Chapter Text
He had been waiting to hear the soft click of the door opening for almost seventy-two hours, so much so that it wakes him from his light sleep when Sherlock Holmes finally returns to their shared flat.
It should surprise him, that he immediately sits up and proceeds to get out of bed. He hasn’t seen Sherlock’s face in too long, and the urge to do so leads him down the stairs and into the dimly lit living room before he is even fully awake. He should worry, that this is how he feels about his mad flatmate, but the longing settled within every inch of his body so long ago that it has become a part of him, a part that he won't even try to fight anymore. He is a soldier; he knows when a battle is lost. Instead, he has decided that this simmering of longing is something he will happily live with for the rest of his life.
He expects Sherlock to be full of energy, buzzing with the adrenaline that a successful case brings – John knows that buzz firsthand and wishes he could have joined him. Sherlock is most beautiful then, glowing even, and when he slowly calms down, sipping a cup of tea John has made for him, he seems so calm, almost vulnerable and John secretly enjoys those moments.
John comes in from through the kitchen, putting the kettle on before he steps through to the surprisingly quiet living room. Sherlock is there already, he can hear the old floors creak and the rustle of his coat, but there is no yelling or enthusiastic violin playing going on.
Instead, John finds Sherlock standing in the middle of the room staring at something that seems to be on John’s chair, hidden from the doctor’s view.
Having lived with the detective for three years –with a two-year break- John knows that the object currently holding Sherlocks attention could be anything. A human head, or the contents of a rubbish bin, John is fully awake by now.
Sherlock says his name without looking away, completely focused. “Do we have milk?”
John wants to tell him that it's three in the morning, and that they haven’t seen each other in days, instead, he just brushes a strand of hair from his forehead.
“What do you need milk for?” He asks, wondering if it might be dangerous to step closer – but it’s not like that’s stopped him before.
“Cats like milk.”
And isn’t that a very Sherlockian answer, the detective’s brain is surely ten steps ahead already. “Cats? Does this have to do with the case? You haven’t solved it yet?”
Sherlock glances at him for the first time, then, affronted. “Of course, I solved it, John.” He says. “Solved it the moment I saw the body. Easy. Child’s play. You could have solved it.”
“Yeah, thanks. Still doesn’t answer my question. What do you need the milk for?”
“I don’t need it. The kittens do.”
As if they knew they were being talked about, the quiet room is filled with high pitched, tiny meows. John is right next to Sherlock within a few steps, and there, on his chair in a small box, are three of the tiniest kittens he has ever seen. They have huge heads compared to their small, skinny bodies and blue eyes which wake the urge to protect them immediately. John has of course heard of the kindchenschema, but that knowledge doesn’t make him immune to it at all. Except for their eye colour, all three of them are different. The largest one of the bunch has orange longish fur, the one in the middle is grey, and the third one black with a white belly and white paws.
“Oh my god, Sherlock. What...?”
“I was chasing the suspect down an alley when I heard them. Forgot about the suspect. Gavin was there anyway. I couldn’t let them starve, John.” The detective’s voice gets all soft, as he leans down and looks at the small ones from up close. “They can’t be older than six or seven weeks.”
“God, they should be with their mother, still, shouldn’t they?”
A brisk nod, and John can see the anger at whoever did this plainly written onto his face. “They need special formula for kittens, but regular milk will have to do for now.”
“Good thing I bought some today. Let me get a bowl ready. They can eat from a bowl, can they?”
Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “Not a cat expert. But we will see.”
John quickly goes to the kitchen, getting the milk carton and three bowls to avoid sibling rivalry. He mixes the milk with water, all while listening to Sherlock, who has started talking to the kittens now. A small smile tucks at the corners of his mouth, as the detective introduces first himself, and then John.
“He’s very good at taking care of strays.” Sherlock leans over the box. “He’ll make sure you will eat enough. I do forget, sometimes, but he takes care of me.”
The words warm John’s heart, the persistent love he has for this man bubbling up to the surface. It makes his heart beat just a bit faster, pinkens his cheeks and makes his palms go sweaty.
“Shit.” John mumbles, drying his hands off. He hates moments like this. They always feel like a threat to their friendship, like he is asking for too much. Taking care of Sherlock is what John wants to do for the rest of his life. It’s stupid, falling in love with a man that doesn’t do relationships, his best friend, the man he can’t live without- he was forced to try doing that and miserably failed.
He takes two deep breaths before he carries two of the bowls over to his armchair. Sherlock has taken the kittens out of the box by now, the red one hiding behind the leg of the chair, his grey sibling wobbling through the middle of the room. The last kitten looks tiny in Sherlock’s large hands, head tucked against long, slender fingers.
John places the milk on the floor, quickly attracting the third one. Contrary to John’s expectations, they don’t immediately run at it, but instead suspiciously glare at both the humans in the room.
“Let’s give them some space, Sherlock. Tea?”
“Yes. I’m going to take a quick shower. I did have to go through the rubbish bins to make sure I found all of them.” John can just imagine this immaculately dressed man crawling around a dark, dirty alley in his search for the kittens. He smiles as he watches him leave, then sets to make tea, eyes always straying away to look at what the three musketeers, as he decides to refer to them, are doing.
The ginger kitten is still at her spot behind the chair, eyes fixed to the potential food source, while his siblings seem more interested in the belt from Sherlock’s bathroom, which is hanging off the desk. Little grey is pawing at it first, before jumping back a bit.
“God, there are cats in our flat.” John says to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. And neither of them knows anything about cats, at least John has never heard about Sherlock keeping one as a pet.
There are a few options. They can call a shelter in the morning and drop them off there, where the experts can take care of the orphans. Or they could post on the blog about it, find new homes for them as quickly as possible. But then John has seen Sherlock’s eyes, has seen the way his flatmate looked at the little ones, and he knows already that there is no point in fighting him on this. As he glances over at the three, he wonders if he even wants to. He has a few days off, anyway, and it can’t be rocket science, can it? They can still be rehomed in a few weeks once they have gained a bit of weight.
“We’ll need kitten milk, and they might be old enough to try cat food too, a litter box, and a cat bed.” Sherlock’s hair is damp, he smells of sage and honey, and he is reading John’s thoughts again.
“I don’t think we should … you know, we can’t keep them, don’t you?” Sherlock’s heart breaking is visible on his face, and he says “but John” the way kids say “but Mum”.
“We’re both busy with The Work, there are dangerous chemicals in this flat most of the time, we have no experience with cats… I could go on, Sherlock.”
“But look at them, John. They need us.” He points at the trio, all of them now gathered around one of the bowls, closely tucked together. “They would have starved out there.”
“I know, Sherlock.” John reaches out, fingers closing around Sherlock’s shoulder to squeeze it and he lets his palm rest against the soft fabric of his pyjama top for a moment longer than is strictly necessary... or appropriate for that matter. How easy it would be, to let his fingers travel along Sherlock’s shoulder, stroke his pale, soft skin and tuck back that one stray curl. Oh, and to rest his forehead in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, breathe in his scent. Nowhere, John is sure, would he ever feel more safe than with his flat mate’s arms wrapped around him.
He doesn’t do it, of course. Like so many times before, he just swallows down that urge.
“You did well, bringing them here. Just…,” His voice is strangely rough, and he clears his throat. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow, okay. We’ll get the basics, as soon as the shops open, and then we’ll see.”
And Sherlock smiles, knowing he has already won.