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Smitten

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When John met Sherlock, his life irrevocably changed for the better. For Cane, though, the arrival of Mr. Sherlock Holmes signaled the start of a very dark time.


Every day, Cane sat ignored and forgotten. Occasionally his location changed, but rarely. At the moment, Cane was in the living room, propped up against the bad man’s bookshelf.


Cane sat there, sad and unwanted, and paid no attention to the happenings of 221B Baker Street. To watch John not need him was difficult.


He loved John. John had always been there, needing him, sometimes even talking to him. The other canes told him not to get too attached because it could only end in heartbreak, but he didn’t listen. He grew attached even when the therapist kept saying that the limp was psychosomatic. Cane grew attached against all advice and was now paying for it.


So Cane leaned against Sherlock’s bookshelf and tried to ignore John and the pain that he felt right down to his light grey rubber grip.
Cane’s attention was redirected back to the happenings of the flat when he heard something thump against the floor. Something small and sharp, a wonderful thud.


Thump.


Then angry voices and something almost familiar.


Cane took it all in: John, rolling his eyes and making tea. Sherlock, yelling. A very well-dressed stranger whose voice Cane remembered as having visited before. The man was holding -


- he was gorgeous. The most handsome umbrella Cane had ever seen. Sleek, black, posh, as classy as a really classy thing. If Cane had a mouth it would be watering.
If Umbrella had a nose it would be snubbing. He may not be as omniscient as his owner, but Umbrella noticed things. Even sad, lowly canes staring at him as if they wanted nothing more than to make awkward, hybrid babies.


Standards. Umbrella has them. He didn’t particularly wish to be placed next to such a common, aluminum cane, but placed there he was.


“Hi,” Cane tried to say. It came out shaky and breathy.


Umbrella ruffled his canopy and tried to be polite.


“Hello,” said Umbrella.


Cane pretty much just stared. Umbrella was talking to him. To him. Him. Cane. CANE.


Cane’s thought process was in failmode due to the proximity with such a sexy accessory.


Umbrella was a bit creeped out, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he tried to talk to Cane. Might as well try to make the best of it.


“Your name is?” he asked.


“Cane,” came the reply. “And yours?”


“Umbrella,” Umbrella said.


“That’s, uh, a really nice name. Beautiful, really,” Cane told him.


Umbrella would have facepalmed had he a palm and face.


“Thank you,” he said, “yours is nice too.”


Cane grinned. Honestly, Umbrella thought, he is so pathetic. But he was flattered, he supposed.


So he continued the conversation. They talking of many things - mostly stories that Umbrella had, boring ones even. Cane hung on to every word.


It really was flattering, Umbrella decided. Nobody else took such interest in him. And all the other umbrellas and canes he met were in the business of politics. Meaning, they knew all of the stories he deemed safe to share and always acted fake and unimpressed with everything.


For the second time that day, Umbrella was caught unawares. Suddenly, he was being picked up and taken away from his new friend.


“See you later, I hope!” called Cane.


Umbrella smiled. “I truly hope so too,” he said.


Cane may not have any class or self-control, but he made Umbrella feel sexy and funny, and for that he was appreciated. Umbrella knew that the others would make fun of him, but then again, he didn’t have to tell. Didn’t everyone have a sexy little something on the side?


Cane, for his part, was smitten, thoroughly smitten. Gone were the dark days. No longer would Cane pine after John - he had a new sexy man in his life.