Landing on His Feet, part 3/?
Title: Landing on His Feet (3/?)
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.
Molly was on a cleaning frenzy the next morning, hoovering and dusting the flat into the picture of cozy orderliness. John was coming for lunch, apparently, which meant sandwiches, and apparently also that Sherlock had to risk death by vacuum cleaner. Not that he could even think about food when he considered it. John. Would he be different? Had he been injured? Would he recognize Sherlock, perhaps?
Molly had just collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa when the buzzer sounded. Molly let John into the building and Sherlock felt himself frozen in place, almost trembling with tension. He watched as Molly opened the door, the way she smiled and everything about her seemed to become lighter and less tired. John had that effect on people.
Then she looked down and made a noise, a strange little squeal of a sound that Sherlock was not sure she'd ever made in his presence. Even if Molly was happy to see John she generally tended to communicate with actual words or at least phonetically appropriate sounds. The whirling ball of puppy that shot into the room from the hallway answered that question. Sherlock was aghast. Who on earth would give John Watson a puppy?
John stepped into Molly's flat and Sherlock forgot to care about that question. The gestalt of John remained essentially unchanged. But Sherlock noticed that he had shaved for probably the first time this week to come and see Molly, that his hair was just a half inch longer than normal. He wasn't sleeping as well as he should, although Sherlock had seen worse shadows. Slight tremor in his hand. No sign of the limp in his walking at the moment but Sherlock noticed an unevenly worn tread on his shoes, which couldn't have been more than a few months old.
"This is Gladstone," John said, and Sherlock realized that he was explaining the yelping ball of hyperactivity to Molly. "My sister thought he might cheer me up a bit." Sherlock noticed that John smiled, but only halfway. He liked the dog well enough, yes, but that wasn't going to restore what John had lost.
"I can see why. What a sweet little thing," Molly cooed. Sherlock gagged while the sweet little thing wagged its stubby tail and jumped up to Molly. And then it noticed Sherlock, who backed into the couch.
"Be careful," Molly murmured. "Midnight's not like Toby. He's a bit - temperamental."
Sherlock sighed. He wished she understood that the shelter's silly moniker was not his name.
"Hiya, Midnight." said Gladstone, before politely rolling onto his back. This wasn't his flat, after all. Sherlock repeated the sigh.
"It's Sherlock, actually. But I haven't been able to correct anyone on that." Sherlock frowned. "I've tried, but I'm fairly certain that Molly will be rather disturbed if I scratch it out on something."
The pup hopped back up, apparently taking that as an invitation to be friends. "Probably, humans don't like it when we scratch things, John was so upset when I scraped up the kitchen door - wait, your name is Sherlock? John was friends with a Sherlock. His picture is in the flat."
A little pang of - something - seemed to hit Sherlock in the gut. "Oh," he simply replied, not knowing what else to say to that. Instead of trying to understand it, he decided to sniff Gladstone out. Standard bulldog, really. Hints of kibble and grass from the park, and the pup was well cared for. Sherlock would have expected nothing less from John. In essence, boring.
"Do try not to piddle on anything," Sherlock said stiffly, then yawned. Gladstone seemed to shrug, and then bounded back to John as he and Molly moved towards the kitchen. Molly made sandwiches and Sherlock crept closer to listen in on them.
"And how is Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked as she laid out pieces of bacon in the pan, and abruptly Sherlock wished that Mrs. Hudson had wanted a cat.
"Hip's acting up again, apparently, but otherwise well. She's visiting her sister this weekend. Says the new tenant has terrible taste in music. Mike said you saw an interesting tattoo this week?"
Molly laughed. "Yes, 75 year old woman, natural causes, thank goodness. But she had this fantastic dragon all wrapped around her torso."
Sherlock frowned as Molly prattled on about various intriguing and gory things she'd seen in the mortuary that week. New tenant? Why would Mrs. Hudson have a new tenant? Oh, 221C, obviously. Mrs. Hudson must have finally gotten the renovations done. And without Sherlock playing the violin at all hours and shooting things the space would have become far more palatable.
Molly finished the sandwiches as Gladstone sat at her feet, apparently hoping a piece of bacon would reach the floor. Sherlock could have told him that Molly was depressingly accurate in her aim while cooking. But Molly looked over briefly at John, before smiling and offering Gladstone a small piece of bacon, which Gladstone happily wolfed down.
Sherlock took advantage of the stillness while they ate to inspect John, winding around his legs with curiosity, trying to sniff out where he'd been spending his time. No hints of alcohol in his skin, but he'd worn these trousers to the surgery recently, Sherlock could detect the antiseptic smell. No female perfumes, so no girlfriend at the moment. There was another place, too, that Sherlock didn't recognize, not the warm woods and chemical scents of Baker Street (although Sherlock supposed that in his absence there really should be fewer chemicals involved). Then Molly peeked under the table and Sherlock fought the urge to bat at her ponytail.
"Funny. He seems to like you, John. Didn't think he liked anyone."
"Just call me Dr. Doolittle," John replied, and Molly laughed. Sherlock had no idea what that was all about. He had moved on to thinking about how to get John into the alley to inspect the skip. Surely John would recognize that the scent of decaying flesh above the rubbish...
And then the piece of bacon hit the floor. Instinctively, Sherlock lunged for it - he wasn't even hungry, but it was bacon and he never got to have that these days! Unfortunately, he had forgotten about Gladstone, who had been doing something rather less bright like chasing his own tail a moment ago. Sherlock skittered, claws on the kitchen tile to avoid a collision. Gladstone was not so graceful, however, and bowled Sherlock right over.
"Oh sorry! I'm so sorry!" Gladstone hopped off Sherlock. "It was an accident, really it was." He whimpered and Sherlock just stared.
"You're not that good at being a bulldog, are you?" Sherlock muttered.
"Mum was part pug, actually. Not that you could tell with me, the lady said," Gladstone replied. He delicately picked up the piece of bacon and bit off some, then nudged the rest with his nose towards Sherlock. "Here - Sherlock, right? We can share it."
Sherlock hesitantly nibbled at the bacon, and realized that Gladstone indeed seemed content to let him have it.
"You really are John Watson's dog," Sherlock said, and Gladstone just cocked his head with a confused look. Although perhaps that was just his face. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.
The rest of lunch proceeded more peacefully, and then John and Molly got up to take Gladstone for a walk. Sherlock considered going out to intercept them and hopefully get John to have a look at the skip, but remembered two problems with that scenario - the big gray tom in the alley, and getting that very unpleasant bath last night. Sherlock could run into both again if he waited in the alley for them to return. He needed a better plan.
With a better plan, perhaps he could pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson, too? If he could get to Baker Street, if he could get John to return him to Molly, then he could get John to follow him into the alley. Although of course, this meant getting himself to Baker Street. That was going to take some doing, as it was much farther afield than any of Sherlock's wanderings had taken him so far.
He pondered the logistics for hours, well after Molly had returned from the park and scolded Sherlock for licking bacon fat out of the pan. Baker Street was too far to walk and get back before Molly got home. He didn't have any money and cabbies wouldn't pick up an unaccompanied cat, regardless. Finally, Sherlock succeeded in concocting a plan that involved slipping with a commuter into the tube and getting to Baker Street that way. Molly would have the day shift tomorrow, and as everyone hurried to work, surely no one would notice him sneaking about on the tube. It was brilliant, and Sherlock was terribly proud of himself for coming up with it. He happily yowled an explanation to Molly, who finally told him to stop making such a racket.
Sherlock's hopes were foiled the next morning when instead of trudging off to Bart's, Molly bundled him into a carrier and took him to the veterinarian. At whose hands he suffered a most unpleasant indignity.
"Not like I was planning to use those for their intended purpose," he grumbled. From her conversation with the vet, Molly seemed to think he might calm down a bit. He got very nice wet food when he was able to eat later that day, which almost made up for the absurd-looking cone on his head to keep him from fussing with the surgical glue. He couldn't go outside with it, and now the skip would be emptied, the evidence destroyed with no one knowing.
The medication Molly gave him in a treat made him sleepy, and while he wanted to stay awake and think about his next move, he drifted off into darkness as Molly slipped on her coat to leave for a night shift.
The next morning, Sherlock woke groggily when Molly opened the front door. Immediately he could tell something was wrong, her hands trembled and she was so very pale. He meowed and Molly quickly came over, scooping him up in her arms. Her heart thudded quickly beneath his paw.
"Thank goodness you couldn't sneak out last night," she murmured as she ran her hand over his back almost mindlessly. "That big gray fellow out back. They think some kind of dog got him. His throat was almost ripped out."
She held Sherlock like a baby and looked down at him. "You must be very careful out there, you see?" Then she sighed. "Of course you don't see. You're a cat." She crouched to put him down on the floor and Sherlock wobbled towards his water dish.
It seemed impossible. The tom was enormous and it was hard to imagine any animal being able to attack him so easily. Sherlock knew he was far cleverer than the average cat and he'd thought it unwise to try. He thought of the smell in the skip. Perhaps the tom had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone who would murder a human and dump the body probably wouldn't think twice about getting rid of an annoying stray.
The only upside of the tom's death was that the alley was now unoccupied territory, and Sherlock could explore as he liked. Except he had this ridiculous Elizabethan collar around his neck.
Molly put on the kettle and leaned against the kitchen counter. "And with that rubbish strike starting up - it's amazing anyone even noticed him out there."
Sherlock looked up at Molly with hope. There was a strike on? A strike! So the rubbish wouldn't be collected, so whatever or whoever was dead in the skip would probably remain there until it was over. How absolutely brilliant.
"Are you ready to eat more? I'll get you something." Molly opened the cabinet. "Shrimp Surprise. I think you're eating better than I am this week." She put out the food and just this once, Sherlock granted her a bit of a purr.
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.
Molly was on a cleaning frenzy the next morning, hoovering and dusting the flat into the picture of cozy orderliness. John was coming for lunch, apparently, which meant sandwiches, and apparently also that Sherlock had to risk death by vacuum cleaner. Not that he could even think about food when he considered it. John. Would he be different? Had he been injured? Would he recognize Sherlock, perhaps?
Molly had just collapsed gracelessly onto the sofa when the buzzer sounded. Molly let John into the building and Sherlock felt himself frozen in place, almost trembling with tension. He watched as Molly opened the door, the way she smiled and everything about her seemed to become lighter and less tired. John had that effect on people.
Then she looked down and made a noise, a strange little squeal of a sound that Sherlock was not sure she'd ever made in his presence. Even if Molly was happy to see John she generally tended to communicate with actual words or at least phonetically appropriate sounds. The whirling ball of puppy that shot into the room from the hallway answered that question. Sherlock was aghast. Who on earth would give John Watson a puppy?
John stepped into Molly's flat and Sherlock forgot to care about that question. The gestalt of John remained essentially unchanged. But Sherlock noticed that he had shaved for probably the first time this week to come and see Molly, that his hair was just a half inch longer than normal. He wasn't sleeping as well as he should, although Sherlock had seen worse shadows. Slight tremor in his hand. No sign of the limp in his walking at the moment but Sherlock noticed an unevenly worn tread on his shoes, which couldn't have been more than a few months old.
"This is Gladstone," John said, and Sherlock realized that he was explaining the yelping ball of hyperactivity to Molly. "My sister thought he might cheer me up a bit." Sherlock noticed that John smiled, but only halfway. He liked the dog well enough, yes, but that wasn't going to restore what John had lost.
"I can see why. What a sweet little thing," Molly cooed. Sherlock gagged while the sweet little thing wagged its stubby tail and jumped up to Molly. And then it noticed Sherlock, who backed into the couch.
"Be careful," Molly murmured. "Midnight's not like Toby. He's a bit - temperamental."
Sherlock sighed. He wished she understood that the shelter's silly moniker was not his name.
"Hiya, Midnight." said Gladstone, before politely rolling onto his back. This wasn't his flat, after all. Sherlock repeated the sigh.
"It's Sherlock, actually. But I haven't been able to correct anyone on that." Sherlock frowned. "I've tried, but I'm fairly certain that Molly will be rather disturbed if I scratch it out on something."
The pup hopped back up, apparently taking that as an invitation to be friends. "Probably, humans don't like it when we scratch things, John was so upset when I scraped up the kitchen door - wait, your name is Sherlock? John was friends with a Sherlock. His picture is in the flat."
A little pang of - something - seemed to hit Sherlock in the gut. "Oh," he simply replied, not knowing what else to say to that. Instead of trying to understand it, he decided to sniff Gladstone out. Standard bulldog, really. Hints of kibble and grass from the park, and the pup was well cared for. Sherlock would have expected nothing less from John. In essence, boring.
"Do try not to piddle on anything," Sherlock said stiffly, then yawned. Gladstone seemed to shrug, and then bounded back to John as he and Molly moved towards the kitchen. Molly made sandwiches and Sherlock crept closer to listen in on them.
"And how is Mrs. Hudson?" Molly asked as she laid out pieces of bacon in the pan, and abruptly Sherlock wished that Mrs. Hudson had wanted a cat.
"Hip's acting up again, apparently, but otherwise well. She's visiting her sister this weekend. Says the new tenant has terrible taste in music. Mike said you saw an interesting tattoo this week?"
Molly laughed. "Yes, 75 year old woman, natural causes, thank goodness. But she had this fantastic dragon all wrapped around her torso."
Sherlock frowned as Molly prattled on about various intriguing and gory things she'd seen in the mortuary that week. New tenant? Why would Mrs. Hudson have a new tenant? Oh, 221C, obviously. Mrs. Hudson must have finally gotten the renovations done. And without Sherlock playing the violin at all hours and shooting things the space would have become far more palatable.
Molly finished the sandwiches as Gladstone sat at her feet, apparently hoping a piece of bacon would reach the floor. Sherlock could have told him that Molly was depressingly accurate in her aim while cooking. But Molly looked over briefly at John, before smiling and offering Gladstone a small piece of bacon, which Gladstone happily wolfed down.
Sherlock took advantage of the stillness while they ate to inspect John, winding around his legs with curiosity, trying to sniff out where he'd been spending his time. No hints of alcohol in his skin, but he'd worn these trousers to the surgery recently, Sherlock could detect the antiseptic smell. No female perfumes, so no girlfriend at the moment. There was another place, too, that Sherlock didn't recognize, not the warm woods and chemical scents of Baker Street (although Sherlock supposed that in his absence there really should be fewer chemicals involved). Then Molly peeked under the table and Sherlock fought the urge to bat at her ponytail.
"Funny. He seems to like you, John. Didn't think he liked anyone."
"Just call me Dr. Doolittle," John replied, and Molly laughed. Sherlock had no idea what that was all about. He had moved on to thinking about how to get John into the alley to inspect the skip. Surely John would recognize that the scent of decaying flesh above the rubbish...
And then the piece of bacon hit the floor. Instinctively, Sherlock lunged for it - he wasn't even hungry, but it was bacon and he never got to have that these days! Unfortunately, he had forgotten about Gladstone, who had been doing something rather less bright like chasing his own tail a moment ago. Sherlock skittered, claws on the kitchen tile to avoid a collision. Gladstone was not so graceful, however, and bowled Sherlock right over.
"Oh sorry! I'm so sorry!" Gladstone hopped off Sherlock. "It was an accident, really it was." He whimpered and Sherlock just stared.
"You're not that good at being a bulldog, are you?" Sherlock muttered.
"Mum was part pug, actually. Not that you could tell with me, the lady said," Gladstone replied. He delicately picked up the piece of bacon and bit off some, then nudged the rest with his nose towards Sherlock. "Here - Sherlock, right? We can share it."
Sherlock hesitantly nibbled at the bacon, and realized that Gladstone indeed seemed content to let him have it.
"You really are John Watson's dog," Sherlock said, and Gladstone just cocked his head with a confused look. Although perhaps that was just his face. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure.
The rest of lunch proceeded more peacefully, and then John and Molly got up to take Gladstone for a walk. Sherlock considered going out to intercept them and hopefully get John to have a look at the skip, but remembered two problems with that scenario - the big gray tom in the alley, and getting that very unpleasant bath last night. Sherlock could run into both again if he waited in the alley for them to return. He needed a better plan.
With a better plan, perhaps he could pay a visit to Mrs. Hudson, too? If he could get to Baker Street, if he could get John to return him to Molly, then he could get John to follow him into the alley. Although of course, this meant getting himself to Baker Street. That was going to take some doing, as it was much farther afield than any of Sherlock's wanderings had taken him so far.
He pondered the logistics for hours, well after Molly had returned from the park and scolded Sherlock for licking bacon fat out of the pan. Baker Street was too far to walk and get back before Molly got home. He didn't have any money and cabbies wouldn't pick up an unaccompanied cat, regardless. Finally, Sherlock succeeded in concocting a plan that involved slipping with a commuter into the tube and getting to Baker Street that way. Molly would have the day shift tomorrow, and as everyone hurried to work, surely no one would notice him sneaking about on the tube. It was brilliant, and Sherlock was terribly proud of himself for coming up with it. He happily yowled an explanation to Molly, who finally told him to stop making such a racket.
Sherlock's hopes were foiled the next morning when instead of trudging off to Bart's, Molly bundled him into a carrier and took him to the veterinarian. At whose hands he suffered a most unpleasant indignity.
"Not like I was planning to use those for their intended purpose," he grumbled. From her conversation with the vet, Molly seemed to think he might calm down a bit. He got very nice wet food when he was able to eat later that day, which almost made up for the absurd-looking cone on his head to keep him from fussing with the surgical glue. He couldn't go outside with it, and now the skip would be emptied, the evidence destroyed with no one knowing.
The medication Molly gave him in a treat made him sleepy, and while he wanted to stay awake and think about his next move, he drifted off into darkness as Molly slipped on her coat to leave for a night shift.
The next morning, Sherlock woke groggily when Molly opened the front door. Immediately he could tell something was wrong, her hands trembled and she was so very pale. He meowed and Molly quickly came over, scooping him up in her arms. Her heart thudded quickly beneath his paw.
"Thank goodness you couldn't sneak out last night," she murmured as she ran her hand over his back almost mindlessly. "That big gray fellow out back. They think some kind of dog got him. His throat was almost ripped out."
She held Sherlock like a baby and looked down at him. "You must be very careful out there, you see?" Then she sighed. "Of course you don't see. You're a cat." She crouched to put him down on the floor and Sherlock wobbled towards his water dish.
It seemed impossible. The tom was enormous and it was hard to imagine any animal being able to attack him so easily. Sherlock knew he was far cleverer than the average cat and he'd thought it unwise to try. He thought of the smell in the skip. Perhaps the tom had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Anyone who would murder a human and dump the body probably wouldn't think twice about getting rid of an annoying stray.
The only upside of the tom's death was that the alley was now unoccupied territory, and Sherlock could explore as he liked. Except he had this ridiculous Elizabethan collar around his neck.
Molly put on the kettle and leaned against the kitchen counter. "And with that rubbish strike starting up - it's amazing anyone even noticed him out there."
Sherlock looked up at Molly with hope. There was a strike on? A strike! So the rubbish wouldn't be collected, so whatever or whoever was dead in the skip would probably remain there until it was over. How absolutely brilliant.
"Are you ready to eat more? I'll get you something." Molly opened the cabinet. "Shrimp Surprise. I think you're eating better than I am this week." She put out the food and just this once, Sherlock granted her a bit of a purr.