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Okay, maybe a ferret was a bad idea. It’s not that a cat would’ve been better necessarily, but that small animals have a love/hate relationship with shiny things. Like Christmas lights. And tinsel. And ornaments. And John’s shiny ceramic mug of tea in the morning. And Molly Hooper.
The list goes on and on.
Sitting on the couch all spread out makes Sherlock feel like a jelly fish, but he hardly has the energy to cross his legs or even pretend he cares enough to try. Beside him, John does the same. They don’t bother to look at each other, preferring instead to reach for each other’s hands and sigh quietly.
“What time is it?” Sherlock manages.
Groaning, John pulls his watch-wrist into vision, ignoring the numerous scratches there. “Just after noon,” he responds, plopping his arm back down.
Sherlock grumbles something about “halfway there” and then chuckles when he realizes he doesn’t know what they’re halfway to. He opens his mouth to apologize but is interrupted by a clatter as their Christmas tree lands squarely on the floor. On the other side of the landing zone, the ferret pokes his head out and peers at them. She almost seems to laugh.
Suddenly, John does.
Erupting into fits of giggles is not the strangest thing he’s ever done, but it’s certainly not the most expected response. Sherlock himself is feeling a strangled sense of frustration in his chest, and stares indignantly at his partner for a moment before he, too, can’t help laughing.
Intrigued by the commotion, the ferret wriggles its way through the branches—or underbrush as the case may be—and leaps onto the couch between them. It curls into a ball and scuffles happily as Sherlock and John lean together to embrace, enveloping the little thing in warmth and hugs.
“Dear God,” John laughs through his tears, “let us find out that Mrs. Hudson loves ferrets and will take this damn thing from us.”
Sherlock laughs even harder in response, sniggering behind his hand. “And let us find a place to print stock photos of kittens so I never make this mistake again.”
“Don’t even try again, love,” John laughs. “You and me is plenty company for this little flat.”
As if on command, a spider the size of a golf ball tumbles out of the remains of the Christmas tree and scuttles across the floor and out the front door. The ferret doesn’t seem to like Sherlock and John’s screams as much as their laughter, and settles on pursuing the arachnid out of the flat. A ferocious crunch from the landing tells the boys everything the need to know and they stare at each other horrified for another moment before bursting into yet another fit of Christmas giggles.