More fic!
Title: Landing on His Feet (2/?)
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: G
Pairings: None
Summary: Sherlock dies at the pool and is reincarnated as a cat, who is adopted by Molly. Bring on Sherlock Holmes, Cat!Detective.
Sherlock poked the mysterious bag, nestled between a television that met its end after Tottenham's loss last Sunday and a bag of rubbish from someone's kitchen. Yes. That was definitely a human scent, and not a good human scent but death itself, lurking just under his nose. Sherlock shredded at the plastic bag with his paw, and the metallic smell of blood flooded his nostrils. It had to contain a body, or at least the evidence of one.
"Hey. This is my alley," a voice rumbled at him from the ground. Sherlock peeked over the edge to see a massive gray tomcat. Sherlock looked him over. He looked large and sluggish but if anything Sherlock had found such appearances could be deceiving among cats. Especially because this one wore no collar and appeared quite muscular.
"Just passing through," Sherlock replied cautiously. "I live two stories up, that window there."
"So what are you doing in my skip?" The other cat snarled in reply.
"Just - inspecting something odd." Sherlock tried to get deeper into the bag. "Won't be a minute." The larger cat was unimpressed with his excuse, and leapt into the skip, fluffed out and growling. Yes, appearances were definitely deceiving.
"Out. Now." Sherlock had to admit that despite the lack of a decent vocabulary, the tom was making his point rather well. He'd have to figure out a way to make the tom scarce before he could investigate further. Sherlock dashed back up the fire escape before anything untoward could happen.
On slipping into the kitchen window again, Sherlock realized that his timing that day had been poor indeed. Molly was in the kitchen, waiting with a frown on her face.
"I did think it odd that the window kept coming unlatched." She shivered a little. "Made me a bit nervous, actually." Sherlock ignored her and walked past, only to be grabbed up, his legs flailing.
"What is that horrid smell?" Molly asked, nose wrinkled most unattractively, and for a brief moment Sherlock had hope that she'd notice, that Molly of all people would know the tang of blood.
"The skip! I think someone's been murdered and dumped in the skip!" Sherlock tried to say, but of course only that yowling sound came out. Molly's eyes narrowed and she - glared. He didn't know Molly so much as possessed an expression that could be described as a glare. Perhaps she was getting it, understanding that the skip was a crime scene, that the police needed to be called at once...and then, all of Sherlock's hopes were dashed as instead of grabbing her mobile, she carried his struggling form into the bathroom.
Sherlock had imagined that there could be nothing more uncomfortable than bathing in front of Molly. But no. There was being bathed by Molly, with cotton wadded in his ears. Afterwards, she wrapped him up in a warm towel and gave him a fish treat, despite the fact that her bathroom walls were wet from ceiling to floor.
"Much better," she said, as she rubbed him dry with the towel. "Can't have you smelling like old onions when John comes to visit tomorrow, can we?"
Sherlock froze. John. A common name, certainly, but he couldn't imagine Molly had that many male acquaintances and he knew she had no brothers. To a degree he had assumed that John was - he hadn't wanted to think about it, really. It hurt, and nothing helped when things hurt that way, not tipping over bottles of rancid-smelling lotion or shredding ugly blouses or coughing up a hairball in Molly's slippers.
He barely slept that night, the mystery of the skip temporarily forgotten.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: G
Pairings: None
Summary: Sherlock dies at the pool and is reincarnated as a cat, who is adopted by Molly. Bring on Sherlock Holmes, Cat!Detective.
Sherlock poked the mysterious bag, nestled between a television that met its end after Tottenham's loss last Sunday and a bag of rubbish from someone's kitchen. Yes. That was definitely a human scent, and not a good human scent but death itself, lurking just under his nose. Sherlock shredded at the plastic bag with his paw, and the metallic smell of blood flooded his nostrils. It had to contain a body, or at least the evidence of one.
"Hey. This is my alley," a voice rumbled at him from the ground. Sherlock peeked over the edge to see a massive gray tomcat. Sherlock looked him over. He looked large and sluggish but if anything Sherlock had found such appearances could be deceiving among cats. Especially because this one wore no collar and appeared quite muscular.
"Just passing through," Sherlock replied cautiously. "I live two stories up, that window there."
"So what are you doing in my skip?" The other cat snarled in reply.
"Just - inspecting something odd." Sherlock tried to get deeper into the bag. "Won't be a minute." The larger cat was unimpressed with his excuse, and leapt into the skip, fluffed out and growling. Yes, appearances were definitely deceiving.
"Out. Now." Sherlock had to admit that despite the lack of a decent vocabulary, the tom was making his point rather well. He'd have to figure out a way to make the tom scarce before he could investigate further. Sherlock dashed back up the fire escape before anything untoward could happen.
On slipping into the kitchen window again, Sherlock realized that his timing that day had been poor indeed. Molly was in the kitchen, waiting with a frown on her face.
"I did think it odd that the window kept coming unlatched." She shivered a little. "Made me a bit nervous, actually." Sherlock ignored her and walked past, only to be grabbed up, his legs flailing.
"What is that horrid smell?" Molly asked, nose wrinkled most unattractively, and for a brief moment Sherlock had hope that she'd notice, that Molly of all people would know the tang of blood.
"The skip! I think someone's been murdered and dumped in the skip!" Sherlock tried to say, but of course only that yowling sound came out. Molly's eyes narrowed and she - glared. He didn't know Molly so much as possessed an expression that could be described as a glare. Perhaps she was getting it, understanding that the skip was a crime scene, that the police needed to be called at once...and then, all of Sherlock's hopes were dashed as instead of grabbing her mobile, she carried his struggling form into the bathroom.
Sherlock had imagined that there could be nothing more uncomfortable than bathing in front of Molly. But no. There was being bathed by Molly, with cotton wadded in his ears. Afterwards, she wrapped him up in a warm towel and gave him a fish treat, despite the fact that her bathroom walls were wet from ceiling to floor.
"Much better," she said, as she rubbed him dry with the towel. "Can't have you smelling like old onions when John comes to visit tomorrow, can we?"
Sherlock froze. John. A common name, certainly, but he couldn't imagine Molly had that many male acquaintances and he knew she had no brothers. To a degree he had assumed that John was - he hadn't wanted to think about it, really. It hurt, and nothing helped when things hurt that way, not tipping over bottles of rancid-smelling lotion or shredding ugly blouses or coughing up a hairball in Molly's slippers.
He barely slept that night, the mystery of the skip temporarily forgotten.