For the lovely Lock Lokidottir, in honor of her birthday! :D You're so kind and considerate and urghlakjeralakmalwmerokj just a wonderful person. Here, have some fluffy, crack-y kitty!Sherlock to brighten up your day. XD
My dear readers: in case you are just like me and didn't (until recently) know what 'breaking the fourth wall' meant, it's when, in this case, (to my understanding- correct me if I'm wrong) the characters now realize they are in a piece of fanfiction. :) So yes! Wanted you to know because I reference that in here. Using my newly- learned lingo. *puts on cool glasses*
Happy birthday, my dear Krista! :)
John sighed, juggling the bags of groceries and fumbling for the door handle painfully.
"Sherlock!" He shouted into the flat, although he knew it was useless; the world would end the day that lazy sod helped him with the shopping.
Grumbling in exasperation, Watson tried not to admit to himself he found those quirks of his friend adorable.
John dropped a bag. Of course, it happened to contain the fragile jar of strawberry jam. He heard a crack! as the glass smashed against the hard pavement. The doctor closed his eyes and mentally counted to ten.
And other times Sherlock's Sherlock-ness was just downright annoying.
Picking up the fallen bag with a grunt, (not bearing to look at the sticky, red mess inside just yet) John shuffled inside 221B and kicked the door closed behind him with a huff.
Stumbling up the stairs feeling much too similar to a pack mule for his liking, he bellowed a second time, "Sherlock!"
There was no reply. John swore, if he saw the man lying on the couch claiming he was busy 'thinking' one more time-
John blinked. The living room was empty. Maybe he actually was busy for once?
Nah, John thought. He's probably just sulking in his room. Again.
The doctor moodily dropped the heavy bags down on the table (There was actually room for once! John was too happy to be alarmed.) and stalked over to Sherlock's bedroom door, which was closed.
Knocking on the wood rapidly, John fumed, "Sherlock? You in there?" Rubbing his eyes wearily, he mumbled, "Would it seriously hurt to help me bring in the shopping for once?"
John knew that he will be berated big time for this, but did it anyway. Grasping the door handle, he opened it slowly, entering Sherlock's room. "Seriously, Sherlock, the jam, it's all over the place..." John stopped. The bed was empty.
Where's he gone off to now? He thought. God, he better not be chasing some serial killer through the dark alleyways of London by himself...
John paled as he realized how likely that was.
Scrabbling in his pockets, he quickly took out his cell phone and punched in Sherlock's number, preparing his very angry, definitely-not-concerned-about-you voice.
A peculiar noise sounded from within the bedroom. Frowning, the phone still resting on his ear, John stepped deeper within. The noise sounded again.
It was Sherlock's phone.
Ah, but that wasn't the scary part. Sure, seemed unlikely that Sherlock would leave the house without it- impossible, even- but the pile of clothes that lay in a heap at the foot of the bed- ones he was sure, sure he'd seen Sherlock wear earlier that day... well, it seemed marginally more unlikely he'd leave the house without those.
John's blood went cold. He dropped the phone.
"Sherlock?" He asked shakily, already reaching for the gun in his belt.
An annoyed... foreign sound squeaked behind him.
John whipped around and pointed the pistol blindly behind him.
But, yet again, there was nothing there but empty air.
John didn't know how much more of this he could take.
Squeak! The noise sounded again.
Brow ruffling, John's gaze lowered to the floor.
And there sat the most arrogant looking kitten he had ever seen. A ball of fluffy black fur barely bigger than his fist, staring grumpily back at him with sparkling, azure eyes.
The kitten opened it's tiny mouth and squeaked insistently.
John blinked, lowering the gun. "What. The heck." He murmured.
Exactly what I was thinking, sounded a voice from somewhere, although he wasn't able to pinpoint a source. It was like it was coming... from inside his head.
Except the voice sounded exactly like Sherlock's.
"Sherlock?" John asked, awed, at the kitten. It all clicked. Well, as much as his present situation could. The kitten was just so Sherlock.
A brilliant assumption, the voice sounded again. How I envy your intellect.
"W-what?!" John exclaimed, watching the kitten lick its paw disdainfully.
A sigh. A sigh so Sherlock it was impossible for John to even begin to think it could be anyone else. I assume we're trapped in some badly written fluff fanfiction, the cat drawled.
John gulped. "What?"
Another sigh. Well, it would seem as if the author- for whatever reason- felt the need to turn me into a cat. Seeing no plausible explanation as how to go about doing that, however, the kitten drew in a breath, she has decided to break the fourth wall in hopes that she'll just get away with doing so.
And turn you into a bumbling idiot, apparently. Sherlock-kitten deadpanned.
"But what about the mind... speaking... thing?" John asked, bewildered.
Fanfiction, remember. The kitten sighed again. I don't think there needs to be a reason.
A pause, as John struggled to grasp the concept.
"Right," he finally said, pondering his life choices that led him to this point.
Did you happen to pick up any catnip? The kitten continued to lick his paw.
John ran a hand through his hair. You cannot kill the cat you cannot kill the cat you cannot kill the cat-
Said cat was now eagerly licking up the jam that coated the inside of the fallen grocery bag. An excited meow-squeak sounded from the inside the brown paper. A few seconds later, a fluffy, sticky, jam-covered head peeped out at John.
"How long do you suppose you'll be stuck like this?" John asked the cat, feeling like he was losing his mind.
Completely ignoring him, the cat jumped down from the corner, fixated on something on the ground.
Ssh! Sherlock-kitten said. You'll awaken them.
The kitten lowered itself even more... and pounced.
"OW!" John yelled. "That's my FOOT!"
Claws dug into his ankle, Sher-kitty was too busy trying to ingest his shoelaces to notice.
John cursed, leaning down to pry the tiny form off of him. John! John put me down! Those fowl creatures must be stopped!
The doctor lifted the kitten higher and looked it right in the eye. "You cannot eat my shoelaces." He told the cat sternly. Sher-kitty squinted angrily at him.
John swore Sher-kitty must have had a lawn mower hidden somewhere in his throat, the noise he was making.
"Is it necessary to make that much of a racket, Sherlock?" John asked, finally snapping. "Mrs. Hudson will hear you! Heck, I fear the neighbors are wondering what in the world is going on!"
Sherlock, who was nestled into a tiny, furry ball John's chest, (John would like to point out that it had definitely not been his idea) simply continued purring up a thunderstorm, seemingly content.
And, as if on cue, Mrs. Hudson strode in through the doorway. As soon as her eyes laid upon the small, dark form, she gasped, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. "John!" She nearly squealed excitedly. "I had no idea Sherlock and you had agreed on adopting a kitten!" The woman wasted no time scurrying over to John and picking up the tiny animal, pressing it to her chest.
"Neither did I," John muttered under his breath irritably.
Sher-kitty, noticing the change of scenery, opened his squinted eyes and frowned (as much as his anatomy would allow). Then he recognized the face above him.
Oh no. Sherlock thought.
John laughed, watching as Mrs. Hudson fawned over Sherlock.
Meowing, the kitten struggled to get down, tiny limbs flailing. Huffing, Mrs. Hudson finally gave in, setting Sher-kitty down on the ground and patting him on the head. Shaking himself, Sherlock scampered off to who knows where.
The woman had her hands on her hips. "He seemed willing enough to cuddle in your arms." She grumbled, feigning irritability, but she had a smile on her face.
"Err..." Was all John managed.
Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Where did Sherlock go, anyway?"
"Um, well..." John coughed. "I think he said he needed to stop off at the mortuary to get some... err... supplies." God, he was a rotten liar.
The landlady sighed. "Right, those odd experiments of his." She began to leave, calling, "I'd better not find thumbs in the refrigerator again!"
John smirked. Yep, that was Sherlock.
John! John look! I've found STRING!
Okay well that was ridiculously fun. :)