Chapter Text
The clouds were thick, the light was scarce, and the winding streets of London were covered in snow; fluffy, bright snow—unrelenting, deathly snow, and most of all, cold snow. The snow made John Watson want to shut himself in his flat and stay there, bundled up in thick blankets with a cup of tea in his hands.
Unfortunately for John, he had work today, and there was no getting out of it. They needed the money in order to keep paying for the flat, since Sherlock didn’t have any current cases.
So he sat, staring wistfully at the clock and wishing the day to be over already. It was a Friday, after all, and John was looking forward to a nice, relaxing weekend.
He was dully watching the second hand on the clock slowly make a full circle, when the lights in his office suddenly flickered, then went out. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then rose from his chair and slowly made his way to the door of his office.
He opened the door, and walked down the hallway to the seemingly empty waiting room, his footsteps echoing against the cold walls. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw Sarah standing behind the waiting desk, as if she had been sitting but had gotten up after the lights went off.
“John,” she said, blinking at him.
After a slight pause, he asked,
“Is it the snow?”
He was referring to the absent lighting, and found that this was the most probable cause of the blackout, though he wasn’t sure if the clinic was the only building affected.
“I think so,” she said, glancing towards the small window and the snowflakes delicately drifting past it.
“Well, no one seems to be in anyways,” he said, gesturing to the empty sitting room.
“Yeah, I’ll just close up then, since the clinic’s empty and no one can work in the dark,” she added.
“Right then, I’ll just head out then, yeah?” He said, eager to leave and have an early weekend.
“Yup, I’ll see you Monday John,” she said, shuffling her papers together and placing them in the drawers.
John turned and walked down the hallway again, back into his office. He grabbed all his papers and all but shoved them into his bag. He was, at the least, eager, to get back to 221B.
After putting on his coat and scarf, he once again walked down the hallway to the front doors of the clinic.
--
The bitter London wind was ruthlessly tearing at John as he made his way to the street to hail a cab. The snow was still falling, and the thick, white tufts were tangling themselves in John’s short, blonde hair and melting on his jumper.
The cabbie said nothing as John gratefully climbed into the mercifully warm cab. After telling the cabbie the address, John was content to sit in silence for the whole ride, reminiscing over how lucky he was that his prayers had been answered and he was granted an early release.
The short ride back to 221B Baker Street was warm enough that John was reluctant to get out and face the snow again, even if it was for just a minute. He unwillingly exited the cab, grabbing his bag and patting his pocket to make sure he had his phone. He paid the fare to the young driver, adding a tip to convey his gratefulness for the silence.
As usual, the post was sitting on their doorstep, clarifying John’s suspicions that Sherlock hadn’t left the flat since morning. John knew that because of the lack of a case, Sherlock was probably cooped up in the flat conducting some mad experiment. He hoped it didn’t involve eyeballs.
As John climbed to the top of the stairs, he found it odd that there were no strange noises coming from the flat above. He was used to Sherlock making a racket with all his experiementing and pacing, especially when there were no cases. No, today the flat above was completely silent, and John couldn't help but worry that something was amiss; obviously, Sherlock could have gone out, but John hoped, rather than assumed, that Sherlock would have waited for him if there was a new case, or at least texted him.
Stopping just in front of the door to their flat, John paused. He couldn't hear anything at all from inside, not even slight footsteps. He quietly opened the door, pausing on the threshold.
The whole flat was clothed in darkness, the curtains shut tight to the bright, snow-filled world beyond them. Sherlock's coat was draped over his usual chair, providing John with the information that Sherlock had not gone out. As he looked to the kitchen and found that no unusual experiements covered all the surfaces, he began to become slightly concerned. It was very, very, very, unusual for a case-less Sherlock to be this quiet and clean during the boredom-inducing hours of the day.
Quite suddenly, he felt a soft brush of something against his calves. The sensation made him jump and quickly look down, only to find a soft, fluffy, white kitten staring back at him with wide blue eyes. Now John was downright disturbed. Not at the cat, no, the cat was actually quite adorable, but at the fact that Sherlock, of all people, had allowed this endearing creature into the flat. The kitten purred softly and strode off in the direction of the hallway. After a slight pause, John perplexedly followed it.
The kitten made its way to Sherlock's door, which was open a crack. Through that crack, John could see that Sherlock's windows were closed tightly—just like the windows in the sitting room. The darkness allowed him to see only outlines of the various objects cluttering around Sherlock's bed, and the ones piled up on the nightstand. The kitten slipped through the small crack, and padded into Sherlock's messy room. As he followed the kitten, John could make out the shape of Sherlock's violin sitting on the bed. Odd—Sherlock was very particular with his violin; he would regularly clean and tune it, making sure to always place it carefully back into the case when he was finished.
As the cat ventured deeper into Sherlock's cluttered room, it swerved around precariously piled books and lone beakers occupying the floor. When it reached the bed, the kitten did something highly unexpected. It looked back at John and crawled under the bed. To cat owners, this may not seem entirely odd; cats often hide underneath beds, but to John, it had looked like the little kitten had trotted along with such purpose that it couldn't possibly have made that long journey just to hide underneath Sherlock's bed. It almost seemed like the kitten had wanted John to follow, as if it had brushed his calf almost to get his attention.
Staring confusedly at the spot where the kitten had disappeared, John subconsiously observed that Sherlock's bedframe was set mugh higher than his, enough so that there was plenty of room underneath the bed for the kitten to stand on it's hind legs. Although, the kitten was quite small, so that still wasn't a lot of space. John spied more miscellaneous items cluttered under the bed, where they likely had been pushed by an annoyed Sherlock. Suddenly curious, John got down on his knees and pressed his cheek to the tiled flooring. In the dim light, he could make out shapes of various sizes littering the floor under the bed, and he could also see the shape of the small kitten as it prodded on something with a tiny paw.
With a jolt, John realized that the something was Sherlock. The detective was laying on the floor—he was facedown, with his folded arms pressed into his face as the kitten gently prodded on his shoulder with a small-toed paw.
John was alarmed, his mind zooming through the many possible scenarios where Sherlock was hurt or possibly passed out under his bed, many of them including a drug relapse. Just then, Sherlock stirred, and he gently—gently—removed the kitten's paw and moved the cat away from him.
In his alarm, John said incredulously,
"Sherlock?'
The detective, it seemed, was unprepared for this sudden outburst. Sherlock jumped, and even in his facedown position, the back of his head smacked into the top of the bedframe. John dimly thought about what a feat he had accomplished in startling Sherlock Holmes. As the thought passed, he realized what a state the detective must be in to not recognize John's footsteps or deduce his arrival.
"John?" The detective questioned, with an equally incredulous tone. He turned his head to face John, and John could see, even as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, that the detective's blue-gray eyes were clear and drug-free, albeit a bit dull.
"What are you doing under the bed?" John questioned, glancing once again at Sherlock's odd position.
"I'm laying down, John," The detective said, but the sarcastic statement was lacking its usual bite. John, being Sherlock's best friend, could tell that something was off.
"Why don't you come out then? I could make you some tea," John coaxed, trying to get the detective to come out and talk to him.
"Why are you home early?" Sherlock asked, completely ignoring John's offer.
"Got snowed in. The lights are out at the clinic," John supplied, remembering Sherlock's dire need to always know everything.
"Oh." Sherlock didn't say anything else, and once again turned his face away from John and into his folded arms.
Suddenly, the kitten, who had been lurking by the cluttered objects under Sherlock's bed while the conversation had occured, moved to Sherlock, climbed up the detective's back, and promptly curled up on his abdomen.
"Sherlock, whose cat is that?" John asked to the back of Sherlock's head, noticing how the detective didn't make any move to remove the now dozing cat. Sherlock grunted in response. This was not unusual, but it seemed as if Sherlock almost couldn't bring himself to tell John who the cat belonged to. Something was most definitely wrong. John was determined to find out what.
"Hey, Sherlock, how about you come out from under there and we can talk, yeah?" John asked delicately. He made sure not to change his tone, because he knew Sherlock would not move an inch from his position if John started using his 'doctor voice' on the detective.
"Why?" Sherlock asked, still not moving from his position.
"Er, because under your bed is maybe not the best place to lay down," John replied, gesturing to Sherlock's ridiculous position.
Sherlock simply said nothing. John rather thought Sherlock would have at least made a snide comment or comeback, but the detective remained silent.
"Please, Sherlock?" John pleaded, careful to maintain his casual tone.
John heard Sherlock loose a slight sigh, then carefully remove the sleeping kitten from his back. He placed it on the ground, atop a stray fluffy blanket that had somehow found its way under Sherlock's bed. Then he shuffled towards the other side of the bed, poking his curly head out from the other opening.
Soon enough, Sherlock was standing next to the bed, straightening his already crumpled gray shirt and fluffing his hair.
They heard a distinct meow from under the bed. Apparently, the kitten had sensed Sherlock’s departure and was very displeased about it. The kitten padded out from under the bed and went straight to Sherlock, rubbing against his pajama-clad calves. It purred lovingly, settling onto the detective's feet.
“That cat seems to adore you,” John said, watching for Sherlock’s reaction.
He looked down at the cat at his feet and said nothing, his hair shading his eyes. After a tense pause, John said,
“Well come on then, I’ll make you some tea,”
He awkwardly shuffled towards the bedroom door. After a few seconds, he realized that Sherlock had not moved from where he was standing. As John looked back at him, the detective said,
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“The cat.”
Indeed, the kitten looked gloriously content, curled up on Sherlock’s feet. John sighed, finding it very unlike Sherlock to leave the cat where it was instead of shoving it off him. John moved to Sherlock and crouched, just in front of the cat. He cautiously placed a hand on the kitten, trying not to scare it. It opened its startling blue eyes and glared up at John. John carefully placed another hand on the cat, just near its belly. He slowly picked it up off Sherlock’s feet, even as the cat meowed angrily and scrambled to get back to Sherlock. He lifted it and brought it close to his chest, trying to ease its movement. The kitten eventually relaxed, seemingly aware that it would not be able to move back to its previous position.
With John holding the kitten, he made his way to Sherlock’s bedroom door. This time, Sherlock followed him out into the hallway.
They made it to the sitting room, and Sherlock sat down heavily onto the couch. John set the kitten down next to him, on the other side of the couch. As he expected, it went straight to Sherlock and plopped down on his lap.
John retreated into the kitchen and put on the kettle. As he waited, he thought about Sherlock’s odd behavior. It was unusual for him to be so quiet, and the fact that he had not kicked out the kitten made John anxious. He was fairly sure Sherlock was not that fond of cats, or any animals, for that matter. After pouring the finished tea into two teacups, John carried them both into the sitting room where Sherlock was still sitting stiffly on the couch, the kitten snoozing on his lap. John sat down on the other end of the couch, handing one of the teacups to the detective. They both sat in silence for a moment, sipping their warm tea. John wasn’t sure what he should say, if he should say anything at all. He didn’t want to push on things that he shouldn’t, or jump to conclusions. Sherlock finished his tea first and set it on the table in front of him. John figured that if he didn’t say anything, he would make it more awkward.
“So, uh, why were you under the bed?” John asked carefully.
Sherlock turned his head swiftly, looking straight at John.
“I wasn’t aware you were coming home early,” said Sherlock, glancing at the kitten in his lap.
“Yeah.. but did something happen?” John said, aware that Sherlock was dodging his questions.
“Someone phoned me,” Sherlock said, staring into the middle space.
“Lestrade? Is there a new case?” John asked, hoping this was the cause of Sherlock’s odd behavior.
“No,” Sherlock said, but before he could elaborate, John’s own phone rang loudly.
It was still in his coat pocket, and a glance at the screen told him that Mycroft Holmes was calling him. John silently cursed Mycroft for calling when Sherlock was about to tell him something possibly important.
“Hold on, I’ve got to take this,” said John reluctantly.
“Is it my brother?” Sherlock asked in a monotone voice.
“Er… “ John wasn’t sure if he should lie or not. Sherlock could usually deduce when he was lying, lecturing John to cover up his apparent ‘tells’. But today… Sherlock had been startled by John’s arrival into his bedroom; at first John had thought it was drugs, but as it became apparent that Sherlock was clean, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t heard or deduced John. But if something truly was wrong, then he didn’t want to take advantage of Sherlock’s current situation. In the end, John decided, lying to Sherlock would not end well, and he was his best friend, after all.
“Yes…yes it is,” he said, watching Sherlock’s face for a reaction. The detective gave none, and John took this as a signal to accept the call. He brought the phone to his ear, steeling himself for Mycroft’s demanding voice on the other end.