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I think the Cat is on Fire!

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I Think the Cat is On Fire

Author: Howlynn Realm: Sherlock Story Title: The life of a consulting mouser

Summary: When Sherlock died, John moved on, married, and adopts a stray cat that reminds him a great deal of someone. What happens when Sherlock returns and discovers that his namesake is a hideous fur bag.

Character/Relationships: John/Mary Sherlock H, Sherlock the cat

I Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


This is a prompt from thequeergiraffe who wrote a story called The Night Descending. You might consider reading that story first but not critical to follow this one. http://archiveofourown.org/works/447152 or  Buts/8268913/1/The_Night_Descending

This is a pure fluff and silly return fic. There will be no punching, suicide or point to this story other than it was entertaining to imagine Sherlock's reaction to how John memorialized him. This is my one story that I could face Mr. Cumberbatch and Mr. Freeman, knowing they had read it, and there is still a scene in which Sherlock is starkers! Please review – the new box is easy to use so give it a shot.


I Think The Cat is On fire - The life of a Consulting Mouser

Sherlock, the cat, did not seem grateful that John had saved his life. In fact, he seemed to feel it was his right to be in John's lap, warm and cozy, petted and tempted into eating delicacies only from John's plate. His wounds healed and he should have long ago left his convalescent abode for the wild world of the London nightlife.

There were feline criminals to be chased, and exciting territorial battles to wage and girly cats heart's to win, but he instead, preferred rubbing his head on this pleasantly 'himself' scented human. The human stroked his fur making it crackle and the cat showed his pleasure by composing purrful sonatas and vibrato elegy to his only friend.

Sherlock may as well have been a regal lord of his domain. He had almost at once taken on the mannerisms of a show cat that must be pampered and served. His John, seemed to offer a whole lifetime of affection and he accepted his worship with the utmost dignity. Sherlock put up with the other being who served as a minor annoyance to his kitty eccentricities. He would have been perfectly happy to have driven her away, but so long as he kept her clumsy feet off his tail and didn't use too much force when she knocked him off the counter, and disappeared for large parts of the day, he was content to allow her to stay.

He had John. John belonged to him. If John wanted to waste his time attempting to train her how to behave around a consulting mouser, then it was not worth arguing about. She feared him, and cringed away when he would burst into her space. He would look her in the eyes and swish his tail to show that he could chase her away if he wanted to. But for now, because she humbled herself with appropriate yield, he saw no reason to show his sharp teeth. The thing about underlings and lesser beings is that it is necessary only to use the amount of discipline required for consent.

He felt better as the days went by and he was attended to quite satisfactorily. He beckoned John away from the noisy warm-to-sleep-on-top-of box and commanded him to entertain him with strings and catnip mice. When humans made their jittery inconceivable sounds, Sherlock ignored them all. He always had ignored humans; they were useless for the most part. John was different.

John soothed him and part of him was aware that he would have stopped being him and become an easy meal for some slobbering dog if this one human had not scooped him up in his arms and welcomed him into his heart. For John, he would stay. John needed him. John is something of a lost thing. Sherlock had no idea where he'd lost his cat, but if ever there was a human suited for duty to a cat, it was John.

There was a certain sound that John made. It took a while for him to realize this special sound with a different hollow tone was John's cry for help. Sometimes he needed his ice-cream bowl licked, or to share his dinner with his friend. "Sherlock?" When John made that sound, he always went to him without question. Sometimes he lay in his lap for hours as his fur was stroked and he knew that he was meant to be there as his friend stared at nothing and his eyes ran as if he had sickness.

On these days, when the house was silent except for the shuddering loud breaths of the man, and the cat's soft music he played in his throat to sooth John, he wondered how his eyes could make so much liquid. Curious what it meant, Sherlock had stood up on back legs and gently tasted the liquid. It was salty and it deliciously told Sherlock of all kinds of things he understood.

Sherlock tasted his friends sorrow. There was something sad and broken. Sherlock had known bad things too. He had lost his mother while young and been taken among other young humans. They had chased him and played and sat on him a few times, but he was just grown when they left him. He escaped the empty place that no longer held any of his humans. He had spent a long time searching for them. He was hungry and afraid. There were other cats in the world that had no humans to serve them. Not all of them were nice. But he was a clever cat and he survived.

He eventually forgot those humans and he won females and he grew lean and knew that he would live until he became food. He liked his solitary life and fought great battles and reveled in the cold of winter that his fur was thick and his eyes keen. He'd made a mistake by taking on the captain of the next street, but oh the fish guts were tempting and the bins were full of wonders.

He'd never wanted territory so badly. He lost. The other warlord took his land. He escaped and hid from his many followers. That was how he'd come to rely on this human. He ate the crunchy offerings, though they turned his stomach a bit and augmented the feeble diet with the odd bird and mouse. But the warlord, fat on his rich diet and much larger, older and sly had found him. He fought hard but the wounds were too great to ignore. He crawled back to the place of the man who seemed to like him and he laid waiting for the stiffness to take him away from the pain.

The man had appeared. He made the pain lessen and fed him new wonders from his fingers. He was warm and growing strong again and he never wanted to leave this place.

So, he set about making himself useful. There were always sneaky little mice running amuck, leaving their pee-trails and singing their earsplitting tunes to the drums of their little delicious hearts. John's human noticed the little line of tails he left her in the kitchen and she had drug John in to see how clever he was. Sometimes he left the whole mouse for them to enjoy. After all, it was only fair to trade food sources in equal share.

So when John cried for his help, he always came. John became his and somehow he became John's. Life was as close to perfect as could exist. He never ate the crunchy bits now, he dined with John. Some of the flavors were very odd, but he knew his John did the best he could to please him. The other never shared her food and on occasion she tried to fool him by copying the sound John made when he needed assistance, but he ignored her. She was not worthy of his help, except of course with the mice.

He began exploring his new world, standing by the door and plainly saying he was bored, John and the other were soon trained to open it and let him find entertainment befitting a disgraced war-cat. He made the occasional foray into his old neighborhood, met with the new war lord, who had in fact defeated his own nemesis. He was offered the position of second cat, but he needed to get back to John.

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