Fic: Landing on His Feet (4/?)
Title: Landing on His Feet (4/?)
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.
Today was the day, Sherlock decided. The collar was off, the garbage strike was still on, and most importantly, Molly was out getting her hair cut. Sherlock didn't see why she bothered, she could have done it herself for the same effect without spending 30 quid.
Sherlock cautiously nudged his way through the window and down the fire escape to the alley. The stench from the garbage strike overpowered more or less everything in the alley, and Sherlock had to admit that if he hadn't known what was in the skip he could never have detected it. He began digging into the piles of trash, shakily noting that any of the bags could cave in and bury him. It was fairly disgusting at this point, too, as Sherlock through used tissues, the rotting remnants of meals, and several things he would have preferred to pretend weren't in the skip. He really didn't need to know that about the couple in 3B, thank you very much.
Finally, after digging through three bags of rubbish, the stench of rotting flesh stung his nostrils. At this point it was nearly overwhelming, and Sherlock thought he might have to crawl out for air. But he needed his proof, the evidence that would finally bring the Met to inspect the skip and the alley and find whoever this was...surely there was plenty of evidence for that to happen now. He brushed aside the plastic to reveal a dead hand, which appeared to be male in nature, dirt under the fingernails and dried blood all around.
Sherlock paused to consider the logistics of the situation. He didn't have tools - for that matter, he didn't have thumbs. He couldn't get the whole hand out of the skip and up the fire escape, it was too big and he was still a rather small cat. The thought of what he was going to have to do was unpleasant, especially with such a finely developed sense of smell and taste, but he was going to have to do it. Wincing slightly to himself, he sank his teeth into the flesh and tried not to gag. He gnawed, tearing at skin and veins and ligaments until finally, the finger was mostly separated. One final snap of his teeth and it separated from the rest of the hand with a sickening tearing sound.
With that, Sherlock dragged himself and his prize to the top of the skip. In the light the finger looked scarcely different from those he would have cadged from Molly in the past, except that instead of clean, surgically cut edges at the end, the skin was gnawed and ripped. Whoever the finger had belonged to, they must have been anxious - the nails were bitten down to the quick and there were hangnails, equally well-chewed. Sherlock tried not to think about the bacteria that they must have been hosting at this point. He picked up the finger in his mouth, and made his way up the fire escape.
The task had taken longer than he hoped, and Molly was in the kitchen again when he returned. As predicted, her hair looked exactly the same.
"You were crawling around in the rubbish again, weren't you?" she said, wrinkling her nose as she poured herself a cup of tea. "I need to get a new latch for that window, one you can't open."
Sherlock dropped the finger on the floor beside her and meowed in what he hoped was a suitably pathetic manner. If he yowled, she would just ignore him. Molly turned to him, looked down, and then her eyes got very, very big.
"My God - where did you find that?" she shrieked, turning even paler than usual.
Really, you'd think she'd be used to that sort of thing. Molly clearly wasn't in the habit of bringing home her own experiments, though, and a human finger out of the appropriate workplace context was apparently rather jarring for her. She was on the phone to the police in moments, awkwardly explaining that her cat had brought home a human finger and dropped it on the kitchen floor. Yes, she was a pathologist, she knew very well what a detached human finger looked like and could they please send someone to deal with it now?
Sherlock experienced a strange mix of smugness and nostalgia when Lestrade arrived on the scene around an hour later, following the officers who were dispatched to make sure Molly was not merely hysterical. By then the rest of the body had been discovered in the skip, a male but that was all anyone would guarantee until a thorough autopsy. As Lestrade gently questioned Molly, however, Sherlock found himself growing ever more irritable, because could not participate in the investigation as he would have before. Lestrade wasn't asking the right questions at all - no one had gone missing in Molly's block of flats, rents were due last week and someone would have noticed. He meowed and tried to climb into Molly's lap but she pushed him away.
Right. Smelling like the skip was not something of which Molly approved. And she was probably going to give him another bath later.
"How do these things keep happening?" Molly asked Lestrade tiredly.
The detective shrugged. "Just luck, I suppose. And I suppose - his nature to be curious despite the obvious risk?"
Molly smiled slightly. "Sounds familiar," she said quietly, and the twinkle in Lestrade's eyes died just a little. Sherlock had a suspicion that they weren't really talking about clichéd feline sayings anymore. Also that they were surprisingly still affected by a loss that Sherlock would have thought they'd have nearly forgotten by now.
Sherlock yowled to get them back on track, and Lestrade looked over at him, surprised.
"Oh, is your dinner late then? It's your own fault, you know," Molly chided him. "I'd better get him fed, though, God only knows what he'll rip up if I don't. Last time it was one of my favorite blouses. I don't even know how he got it out of the closet."
Sheer determination, thought Sherlock, based on the belief that those colors should never have been united in a single tartan pattern.
"You said he was poking around in that skip before, yeah?"
"Last week. It was disgusting then, and that was before the strike," Molly replied, then frowned. "You know, from the looks of that finger - the poor bloke must have been killed right before the strike started."
"And if not for the strike, it would have been just taken away. I doubt anyone would have noticed afterwards either, with all the rubbish piled up all over the place." Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, seeming just slightly impressed. "Good detective work, you."
Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes, because of course it was good detective work. He settled for a meow of satisfaction.
"Call me if anything out of the ordinary comes up, Molly - anything at all." Lestrade handed her a card. "We don't have any reason to think this is anything - atypical for a murder. Or that the killer's even in the area anymore. But just - "
"I know. Be careful. Eyes and ears open." Molly took a deep breath. "Want a cuppa, before you go?"
"No, thanks, already hit my caffeine limit today," Lestrade replied. "Better deal with his Majesty here before you lose some upholstery." Molly laughed at that and went off to the kitchen.
Once she was out of sight, Lestrade bent down to scratch his ears and smiled warmly. "Keep an eye on the flat. Anybody tries to mess with Dr. Hooper, you give 'em a good swipe with those claws. And stay out of trouble."
Sherlock wriggled away, not best pleased with either the ear scratching or the DI's words. He hadn't considered that revealing what he found in the skip to Molly he had potentially brought her to the attention of a murderer, especially if the murderer thought Molly knew the body was in the skip for any reason other than that her cat couldn't keep his nose out of the rubbish. He might have potentially exposed Molly to danger again, via little more than his own proximity to it.
In the kitchen, Molly refilled his water and put out food, muttering about how organic cat food was not worth the money for a cat who rolled around in rubbish. Sherlock bumped against her ankle with his nose, and decided then and there, he had to help Lestrade find the killer, he had to protect Molly.
And he had no idea how he was going to manage that at all.
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.
Today was the day, Sherlock decided. The collar was off, the garbage strike was still on, and most importantly, Molly was out getting her hair cut. Sherlock didn't see why she bothered, she could have done it herself for the same effect without spending 30 quid.
Sherlock cautiously nudged his way through the window and down the fire escape to the alley. The stench from the garbage strike overpowered more or less everything in the alley, and Sherlock had to admit that if he hadn't known what was in the skip he could never have detected it. He began digging into the piles of trash, shakily noting that any of the bags could cave in and bury him. It was fairly disgusting at this point, too, as Sherlock through used tissues, the rotting remnants of meals, and several things he would have preferred to pretend weren't in the skip. He really didn't need to know that about the couple in 3B, thank you very much.
Finally, after digging through three bags of rubbish, the stench of rotting flesh stung his nostrils. At this point it was nearly overwhelming, and Sherlock thought he might have to crawl out for air. But he needed his proof, the evidence that would finally bring the Met to inspect the skip and the alley and find whoever this was...surely there was plenty of evidence for that to happen now. He brushed aside the plastic to reveal a dead hand, which appeared to be male in nature, dirt under the fingernails and dried blood all around.
Sherlock paused to consider the logistics of the situation. He didn't have tools - for that matter, he didn't have thumbs. He couldn't get the whole hand out of the skip and up the fire escape, it was too big and he was still a rather small cat. The thought of what he was going to have to do was unpleasant, especially with such a finely developed sense of smell and taste, but he was going to have to do it. Wincing slightly to himself, he sank his teeth into the flesh and tried not to gag. He gnawed, tearing at skin and veins and ligaments until finally, the finger was mostly separated. One final snap of his teeth and it separated from the rest of the hand with a sickening tearing sound.
With that, Sherlock dragged himself and his prize to the top of the skip. In the light the finger looked scarcely different from those he would have cadged from Molly in the past, except that instead of clean, surgically cut edges at the end, the skin was gnawed and ripped. Whoever the finger had belonged to, they must have been anxious - the nails were bitten down to the quick and there were hangnails, equally well-chewed. Sherlock tried not to think about the bacteria that they must have been hosting at this point. He picked up the finger in his mouth, and made his way up the fire escape.
The task had taken longer than he hoped, and Molly was in the kitchen again when he returned. As predicted, her hair looked exactly the same.
"You were crawling around in the rubbish again, weren't you?" she said, wrinkling her nose as she poured herself a cup of tea. "I need to get a new latch for that window, one you can't open."
Sherlock dropped the finger on the floor beside her and meowed in what he hoped was a suitably pathetic manner. If he yowled, she would just ignore him. Molly turned to him, looked down, and then her eyes got very, very big.
"My God - where did you find that?" she shrieked, turning even paler than usual.
Really, you'd think she'd be used to that sort of thing. Molly clearly wasn't in the habit of bringing home her own experiments, though, and a human finger out of the appropriate workplace context was apparently rather jarring for her. She was on the phone to the police in moments, awkwardly explaining that her cat had brought home a human finger and dropped it on the kitchen floor. Yes, she was a pathologist, she knew very well what a detached human finger looked like and could they please send someone to deal with it now?
Sherlock experienced a strange mix of smugness and nostalgia when Lestrade arrived on the scene around an hour later, following the officers who were dispatched to make sure Molly was not merely hysterical. By then the rest of the body had been discovered in the skip, a male but that was all anyone would guarantee until a thorough autopsy. As Lestrade gently questioned Molly, however, Sherlock found himself growing ever more irritable, because could not participate in the investigation as he would have before. Lestrade wasn't asking the right questions at all - no one had gone missing in Molly's block of flats, rents were due last week and someone would have noticed. He meowed and tried to climb into Molly's lap but she pushed him away.
Right. Smelling like the skip was not something of which Molly approved. And she was probably going to give him another bath later.
"How do these things keep happening?" Molly asked Lestrade tiredly.
The detective shrugged. "Just luck, I suppose. And I suppose - his nature to be curious despite the obvious risk?"
Molly smiled slightly. "Sounds familiar," she said quietly, and the twinkle in Lestrade's eyes died just a little. Sherlock had a suspicion that they weren't really talking about clichéd feline sayings anymore. Also that they were surprisingly still affected by a loss that Sherlock would have thought they'd have nearly forgotten by now.
Sherlock yowled to get them back on track, and Lestrade looked over at him, surprised.
"Oh, is your dinner late then? It's your own fault, you know," Molly chided him. "I'd better get him fed, though, God only knows what he'll rip up if I don't. Last time it was one of my favorite blouses. I don't even know how he got it out of the closet."
Sheer determination, thought Sherlock, based on the belief that those colors should never have been united in a single tartan pattern.
"You said he was poking around in that skip before, yeah?"
"Last week. It was disgusting then, and that was before the strike," Molly replied, then frowned. "You know, from the looks of that finger - the poor bloke must have been killed right before the strike started."
"And if not for the strike, it would have been just taken away. I doubt anyone would have noticed afterwards either, with all the rubbish piled up all over the place." Lestrade looked down at Sherlock, seeming just slightly impressed. "Good detective work, you."
Sherlock wished he could roll his eyes, because of course it was good detective work. He settled for a meow of satisfaction.
"Call me if anything out of the ordinary comes up, Molly - anything at all." Lestrade handed her a card. "We don't have any reason to think this is anything - atypical for a murder. Or that the killer's even in the area anymore. But just - "
"I know. Be careful. Eyes and ears open." Molly took a deep breath. "Want a cuppa, before you go?"
"No, thanks, already hit my caffeine limit today," Lestrade replied. "Better deal with his Majesty here before you lose some upholstery." Molly laughed at that and went off to the kitchen.
Once she was out of sight, Lestrade bent down to scratch his ears and smiled warmly. "Keep an eye on the flat. Anybody tries to mess with Dr. Hooper, you give 'em a good swipe with those claws. And stay out of trouble."
Sherlock wriggled away, not best pleased with either the ear scratching or the DI's words. He hadn't considered that revealing what he found in the skip to Molly he had potentially brought her to the attention of a murderer, especially if the murderer thought Molly knew the body was in the skip for any reason other than that her cat couldn't keep his nose out of the rubbish. He might have potentially exposed Molly to danger again, via little more than his own proximity to it.
In the kitchen, Molly refilled his water and put out food, muttering about how organic cat food was not worth the money for a cat who rolled around in rubbish. Sherlock bumped against her ankle with his nose, and decided then and there, he had to help Lestrade find the killer, he had to protect Molly.
And he had no idea how he was going to manage that at all.