Fic: Landing on His Feet, 5/?
Title: Landing on His Feet (5/?)
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.
Apparently John Watson was the person Molly thought to call when her life had taken a distinct turn for the macabre again. A logical choice, Sherlock thought, John had a gun, although he did not appear to be carrying it on his person. However, he was full of concern for Molly and when she had poured out every word of the story about the skip, he listened to all her other tales of Sherlock's misbehavior. John also brought along Gladstone, who jumped excitedly around Molly's feet and tried to lick her face when she crouched down to pet him.
How obsequious. But two could play at that game, and Sherlock engaged by jumping into John's lap, half-standing with his paws on John's chest, examining him closely. Not as tired as the last time he'd come around, slightly higher quality of clothing. He was making more of an effort - new girlfriend, perhaps. He also discerned that indeed, John did not have his gun, and really, what good was that supposed to do? John was rather taken aback by this but gamely stroked his back, and Sherlock curled up with a purr.
"He almost never does that," Molly said, suddenly beaming. "He must really like you, John." Really, Sherlock found it pathetic that so little could make her happy. Her standards for cat ownership were remarkably low. Although considering his targeted destruction of her possessions and his abject failure to reduce the mouse population in the alley, that was probably for the best.
Sherlock found himself and Gladstone banished to the kitchen while John and Molly ate pizza, and out of curiosity, asked Gladstone why, exactly, he was always so pleased to see Molly.
Gladstone looked up from the rawhide bone he was chewing. "She's quite lovely, actually. She plays tug of war and she gives me treats. The one who comes over to see John - she told him I was adorable but when he's not in the room she won't play with me, and she told me my paws were grubby. Plus I can't sleep in the bedroom when she's there."
Sherlock blinked and remembered that Gladstone was, in fact, basically a small child. "Trust me, you don't want to sleep in the bedroom while she's there. And your paws are indeed grubby."
"But you see? Molly doesn't care. And neither does John. That woman, she'd probably want - white carpets, or something."
"A ghastly thought," Sherlock said. "Don't worry. John's terrible at dating. She'll be gone soon enough."
Gladstone tilted his head. "How do you know that?"
"Long story," Sherlock said. He yawned and stretched, the urge for a long nap was tugging at him but he hated to give up the opportunity. "Are they going to take you for a walk later?"
Gladstone paused to scratch behind his ear. "Depends on if we stay long enough. John and I walked over here. His funny leg's a bit better and it's sunny outside."
Sherlock eyed him. "Any chance you could make it so that they take you for a walk?"
Gladstone stared blankly at him for a moment, then smiled a very doggie smile. "You want to go look in the alley where they found the body. John said you were very, um..."
"Curious?"
"Yes!" Gladstone yelped and wagged his stubby tail. "Can I help? I'm good at smelling things."
Sherlock frowned. Gladstone's eagerness boded well for the future, but again, he was just a pup. "I'm sure you are. But it's not a good idea."
Could a puppy's face fall? Sherlock was fairly certain Gladstone's did.
"It would be enormously helpful if you could get them outside, though," Sherlock offered. "Molly does watch that window quite fervently."
Gladstone seemed to forget his disappointment quickly. Once the kitchen door opened, he tugged at John's pant leg and they were off for a walk, leaving Sherlock to clamber down to the alley again.
Sherlock didn't like to think of how Anderson and company must have ruined the forensic evidence left in the alley. The strike had finally ended and once the crime scene tape was down, the skip was emptied. Sherlock knew from Molly's conversation with Lestrade that no clothing or murder weapon had been found. Perhaps he could detect something that humans couldn't? He skulked carefully along the walls of the buildings, but if any of the scent of decay had remained, it had dissipated in yesterday's rain. As he neared the back of the kebab house, he noted something. Not the fresh scent of death he had found in the skip but something so very close to it, lingering somewhere in the area. Sherlock circled around the kebab house's bins but they didn't seem to be the source. Gristly bits of shwarma and burned falafel, napkins and straws and old grease, boring. He caught the scent again but felt it fade away quickly. Something to do with the breeze, perhaps. It was definitely nearby, somewhere out of his view, and the alley had limited places for even death to hide.
Just then, one of the alley mice skittered across the sidewalk in front of him. Sherlock saw his chance and crouched, waiting as the mouse looked for the remnants of crumbled pita from the kebab house. He reared up, the mouse perfectly in his sights and pounced, the thrill of the chase surging through his veins.
To his utter surprise, when he looked down, the mouse was indeed between his paws, whiskers quivering and scrabbling for escape. It seemed absurdly small, and not even worth it as a snack. Worst of all, the comparison was most unflattering, but he thought it reminded him ever so slightly of Molly at her most timid.
Sherlock harrumphed to himself and sat back on his paws. Perhaps he simply needed to know that he could catch one if necessary? The idea of consuming a mouse was rather unappetizing, after all, considering what the mouse had been eating.
"You're - you're letting me go?" It squeaked nervously.
"Yes. If you hurry up and leave. And keep your kin out of that flat with the yellow curtains." Sherlock nodded towards Molly's window.
"Why that's - oh thank you, thank you -" The little mouse paused. "This alley just gets stranger and stranger."
"Stranger? Why?" Sherlock wrapped his tail around his feet and stared at the little mouse, who now turned a bit of old cucumber over and over in his paws.
"There was a human back here the other day. Not one of the humans with the funny suits who pulled the dead one out of the skip, or the ones who put out the foodstuffs in the bins." The mouse paused and nibbled at his prize before speaking again. "He looked in the skip and cursed, then he climbed on those crates and put something behind the big noisy air thing."
Sherlock looked at the spot where the mouse's gaze fell. There was an exhaust system for the restaurant's kitchen that seemed to be working only sporadically, with hot, garlic and oil scented air belching out every few minutes. It was impossible to see the other side from where Sherlock stood.
"Thank you. You can go now," Sherlock said, dismissing the mouse. He leapt atop the crates and tried to see what was behind the metal vent. He still wasn't quite tall enough, but he could see the end of something crumpled and dark stuffed between the wide exhaust pipe and the wall. Carefully, Sherlock leapt to the roof and examined it. Fabric, perhaps clothing, rolled up into a ball. Experimentally, he gave it a tug, and the bundle half-unraveled, causing a pair of dark, splotchy-looking jeans to dangle over the roof's edge, hanging above the crates in the alley.
The splotches smelled like blood. This had to be evidence, dropped here after the police had finished with the crime scene because even Anderson couldn't have missed something that large and obvious. Besides, the mouse had said it was after those people had gone through the area. Sherlock edged closer to what might have been a jumper, stuck in the space, just a few more inches...
And then he was suddenly barreling end over end across the kebab shop's angled roof, tumbling down onto the crates himself with a cry. A streak of black and white was on him almost instantly, and Sherlock screeched against the sharp pain of teeth trying to sink into his throat. He dragged his claws over the attacker's belly and rolled towards the ground, throwing his enemy to the sidewalk. Sherlock leapt to his feet, feeling all of his fur explode from end to end as he hissed and arched his back, trying to look as large as possible. The other cat snarled menacingly in return, all black save for a streak of white across his chest and a splash of blood where Sherlock's claws had slashed him. They locked eyes across the alley, and instantly, Sherlock knew his enemy, his impossible enemy. He had looked into that darkness only once before, he wouldn't make the same mistake this time.
"Moriarty," he growled, just before leaping at this new version of the monster, claws extended and teeth bared.
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.
Apparently John Watson was the person Molly thought to call when her life had taken a distinct turn for the macabre again. A logical choice, Sherlock thought, John had a gun, although he did not appear to be carrying it on his person. However, he was full of concern for Molly and when she had poured out every word of the story about the skip, he listened to all her other tales of Sherlock's misbehavior. John also brought along Gladstone, who jumped excitedly around Molly's feet and tried to lick her face when she crouched down to pet him.
How obsequious. But two could play at that game, and Sherlock engaged by jumping into John's lap, half-standing with his paws on John's chest, examining him closely. Not as tired as the last time he'd come around, slightly higher quality of clothing. He was making more of an effort - new girlfriend, perhaps. He also discerned that indeed, John did not have his gun, and really, what good was that supposed to do? John was rather taken aback by this but gamely stroked his back, and Sherlock curled up with a purr.
"He almost never does that," Molly said, suddenly beaming. "He must really like you, John." Really, Sherlock found it pathetic that so little could make her happy. Her standards for cat ownership were remarkably low. Although considering his targeted destruction of her possessions and his abject failure to reduce the mouse population in the alley, that was probably for the best.
Sherlock found himself and Gladstone banished to the kitchen while John and Molly ate pizza, and out of curiosity, asked Gladstone why, exactly, he was always so pleased to see Molly.
Gladstone looked up from the rawhide bone he was chewing. "She's quite lovely, actually. She plays tug of war and she gives me treats. The one who comes over to see John - she told him I was adorable but when he's not in the room she won't play with me, and she told me my paws were grubby. Plus I can't sleep in the bedroom when she's there."
Sherlock blinked and remembered that Gladstone was, in fact, basically a small child. "Trust me, you don't want to sleep in the bedroom while she's there. And your paws are indeed grubby."
"But you see? Molly doesn't care. And neither does John. That woman, she'd probably want - white carpets, or something."
"A ghastly thought," Sherlock said. "Don't worry. John's terrible at dating. She'll be gone soon enough."
Gladstone tilted his head. "How do you know that?"
"Long story," Sherlock said. He yawned and stretched, the urge for a long nap was tugging at him but he hated to give up the opportunity. "Are they going to take you for a walk later?"
Gladstone paused to scratch behind his ear. "Depends on if we stay long enough. John and I walked over here. His funny leg's a bit better and it's sunny outside."
Sherlock eyed him. "Any chance you could make it so that they take you for a walk?"
Gladstone stared blankly at him for a moment, then smiled a very doggie smile. "You want to go look in the alley where they found the body. John said you were very, um..."
"Curious?"
"Yes!" Gladstone yelped and wagged his stubby tail. "Can I help? I'm good at smelling things."
Sherlock frowned. Gladstone's eagerness boded well for the future, but again, he was just a pup. "I'm sure you are. But it's not a good idea."
Could a puppy's face fall? Sherlock was fairly certain Gladstone's did.
"It would be enormously helpful if you could get them outside, though," Sherlock offered. "Molly does watch that window quite fervently."
Gladstone seemed to forget his disappointment quickly. Once the kitchen door opened, he tugged at John's pant leg and they were off for a walk, leaving Sherlock to clamber down to the alley again.
Sherlock didn't like to think of how Anderson and company must have ruined the forensic evidence left in the alley. The strike had finally ended and once the crime scene tape was down, the skip was emptied. Sherlock knew from Molly's conversation with Lestrade that no clothing or murder weapon had been found. Perhaps he could detect something that humans couldn't? He skulked carefully along the walls of the buildings, but if any of the scent of decay had remained, it had dissipated in yesterday's rain. As he neared the back of the kebab house, he noted something. Not the fresh scent of death he had found in the skip but something so very close to it, lingering somewhere in the area. Sherlock circled around the kebab house's bins but they didn't seem to be the source. Gristly bits of shwarma and burned falafel, napkins and straws and old grease, boring. He caught the scent again but felt it fade away quickly. Something to do with the breeze, perhaps. It was definitely nearby, somewhere out of his view, and the alley had limited places for even death to hide.
Just then, one of the alley mice skittered across the sidewalk in front of him. Sherlock saw his chance and crouched, waiting as the mouse looked for the remnants of crumbled pita from the kebab house. He reared up, the mouse perfectly in his sights and pounced, the thrill of the chase surging through his veins.
To his utter surprise, when he looked down, the mouse was indeed between his paws, whiskers quivering and scrabbling for escape. It seemed absurdly small, and not even worth it as a snack. Worst of all, the comparison was most unflattering, but he thought it reminded him ever so slightly of Molly at her most timid.
Sherlock harrumphed to himself and sat back on his paws. Perhaps he simply needed to know that he could catch one if necessary? The idea of consuming a mouse was rather unappetizing, after all, considering what the mouse had been eating.
"You're - you're letting me go?" It squeaked nervously.
"Yes. If you hurry up and leave. And keep your kin out of that flat with the yellow curtains." Sherlock nodded towards Molly's window.
"Why that's - oh thank you, thank you -" The little mouse paused. "This alley just gets stranger and stranger."
"Stranger? Why?" Sherlock wrapped his tail around his feet and stared at the little mouse, who now turned a bit of old cucumber over and over in his paws.
"There was a human back here the other day. Not one of the humans with the funny suits who pulled the dead one out of the skip, or the ones who put out the foodstuffs in the bins." The mouse paused and nibbled at his prize before speaking again. "He looked in the skip and cursed, then he climbed on those crates and put something behind the big noisy air thing."
Sherlock looked at the spot where the mouse's gaze fell. There was an exhaust system for the restaurant's kitchen that seemed to be working only sporadically, with hot, garlic and oil scented air belching out every few minutes. It was impossible to see the other side from where Sherlock stood.
"Thank you. You can go now," Sherlock said, dismissing the mouse. He leapt atop the crates and tried to see what was behind the metal vent. He still wasn't quite tall enough, but he could see the end of something crumpled and dark stuffed between the wide exhaust pipe and the wall. Carefully, Sherlock leapt to the roof and examined it. Fabric, perhaps clothing, rolled up into a ball. Experimentally, he gave it a tug, and the bundle half-unraveled, causing a pair of dark, splotchy-looking jeans to dangle over the roof's edge, hanging above the crates in the alley.
The splotches smelled like blood. This had to be evidence, dropped here after the police had finished with the crime scene because even Anderson couldn't have missed something that large and obvious. Besides, the mouse had said it was after those people had gone through the area. Sherlock edged closer to what might have been a jumper, stuck in the space, just a few more inches...
And then he was suddenly barreling end over end across the kebab shop's angled roof, tumbling down onto the crates himself with a cry. A streak of black and white was on him almost instantly, and Sherlock screeched against the sharp pain of teeth trying to sink into his throat. He dragged his claws over the attacker's belly and rolled towards the ground, throwing his enemy to the sidewalk. Sherlock leapt to his feet, feeling all of his fur explode from end to end as he hissed and arched his back, trying to look as large as possible. The other cat snarled menacingly in return, all black save for a streak of white across his chest and a splash of blood where Sherlock's claws had slashed him. They locked eyes across the alley, and instantly, Sherlock knew his enemy, his impossible enemy. He had looked into that darkness only once before, he wouldn't make the same mistake this time.
"Moriarty," he growled, just before leaping at this new version of the monster, claws extended and teeth bared.