," Victor retorted rather coolly.

Sherlock huffed.

"Please. Let's not waste our time, shall we?"

"Then why don't you tell me what we're doing here?"

"Getting the manul back."

"Whose is it?"

"Mine."

John's fur bristled at once and he became a ball of fluff on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock stared at him, puzzled, then remembered that was how John blushed in manul form. By this standard, this was equivalent to him turning crimson. Sherlock couldn't help smirking.

Victor cleared his throat.

"Right. You have a manul. Great. You do know it's not legal to keep one as a pet, don't you?"

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Oh, you want to talk about "legal"?"

"Having a mistress isn't illegal. In this country," he added as an after thought.

Sherlock, feeling no thread of pity left in him, snorted. Suddenly he was reminded of how much Victor had hurt him, how much he'd made him pay for telling the truth the last time they'd seen each other. Who did he think he was, barging into his life after fifteen years, without a word of apology, and lying to his face?

"Having her is," he said, ruthless. He ignored John's whimpered protest.

"What do you mean?" Victor asked, looking increasingly angry. If he wanted anger, he'd get anger.

"Why don't you ask her? I have a case to solve, and I don't want you to throw me out this time as well just because I tell you the truth."

Victor flinched.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't."

"Please, I—"

"Don't!"

Sherlock didn't recognise his own voice, loud and breaking at the end. He took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. This was ridiculous. He should be treating Victor just like any other client.

But he isn't, a small voice sounding suspiciously like John's murmured in the back of his mind. He isn't just a client. 

Sherlock noticed he had clenched his hands into fists, and relaxed them deliberately. He looked up and saw Victor, his complexion ashen. Images of a boy who'd just lost his father and everything he held dear in life flashed before Sherlock, and he tried to blink them away.

"I knew we should have talked about it from the beginning," he said quietly.

"If you're talking about the fact that your mistress put you up to call me, yes."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Victor said, tired, and did not add and you know it. Sherlock heard it nonetheless.

He picked up John and stood up stiffly.

"Then there's no reason we should talk about it."

"Sherlock."

When Victor grabbed his arm, Sherlock felt himself break. But instead of understanding, the crack gave way to a rush of rage. This gesture was so much like Victor. It was so familiar it ached, and he could feel the ghost of similar touches echoing this one on the same spot on his arm just as he caught Victor's gaze and saw that he had realised his mistake. He let go, as if burned.

"I know who she is," he whispered.

Sherlock blinked, and barely stopped himself from saying What?

Victor sighed and fell back into the armchair, his head resting in his hands.

"I know who she is, all right?"

"She told you?" Sherlock asked, exceedingly miffed that he hadn't deduced that.

"Mycroft did."

Sherlock froze. Sensing that things were going to get worse, or perhaps simply wanting to give them a semblance of privacy, John hopped off his arms and ran to hide into the small hall near the front door.

Victor had not moved. Sherlock just stared at him, feeling like his blood had been replaced with ice.

"Mycroft?" he repeated, not even trying to keep the cold fury out of his voice.

Victor had the decency to look at him, and held his gaze.

"I knew you wouldn't like it. That's why I didn't tell you."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "What else didn't you tell me?"

Victor swallowed. He stood up and walked towards the window, as if he needed to get closer to the light.

"I could tell," he murmured. "I... Maybe I don't truly know her, but I know her better than she thinks." He swallowed again, and crossed his arms tightly in front of him. When they were young and he did that, Sherlock would put a hand on his left elbow, and he would relax instantly. "I... I could tell she knew you when I first mentioned you. She is a wonderful actress, and I actually admire that about her."

Sherlock supposed, grudgingly, that it made two of them. Victor turned back towards him.

"But I can recognise old love anywhere, most of all in a woman's eyes."

He turned away again, and when he spoke, Sherlock admired how steady his voice sounded, and how much he managed to hide his vulnerability.

"Were you ever together?"

"No."

"Did you ever want to?"

Sherlock truly thought about it. Had he desired Irene Adler? Yes, he couldn't deny it. Had he been intrigued, fascinated? Yes. Would he have acted on it? He wasn't sure. Would he have pursued a relationship with her, such as they would consider themselves to be "together"? He couldn't imagine it. It would never have worked. Each of them were too attached to their lifestyles, and those were too different. Sherlock wouldn't leave the Work for anyone, and Irene would never changer herself for him. If she had, he probably wouldn't have been interested anymore.

"No," he said at last.

"That was a long pause."

"I was seriously considering it. I thought you deserved as much."

"Thank you," Victor said so quietly Sherlock almost didn't hear it. "So I... I knew. I also knew what field you worked in, of course. Or I could guess. I have to say, I... After... God, why is this so difficult? Only you make me so... inarticulate."

"Knowing the Woman, I'm sure that's a lie," Sherlock muttered, and Victor smiled.

"Yes, but saying "you're the only person I'm not shagging that makes me so inarticulate" wouldn't sound as elegant, would it?"

Sherlock snorted. "If you're well enough to still think about elegance, just get to the point."

Surprisingly, Victor nodded, and did just that.

"After the last time we saw each other, once I had got a grip and given to my life a better shape, I still didn't find it in me to look you up. I fled England, because I knew that sooner rather than later, I'd start hearing about you, one way or another. And I thought, if I'm going to be wearing a mask for the rest of my life, at least I should never let it slip. I knew that if someone spoke your name casually to my face, it wouldn't just slip. It would shatter."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Always the dramatics."

Victor smiled thinly, and the sight of it was so painful Sherlock almost regretted his comment. Almost.

"So I didn't look you up, and I left as far away as possible. I traveled. And then I met Anastasia, and I thought, maybe, I wouldn't have to spend my life alone."

Victor looked out the window. Sherlock kept looking at Victor.

"She wasn't... as clever as you, not remotely, but she didn't have to be. Around her, I wanted to drop the mask, so I didn't need her to see through me. I didn't expect to meet anyone like that again. I..." He swallowed. "I didn't think I deserved to."

He fell silent, and Sherlock uncharacteristically gave him time. It didn't even surprise him. He probably needed to hear this, as much as Victor needed to say it.

"She died two years after our wedding," he said flatly. The lack of emotion in his voice made Sherlock wince. He imagined losing John now, and found his brain shying away from the thought. "I... It took me time, to recover. I inherited this empire, all this money, all those hotels. So much money, Sherlock. So much responsibility. But I had lost her, and I had lost you, and I just couldn't... I picked up the masks again," he finished.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he smiled, still far away. "Mycroft... Well, you know your brother. I knew him too. I was surprised he hadn't exacted his revenge yet."

Sherlock frowned, and couldn't stop himself from asking, "His revenge for what?"

Victor laughed, and it was the saddest sound Sherlock had ever heard.

"For you, you big idiot! Sherlock, you can be such a fool. Your brother loves you. You have no idea how much he loves you."

"He wants to control me."

Victor nodded. "Yes, that, too. Often a side-effect of love. Also, Mycroft is a power freak, so that's part of his package."

Sherlock snorted. There was a familiar prickle of warmth traveling down his spine, one he hadn't felt for fifteen year, and he didn't find it as disquieting as he thought he would. In fact, he found some comfort in it, despite the bittersweetness of it.

"Why are we talking about Mycroft, again?" Sherlock asked wryly.

"Because I knew he was watching me. He had to keep track of me, if he wanted to make me pay for having hurt his baby brother. And after having lost Ana, I just... I was just tired of it all and I decided to face him."

Sherlock blinked. "You thought my brother wanted to kill you and you used him as a means to your suicide?" he rephrased, disbelieving. Victor rolled his eyes.

"Yes, right, because that would really have satisfied him as far as revenge was concerned. No, I knew he wanted to hurt me, and I just thought, to hell with it, I'm already black and blue, let's get this over with now. If Ana hadn't died of cancer, I would've blamed her death on him. After what I had made you go through, I knew he would want to hurt me in the worst possible way, and trust me, her death had hurt even more than that."

He sat down on the bed, and for an insane second, Sherlock was tempted to join him, like they had done so many times when they had been roommates. Sitting on each others' beds, talking for hours.

"So I looked you up. I knew that would be like a ringing bell for Mycroft, and I was right. I took a flight to London and waited for him to abduct me. Well, I didn't really wait. Actually, a lovely lady was waiting for me at the airport."

He smirked, and Sherlock sat down next to him almost automatically. Right now, he could have strangled Mycroft.

"He met me in some deserted farmhouse — I know, weird, even for him — and just watched me. Didn't say a word, just... stared."

"What did you do?" Sherlock couldn't help asking.

"I stared back."

Sherlock smiled. He wished he could have seen that. Then he remembered Victor had just lost his wife then, and again, everything that he held dear, and he was glad he hadn't been there to witness it, this time.

"We had a talk. Basically, he wanted to know if now that I had lost everything again, I would blame you. It was insulting, really, having Mycroft think I might have turned into a psychopath. I laughed in his face, and told him I hadn't come to England to see you, but him. He's Mycroft. He caught on quickly."

Victor played with one of his curls, and Sherlock wondered if he'd just naturally resumed the habit in his presence as he talked, or if he had never dropped it.

"He told me about you. And... drugs."

Sherlock stiffened. He would kill Mycroft.

"I was so full of it, going to him like that. The truth is, I was so broken at the time, I assumed there was nothing he could do that would hurt me." He looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "I was wrong."

"You had nothing to do with it."

Victor snorted.

"Of course not. You just became a drug addict after I had thrown that money at you and thrown you out of my life because you thought it would be nice."

"I thought it would help me focus on cases. It did. It—"

"Helped you focus. Yes."

They fell silent. Finally, Sherlock said in a low voice, "He had no right."

"I don't know," Victor replied thoughtfully. "I was responsible. He wanted to make me pay."

"You weren't responsible, Victor," Sherlock told him, and for the first time since his old friend had showed up at 221B Baker Street, his voice was completely soft, devoid of any undertone. Victor looked him in the eye, defiantly.

"Of course I was."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Before I told you what I had found about your father, I knew. I knew how you'd react. I told you anyway."

A dark, heavy silence fell over them. Sherlock didn't know if it was because he had mentioned Victor's father, or if it was because he had spoken so plainly, so openly, about feelings, which was so unlike him. He thought of John, and do you even care about them? Will caring help me save them? Nope. Not at all. Then I will continue not to make that mistake and of how John would've reacted in his place, had he found out the truth, or even if he hadn't, and just been there.

"I'm sorry I had nothing else to offer but the truth," he murmured, and wondered what it was he had to offer John. Thrill, for sure. Adventure. And what else?

"Don't do this, Sherlock," Victor murmured. He seemed on the verge of tears, but his gaze was resolutely trained on the ceiling. "You were not to blame. I destroyed our friendship."

"I think we did," he said, and forced Victor to meet his gaze.

Victor closed his eyes, but did not seem convinced. It was most likely an attempt to hold back the tears, rather than a sign of assent and defeat. He turned away.

"So after he'd delivered the last blow, Mycroft told me if I ever hurt you again, he would ensure I never recovered. At the time, it didn't feel like I would recover at that point anyway, but... Well, I did. When I met Irene, I began to feel happy again. Of course I should've known that there would be a canker in the rose." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "So when I thought she might know you, I contacted Mycroft. I had the immense pleasure of seeing him surprised, maybe for the first time in his life, and he cut the connection right away. He probably checked that I wasn't lying about Irene being here. I knew then that you'd been involved, somehow. You're the only one who could fool Mycroft, and trust me, he was fooled."

"Until you contacted him," Sherlock pointed out, somewhat bitterly.

"Well, I couldn't have known, could I? And Sherlock, do you seriously think Mycroft would let any harm come to someone you cared about?"

"He hurt you," Sherlock said quietly. Victor froze. The look he gave Sherlock was so vulnerable it almost made the consulting detective wince, but he didn't, and Victor quickly looked away to regain his composure.

"He told me everything about Irene Adler, except what your relationship with her had been like, exactly."

"When I thought she was dead, he offered me a cigarette," Sherlock deadpanned.

Victor stared, then shook his head. His hand was shaking slightly.

"That bad, huh?"

Sherlock remained silent. There was no use adding oil to the fire. Suddenly he felt something soft push against his leg, and he looked down to see John, face buried in his calf. He smiled.

"I have to go," he said.

Victor gave him a wan smile.

"Because of the manul?" he asked in the tone of a man used to being baffled by Sherlock's behaviour, and somehow accepting it.

Sherlock nodded. They stood up from the bed, and only then did Sherlock realise that he'd sat down with Victor. He looked at his old friend seriously.

"If I prove that Irene Adler is behind the murder of Harry Pinner..." He watched Victor hold his breath, his eyes widening. "...will you want to destroy me?" he finished, realising for the first time that he had given Victor everything he needed to know to indeed be able to destroy him, completely. He had let him meet John.

But Victor smiled painfully, and shook his head. "If life has taught me something, it's that I should think twice before lashing out at someone. You... Sometimes I feel you're the only person on the surface of the Earth who knows me. I've learned long ago that any attempt to destroy you is more likely to destroy me." He swallowed, and looked away. "I... I might blame myself for calling you, but I wouldn't blame you. You weren't to blame last time either," he said, and repeated, more strongly, "you were not to blame." Then, in a soft, childlike voice so familiar it made Sherlock ache, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock did not say a word, but he moved towards Victor and put a hand on his left elbow.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock had tried to pick up John and hold him as they left the room and walked down the corridor, but the manul had scorned his touch and turned away. Sherlock was trying to decide whether he should tell John that the snotty look just looked adorably silly on him when he caught sight of a pair of glasses on the floor. He frowned, and stopped.

"What—" Victor began.

"Mrs Leverton's glasses," Sherlock said. The manul blinked at him, and the consulting detective could almost hear John voice asking, How could you possibly know that? 

"Yes, that's her room. She must have dropped them as she was going out."

"In," Sherlock corrected, and knocked on the door.

"In?" Victor echoed, in an uncharacteristic display of stupidity.

"Yes, in," Sherlock said, annoyed, and now worried because no one was answering the door. "She never wears them in public."

"Even if she was going in, it meant she was carrying the glasses with her outside," Victor retorted, sounding somewhat affronted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, of course. She was wearing them, and must have realised as she came out, so she turned around to go back in and..."

Sherlock froze.

"What is it?" Victor asked with obvious concern.

Sherlock knocked again, more loudly. "Mrs Leverton? Are you in?" he called. There was no reply. "We need the copy of the key that's at the reception," Sherlock told Victor, and noticed that his friend was already calling reception on his mobile phone. Perhaps there was still hope for him after all.

"Yes, this is Victor Trevor, can you please send someone on the fourth floor with the keys to room 401? Thank you." He turned towards Sherlock. "What do you think happened to her?"

"Maybe nothing," Sherlock said.

They waited in silence until the same maid who had brought him Champagne arrived with the keys. She gave him a puzzled and somewhat wary look, and handed the card to Victor. He put it in at once, and pushed the door open. Sherlock couldn't fail to notice that he did not show the same urgency as he had when he'd thought Irene was in danger.

They found Mrs Leverton unconscious in her bathtub, holding a chloroformed handkerchief to her nose. Her wrists were slit.

The maid let out a cry. Sherlock moved into the bathroom to take a pulse. Victor gave the maid his mobile phone and followed him.

"Call an ambulance," Victor ordered. And as the maid was still standing there, horrified, he bellowed "Now!" She complied shakily.

"She's alive," Sherlock said.

"Barely," Victor murmured, white as a sheet.

"We must stop the haemorrhage," Sherlock said, grabbing one of the towels. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Can't John help?" Victor asked.

"Not right now," Sherlock mumbled. "I sent him away on an errand."

"Oh."

They worked together to stop the bleeding and did what they could until the ambulance arrived. Before Mrs Leverton was taken to the nearest hospital, Victor retrieved her room key, which was in the front pocket of her jacket. "She always keeps it there," he shrugged, "and she won't be needing it for now." They watched the ambulance drive away from the porch of the hotel. Victor ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"Well, so much for my clients being safe."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"It looked like a suicide," he pointed out.

Victor snorted, but there was no humour in the sound.

"You don't seriously believe this was a suicide attempt, do you?"

"No," Sherlock said. Of course Victor would notice too. He wasn't John. "Where's John?" Sherlock asked aloud before he could think about it.

Victor frowned.

"You said you sent him on an errand."

Oh. Right. "Yes, but he should have been back by now," he said, hoping that would suffice. Apparently, Victor had other worries, so it did. He simply nodded and said, "Maybe he's gone back to your bedroom before all this commotion. Just go and check on him. I have to give a speech to reassure everyone, and it'd probably help if you weren't there to hear my bullshit."

Sherlock put a hand on Victor's shoulder, squeezed a little, and left. Where could have John possibly gone? He couldn't open the bedroom door alone, that was for sure. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to be around when the ambulance arrived, so as to avoid drawing attention. It was true it was illegal to keep a manul as a pet, and people were more sensitive about protected felids in this region.

In any case, the bedroom was still the best bet. Sherlock looked in the corridor where room 212 was, but saw no trace of John. Just in case he could have somehow managed to enter the bedroom, Sherlock took out his card and opened the door. All was quiet inside, but that didn't mean much. He went into the bedroom, then the bathroom, but saw no trace of John. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach. What if the culprit hadn't left and was still in the rooms when they'd entered? They hadn't even checked. He swallowed, cursing his carelessness. John would be proud, of course. He'd thought of saving the life of the victim first, but the truth was, Victor could have managed alone. Sherlock had only done a cursory search of the premise. He hadn't looked in the wardrobe or the cupboards.

Of course, it was unlikely that someone who had just attempted murder, and in such a fashion, would bother risking his cover to capture a manul. But if this whole mess was about what Sherlock thought it was about, then maybe...

His eye caught something near the abandoned bottle of Champagne and the two glasses. Slowly, he approached and took the piece of paper that had been left between the bottle and the glass. There were only five words on it.

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

.

.

.

tbc

Chapter Text

.

221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 26

One for sorrow, two for joy

.

When John opened his eyes, he had one hell of a headache and the strange feeling of being out of his body. He stretched his arm tentatively, and groaned as a paw came into view. Then he remembered. 

 Irene Adler. 

Panicked, he jumped to his… well, paws, and took in his surroundings. The Woman was nowhere to be found. John was on a bed very similar to the one in their suite. 

But it wasn’t their suite. And Sherlock wasn’t there. 

John swallowed, closing his eyes. This was a bad situation. He was a manul in a foreign country, locked in a room without Sherlock. The consulting detective did not know where he was, but Irene Adler did, and when she came back, she would expect to see a man. Not a frenzied fluffy cat. John calmed his breathing and let his military training kick in. Fully alert now, he glanced around the room and found a clock. He blinked. He hadn’t actually paid any attention upon coming out of the shower, and he had no idea around what time Irene had led him here. Consequently, he did not know how long he had been out. There was no time to lose.

He was about to jump off the bed when he realised that he was standing on his clothes. Swiftly, he made a pile out of them, and pushed them off the bed. He jumped after them and was surprised to miss his landing — his legs felt weak, or weaker than usual in manul form anyway. The drug, the doctor thought. Whatever Irene Adler had injected him with, the dose was for a full-grown man, not for a cat. He had to fight down a new surge of panic. Who knew what the drug would do to his system in this form? Would there be any lasting effects after he transformed back? And if he needed medical attention, how would he even begin to explain the issue at hand? He shook his head. He had more pressing worries for the time being. 

After having pushed his clothes under the bed so that they would be hidden from view, he scanned the room for a way out. There was the door through which he had entered, of course, but it was closed. He tried to reach the handle, to no avail. There was no convenient nearby piece of furniture to attempt crazy jumps, and at any rate this was a modern lock, the door handle metallic. John would have had to find a way to hold onto that handle and pull somehow in order to open the door. 

The way he had come in was not an option. 

Next, his gaze landed on the windows. There was a balcony, but the glass door to that was as impossible to open for a manul as the bedroom’s door. However, the windows… John trotted to the glass door and looked up sideways. Yes, if he managed somehow to open one of the windows, he would be able to jump and land safely onto the balcony. At least he could hide there until Sherlock found him. Wouldn’t his friend think of checking the balconies first, since they were all visible from outside? In any case, he thought, looking around the room once more, this was his best option. Using the bed as a springboard, he jumped onto the chest of drawers that was by the window, crashing into the glass. He mewled. His head was killing him and his legs were still wobbly. For a moment, he stopped moving, closed his eyes, and rested his brow against the windowpane. 

Irene Adler was alive. Sherlock had saved her. He had saved her, and hadn’t told John about it. Why? Did he think that he wasn’t trustworthy? Did he possibly not even think of telling him? No, it was such a feat that surely Sherlock would’ve wanted to boast. Hadn’t he managed to fool even Mycroft, after all? 

John sighed. That was it, wasn’t it? Mycroft. Maybe Sherlock could fool him, but John definitely couldn’t. It was true. In that respect, John wasn’t trustworthy. Sherlock could not have relied on him even if he had wanted to. 

Frowning, the manul shook his head and opened his eyes. Snap out of it, he thought. This isn’t the time to wallow in your inferiority complex. 

He stretched his paw and tried to reach out to open a window. Why should he feel inferior, anyway? Sherlock and Mycroft were in a league of their own, he always knew that. It wasn’t like anyone could compare, apart from evil geniuses like Moriarty. 

Except some could, couldn’t they? Irene Adler, the Woman whom even Sherlock could not read. Victor Trevor, the boy who had been deemed by both Holmes as ‘clever’. Irene Adler, who was not only alive, but here, in this hotel, something that Sherlock himself hadn’t anticipated — unless he had decided to keep John in the dark about that, too. Victor Trevor, who had waltzed back into Sherlock’s life and lied to his face, and yes, Sherlock could read him enough to know he was lying, but not enough to know what exactly he was lying about or why. Irene Adler, whom John had been stupid enough to follow blindly, not even leaving Sherlock a note. Victor Trevor, who still managed to joke with Sherlock fifteen years later and who seemed to understand Mycroft perhaps even better than Sherlock. 

The manul fought back the urge to hit his head against the window. It wouldn’t stop the thoughts. He felt like he hadn’t had time to breathe at all since Maggie and his confession to Sherlock. It had been case after case after case — but not just that. First Sherlock had almost been blown up. Then they were involved with the Mafia, again. Then Henry died and Sherlock blamed himself for not being quick enough, not being clever enough, and their transformations kept happening more and more and it was like all communication between them was falling apart, words left unsaid, misunderstandings piling up. And then Victor Trevor showed up. A brilliant ghost from Sherlock’s past, a new exciting murder case on the other side of the globe, and now Irene Adler. How could John even start to compete? 

Stop it, he ordered, and focused on the window once more. You used to be in the army, get a grip before this situation gets even worse. An image of a manul in Captain’s clothes crossed his mind. He snickered, but it turned into a mewl as he almost fell from the chest of drawers. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed that he was just short of reaching—

The door beeped as a card was inserted, and then it burst open. John froze. There was no time to hide. What would Irene Adler think? What—

There was a sigh and confident footsteps and a second later John was enveloped in a familiar embrace. He squealed, flustered as Sherlock buried his face in the crook of his neck. His heart was hammering in his chest and it seemed that his body hadn’t yet received the memo from his brain that it was safe now. He was safe.  

"Care to tell me what this is all about?"

John’s eyes widened as he took in Victor, sitting in an armchair on the other side of the room. He looked confused and angry. Sherlock remained unfazed, however, and went to sit across from him. 

"What’s a manul doing here?" their host asked.

John gulped. How did he even know…?

"I’m not entirely ignorant, you know," Victor went on, and John was unpleasantly reminded of Sherlock when he read his thoughts. "So?"

John felt Sherlock stiffen and instinctively put a paw on his hand. Victor looked emotionally exhausted. The manul could tell that Sherlock was upset as well, but this wasn't the time to snap at the man who had brought them here in the first place. The consulting detective glared down at John, but continued to hold him and at last gave in with a muttered "Fine". John relaxed slightly in his arms. 

"Why didn't you tell me about her?" 

"I didn't think it was relevant to the case."

Her? Had Sherlock seen Irene Adler, then? And... she knew Victor? John frowned, then remembered what his face looked like when he did, and smoothed it at once. God, this was so embarrassing.

"Please. Let's not waste our time, shall we?"

Sherlock's tone was cutting. John watched rather helplessly as both men's anger continued to rise. At least Victor hardly paid any attention to John. Not that he knew it was John. The thought alone was enough to fill the manul with dread. No one could ever know, except Sherlock. Well, and Mrs Hudson, he supposed. 

"Then why don't you tell me what we're doing here?" 

"Getting the manul back." 

"Whose is it?"

 "Mine."

John blushed. Hard. He was thinking that he was glad to be in cat form at least for this, since his complexion would not give him away, but then he looked up and saw Sherlock's smirk and knew that he was doomed. Of course the consulting detective would have catalogued his manul form reactions by now. Of course he was transparent even as a fur ball. He groaned and looked resolutely away... at Victor, who cleared his throat. Well, at least it wasn't Irene. With him they were in friendly territory.

 "Right. You have a manul. Great. You do know it's not legal to keep one as a pet, don't you?"

…or not. After all, Victor was the owner of the hotel, not just Sherlock's friend. Would he consider it his duty to report them? Or at least tell Sherlock to get rid of the manul? John shuddered. 

"Oh, you want to talk about "legal"?" 

Now the manul shuddered at his partner's tone. What had got into Sherlock? He sounded angry. Truly angry. It was the kind of resentment he usually reserved for Mycroft. They had barely began to talk, but John felt lost already. 

"Having a mistress isn't illegal. In this country."

"Having her is," Sherlock spat. John whimpered in protest. He couldn't understand why, but he hated to see his friend like this. He could see it in his white knuckles, in the set of his jaw: Sherlock intended to hurt. The manul couldn’t remember him ever appearing so… vicious. Sherlock wasn’t cruel. Tactless, sometimes, even uncaring. But not cruel. Not like that. 

"What do you mean?" 

"Why don't you ask her? I have a case to solve, and I don't want you to throw me out this time as well just because I tell you the truth."

John flinched. Oh. So that was it. 

"Sherlock..." 

"Don't."

"Please, I—"

"Don't!"

Sherlock's voice broke. John had never wished more that he could be a man, to intervene, offer comfort, even just take Sherlock's hand in his. This wasn't just anger. It was hurt. And it was painful to watch. But what else could John do? He was just a fluffy cat right now, and Sherlock hardly seemed in the mood to cuddle. 

So he watched as the consulting detective took a deep breath, schooling his features. Watched as he relaxed his fists. Watched as he met Victor's gaze, and blinked, as if he couldn't look into those eyes. 

"I knew we should have talked about it from the beginning," Victor said quietly. 

"If you're talking about the fact that your mistress put you up to call me, yes."

Mistress? Had Sherlock just said mistress? The manul felt his jaw drop. What in the world was going on? 

"That's not what I'm talking about." 

Irene was Victor's mistress? John couldn't wrap his mind around it. He still felt dazed when Sherlock stood up abruptly, keeping the manul in his arms. 

"Then there's no reason we should talk about it." 

"Sherlock."

Victor grabbed his arm. Sherlock's entire body stiffened, his embrace becoming almost painful. John could've sworn that his heart skipped a beat, too. And then the blood came rushing back, crashing into John's ears as if it were his own. He was disoriented for a second, unable to conceive that this was Sherlock's heart he could hear, not the calm beat that he had heard and felt sometimes as he had fallen asleep on his chest, not even a fluttering heart beat, and thank God because if Sherlock's heart had fluttered at Victor's touch John didn't know what he would've done. No, John knew this heartbeat intimately for having experienced it himself. He just never thought Sherlock could feel that. 

It was rage. 

Victor let go abruptly, and they shared a look John could not understand. He felt his own heart sink. 

"I know who she is," Victor whispered, and he looked broken. A sigh ripped through him and his body felt back into the armchair, where he rested his head in his hands. John felt bad for him, but he was also glad that the eye contact had been interrupted. He hated himself a little for feeling that way. 

"I know who she is, all right?" Victor went on. 

"She told you?" 

Sherlock's heartbeat had calmed down, as if the storm had passed. Now he sounded miffed.

"Mycroft did."

John and Sherlock both froze at the same time. Victor remained in the same position. 

It dawned on John then, that this was a conversation he did not want to hear. Clearly, they needed to talk. John had assumed that they had talked, when he had walked in on them that morning, Sherlock naked lighting Victor a cigarette in their living-room. Or perhaps not talked, but... He shook his head, hopped off his friend's arms and took refuge into the hall by the front door. 

"Mycroft?" He heard Sherlock say, and tried to shut them out. 

"I knew you wouldn't like it. That's why I didn't tell you."

"What else didn't you tell me?"

"I could tell. I... Maybe I don't truly know her, but I know her better than she thinks. I... I could tell she knew you when I first mentioned you. She is a wonderful actress, and I actually admire that about her. But I can recognise old love anywhere, most of all in a woman's eyes." 

John tried, he really tried not to hear, not to listen, but it was impossible. He curled in a corner, closing his eyes. 

"Were you ever together?"

"No."

"Did you ever want to?"

John's breath caught in his throat. In the other room, there was only silence. Why was Sherlock staying silent? 

"No," he said at last, and John started breathing again. Victor voiced what he himself couldn't help but note. 

"That was a long pause."

"I was seriously considering it. I thought you deserved as much."

Right. What Victor deserved. He certainly deserved privacy for this conversation -- Sherlock knew John was the manul, and must have known he could hear them, but Victor didn't, and if he ended up pouring out his heart to Sherlock he would assume that this was just between the two of them. Then again, he had opened up quite a bit to John that first night at Angelo's while downing a whole bottle of wine and some by himself. 

As John listened to their conversation, trying not to, failing, several things became clear in his still foggy mind:

Victor Trevor was an important person in the Holmes's history. There was a reason Mycroft had mentioned him, and only him, when he had questioned John about his relationship with Sherlock. 

Regardless of what Sherlock said, Victor had played a part in the way the consulting detective cut himself off from people and decided to focus on facts and facts alone. It was difficult for John to forgive him for that, even without taking the drugs into account. 

But Victor had paid. Both had paid enough for the hurt they had caused the other. Mycroft had, indeed, already exacted his revenge. John may be having a hard time forgiving Victor, and he couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock would have been like, had this very first friendship flourished instead of becoming a trauma. But he wasn't stupid enough to hate Victor for it. 

And also, perhaps, that too was something they both deserved. A second chance. 

One sentence, however, uttered by Sherlock made John want to scream. "I'm sorry I had nothing else to offer but the truth." Said so quietly, so softly John had to prick his ears to hear it. But said nonetheless. This, John would have to make sure Sherlock knew. That truth was not all he had to offer. Far from it. 

Slowly, John left his corner and made his way back into the room. Both men were now sitting on the bed. John wavered, feeling a bit like a voyeur. But he wanted to offer Sherlock whatever comfort he could. Or maybe it was himself who needed it. 

"Sherlock, do you seriously think Mycroft would let any harm come to someone you cared about?"

"He hurt you." 

The manul froze, as did Victor. The two men were so engrossed in each other that they hadn't noticed him coming back. John averted his gaze. Seeing Sherlock like this, and Victor, so open, his expressions raw, was too much. Their closeness was too much. There was no denying it, John did feel jealous. Or, perhaps, envious. Hadn't he, after all, prided himself in being Sherlock's closest friend? Wasn't he his best friend? It was ridiculous, he knew, feeling that way. It would change nothing. And Sherlock deserved to have as many close friends as he could. 

"He told me everything about Irene Adler, except what your relationship with her had been like, exactly. 

"When I thought she was dead, he offered me a cigarette." 

"That bad, huh?"

Yes, it hurt to see them so close, but John had no right. He couldn't help those feelings because he had no idea where he stood now with Sherlock, and he was terrified to lose him completely -- scratch lovers, could they still be friends after this? Sherlock as a tiger had rejected his touch. Gently, John pushed against Sherlock's leg, burying his face in his calf. 

"I have to go." 

"Because of the manul?" 

John moved back as they stood up from the bed. 

"If I prove that Irene Adler is behind the murder of Harry Pinner, will you want to destroy me?" 

John's eyes snapped up to Sherlock. He had not expected that question. Of course, now that he thought about it, he should have seen it coming. His gaze shifted to Victor, his eyes turning to slits. 

"If life has taught me something, it's that I should think twice before lashing out at someone. You... Sometimes I feel you're the only person on the surface of the Earth who knows me."

John regretted coming into the room. Had he stayed in the hall, he would've heard all this, but he wouldn't have had to witness it. Now he couldn't look away from Victor's face. 

"I've learned long ago that any attempt to destroy you is more likely to destroy me. I... I might blame myself for calling you, but I wouldn't blame you. You weren't to blame last time either. You were not to blame." Then he added, his voice soft and vulnerable, "I'm sorry."

Finally John managed to rip his gaze away and leave the room. When Sherlock tried to pick him up in the entrance hall before leaving, he shirked his hand and turned away. He needed to talk with Sherlock. Until then, it would be hard to accept his touch. Maybe that is what Sherlock had felt, too, when he was last in tiger form. They needed to talk, but the Work kept happening. Like now. 

"Mrs Leverton's glasses," Sherlock said, and John blinked before remembering how silly he looked blinking when he was a manul. He scowled. 

His scowl did not remain for long though as Victor easily slid into John's usual role of making incorrect assumptions and Sherlock correcting all of them. Then they were talking about having the staff bring up the key to the room and John panicked. 

"Sherlock!" he wanted to shout. "What about me? Illegal, remember?"

But neither of the men were paying any attention to him. Soon the maid would be here. Desperate, the manul ran over to the end of the hall, and hid himself around the corner. He heard the elevator stop at their floor, and saw the maid open the door for them. Then they were all gone inside the room. He sighed. 

"Dear me, is that a manul?" 

John's heart skipped a beat. 

Slowly, he turned around to be met by the delighted grin and slightly manic eyes of Ferdinand Leblainpié. 

 «(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

Sherlock stared at the note, scanning his mind palace. His knowledge of zoology was extensive, but nowhere could he find a link between the Rhizomys sumatrensis and the current case. Had this note been forgotten there by the maid and not left on purpose? Unlikely, but possible. What did a bamboo rat have anything to do with the murder? Or with John's disappearance? 

John.

Sherlock pocketed the note, having learned everything he could from it for now. Female handwriting, but not the Woman's, written in a hurry, not on a plane surface. The paper was from the block note that was in every room and at the hotel reception, with the logo and the name of the Grand Hotel. The ink was black, from a ballpoint pen -- most likely one of the hotel pens as well. 

The consulting detective checked the bottle and the glasses, but there was nothing else out of the ordinary, no other message. He sighed in frustration. These people with their feelings were making this simple case ridiculously complicated. First, Victor, who’d somehow got into his head that falling in love with the Woman would be a good idea. Then the Woman herself, who had nothing better to do than rope her new lover into bringing Sherlock to her. The Woman, who so obviously still had feelings. Her weakness. And John’s, too, since apparently whatever she had managed to tell him before drugging him to sleep had upset him enough to trigger a transformation. Stupid people with their stupid feelings. 

At least when Moriarty went out of his way to manipulate him, Sherlock could expect logic. But these were normal people. Normal people weren’t logical. Normal people made mistake. 

Of course. Mistakes. 

‘Where is Victor Trevor,’ he demanded as soon as he reached the reception desk. The woman flushed.

‘I am sorry, sir, Mr Trevor is very busy right now and—’

‘—and he hired me to help with this business, so tell me where he is right now.’

She gaped for a second, but soon regained her wits and stammered:

‘He went to the surveillance room.’

Sherlock bit his lip, annoyed. Why was Victor being stupid too? He did not have time for Victor to be stupid. John was gone. He needed to find him. 

‘Has anyone come to ask where Mrs Leverton’s room was?’ he asked, because just in case, he should check. Unsurprisingly, the receptionist shook her head. 

‘No one, sir. And the key to her room was still here when Mr Trevor called for someone to bring it up. The police have it now, they are still in the room.’

Sherlock brushed this off — even if they’d had functioning brains, the police would find nothing in that room. No, he would have to investigate somewhere else. But first…

‘Where is the surveillance room?’

The surveillance room was in the exact opposite direction of where Sherlock needed to be right now, so he did not bother knocking before entering. 

‘Hey you! This is staff only, you can’t just—’

‘Leave it, Eric, he’s working for me.’ 

Victor did not even turn as he said that, his gaze fixed on the various screens in front of him. He looked so tired in the white blue light that Sherlock gave up on correcting him. 

‘I haven’t found anything yet,’ Victor went on, gesturing for the consulting detective to have a seat.

‘And you won’t. But I need you to take me into the kitchens.’

‘What?’ the other man — Eric — said. Sherlock spared him a glance. Divorced, two children, had given up smoking a month ago. Completely unrelated to this case. He looked at Victor, who was staring at him. Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Surely Victor did not want him to answer that question, did he?

‘Let’s go,’ Victor said, walking past him swiftly. 

‘Sir, should I still look for something…?’

‘It’s fine, Eric, keep up the good work!’ Victor shouted over his shoulder, walking as fast as he could without breaking into a run. Sherlock appreciated that he understood the situation.

‘So, are you going to explain to me why we’re going to the kitchens?’ 

Or maybe not. Sherlock spoke quickly as they made their way down the building.

‘Your cameras are in the games parlour, casino, dining room, main hall. But the person who tried to kill Mrs Leverton was not a guest.’

‘Why?’ 

‘She would not let just anyone into her room.’

‘It could have been someone she knew.’ 

‘No. The people she knows she only meets at the games parlour.’ 

Victor frowned, but seemed to just accept what Sherlock was giving him as fact. 

‘So you’re saying that it was one of my staff?’

‘At least someone who pretended to be part of your staff.’

‘But—’

‘Does the Giant Rat of Sumatra ring any bells?’ 

Victor scowled at the interruption but was prompt to answer anyway. 

‘No.’ 

The lift’s doors opened and Victor stepped out. Sherlock followed with a frown.

‘Aren’t your kitchens in the basement?’

‘You’re thinking that Mrs Leverton ordered something to be brought to her room, and that the murderer was the person to bring it to her.’

Not exactly correct, but close enough. Sherlock remained silent. 

‘This is the office where the call from her room would have arrived, and from where they would have let the kitchens know,’ Victor explained as they walked in. In one stride he was in front of the central desk, behind which the woman had stood up at his entrance.

‘Sir,’ she greeted, glancing briefly at Sherlock in confusion.

‘Did room 401 order anything from the kitchens today?’ Victor asked her. 

She checked her register and frowned.

‘No, sir.’ 

This was unexpected.

‘Are you sure?’ Sherlock insisted. 

She glared at him a little.

‘Nobody made any order today from room 401.’ 

‘Thank you, Lynda,’ Victor said, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and pulling him towards the door. 

Sherlock shrugged him off once they were out in the corridor. 

‘I wasn’t wrong,’ he snapped, and he was trying not to be irritated at everyone’s stupidity but John was gone and there was no time—

‘I know,’ Victor said simply. 

Sherlock stared in shock. Victor gave him a lopsided smile.

‘We’re going to the kitchens.’ 

 «(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

On a scale of bad to worse, 1 being bad and 10 being the worst, John’s estimate was that his situation hovered around 20. 

After finding him in the corridor, Mr Leblainpié had picked up John into an iron embrace and, instead of alerting the staff that an illegal animal was roaming the hotel, had brought him back to his room. Foolishly, John had felt relief then — although it might be more difficult for Sherlock to find him, at least he was less likely to cause a scene if he was hiding in a private room. 

His relief was short-lived. Ferdinand Leblainpié was a madman.

‘Look at you, how pretty, how soft! Do you know that this is my first time seeing a live manul?’

Yes, John knew. His captor had said it approximately ten times since he had caught him. The ‘live’ part did not get any less creepy with the repetitions. 

‘Those black circles around your eyes, that fluffy tail! Such a divine creature! And so tame, too!’

The manul bristled. He knew he couldn’t act up now, for many reasons. There was no telling what that nutcase would do if he did — somehow, being reported to the staff didn’t seem like such a bad thing now that he was faced with Ferdinand’s sheer insanity.

‘I shall show you my treasures! You’ll understand, won’t you, since you are one of them. Look. This is tiger bone wine. It’s a wonderful tonic! I have a few bones themselves, too, to avoid spirits. Not that I believe in spirits, but you never know!’ 

He winked. John recoiled. Tiger bones? Now he was glad to have been the one abducted in his feline form. He dared not even imagine what would have happened had this man come across Sherlock. 

‘I have a few claws of course, too!’ Ferdinand went on, starting to unbutton his shirt. What is he doing?! John panicked. ‘See? I wear a belt of them! They have to be worn on the body, you know.’ 

The manul shuddered. Ferdinand grinned broadly and put his shirt back on.

‘Soon I should be able to get a tail. Not that I have skin cancer, but you never know what might happen! And having one might prevent it.’

John looked around the room frantically. He couldn’t run for it, because there was nowhere to run. He glanced at the bathroom door. Someone had been in the shower ever since the man had brought him into the room. His only hope was that this second person would be slightly more sane, and would release him, or give him to the hotel staff. Victor could figure out the rest. 

‘You’re not a tiger of course. But I love all felines! I have much more things at home, from many, many felines. But this is the first time I see a live manul! Oh, it is such a treat!’

John groaned. Yes, such a treat. The pudgy man reached out to pet him and the manul flinched.

‘Oh no, don’t be afraid! I’m not going to hurt you, you’re too precious for that.’

You mean my body parts are, John thought darkly.

‘I’ve always wanted to have a pet, but my wife said she doesn’t like cats. Cats are rather boring anyway, though some are quite pretty. But a manul…!’

A pet?! John started, but that only made him hit Ferdinand’s hand, who looked delighted as he petted him. There was still an eerie gleam in his eyes. The manul swallowed, disgusted. This man would as easily settle for body parts if he couldn’t get the nice, tame pet he wanted. So John closed his eyes and tried not to feel nauseous. He was also very much aware of the irony of the situation: in the end, he had been abducted by someone who wanted him as a pet. Sherlock would never let him hear the end of this. 

Then the buzz of the shower stopped. At last! My saviour. Surely nobody could be as insane as Ferdinand. Well, if it was his wife, she had married him after all… but still, maybe she would say that he looked too much like a cat and refuse that they keep him as a pet. 

In any case, she couldn’t possibly be worse than her husband, could she? 

She could.

As the door of the bathroom opened, a woman in a bathrobe came out. John froze.

Irene Adler. 

 «(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

‘Tea and biscuits for one? Why yes, sir, we prepared that one or two hours ago I believe.’

Victor grinned triumphantly. Sherlock had no time to feel triumphant. 

‘Who took it to the room?’

‘One of the maids, surely?’ the man said, looking anything but sure. Sherlock clicked his tongue. Victor’s hand was on his arm in a second, trying to be calming. Strangely, it worked.

‘Which maid?’ Victor asked with a polite smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes.  

‘I’m really not sure, one was already there when we put it on the counter and said she would take of it, so we didn’t have to ring the office.’

‘I think it was Amelia!’ one of the kitchen boys piped in. Almost instantly another said ‘No, it was Celia!’ 

‘Did any of you actually see her face?’ the cook grumbled. The boys said nothing. Victor sighed. 

‘Can we see the counter?’ Sherlock said, and it wasn’t a request.

‘Of course. This way.’

While Sherlock examined the counter and the rest of the room, Victor continued his line of questioning.

‘Who prepared the tea and biscuits?’

‘Bobby, wasn’t it you?’ the cook said to one of the boys. 

‘No, sir! It was the new guy!’

‘The new guy?’ Victor echoed. 

Sherlock’s gaze stopped on something on the floor, hidden in the shade of the counter. He bent down to pick it up.

‘We have no new hires,’ Victor was saying. 

‘What? But…’ 

‘Let me guess,’ Sherlock interrupted. ‘Did that ‘new guy’ follow the maid out and never come back?’ 

Victor whipped around to face him.

‘You don’t guess,’ he pointed out. 

‘Now that you mention it,’ the cook mumbled. ‘Where is the new guy?’ 

‘Impressive security you’ve got there,’ Sherlock told his friend, already walking to the door. Victor ran after him. 

‘Yes, that was ridiculous,’ he admitted. ‘So what did you find?’ 

Sherlock handed him the card he’d found on the floor. Victor frowned as he read.

‘The Green Dragon.’

‘You know it?’

‘Everybody does. It’s a rather infamous dive in town. The kind of place normal people avoid. Even the police doesn’t interfere with that business.’

He looked at Sherlock.