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Sherlock startled and came to a halt when, stepping into the flat, he heard the sound of the shower and found the bathroom door open as well. Since moving into the dormitory with Louis, he had witnessed the sound of rushing water countless times, but his partner had always made sure to close the door, even if he did not turn the key in the lock. He had grown used to Sherlock walking in on him from time to time, and to being scalded whenever he carelessly turned on the tap or flushed the toilet, but his partner had not expected such openness. Well, he could not know what Moriarty did when he was left alone and could not expect him home for quite some time, but the downpour had ruined all of Sherlock's plans, and he had been forced to return earlier than expected.
Wet footprints lay in front of the door, leading all the way to the bathroom and leaving ugly stains across the kitchen floor and the tiny entrance hall.
Louis was tidier than that. Granted, next to Sherlock it was not difficult to appear pedantic, but it had never been like him to walk around the flat with his shoes on.
Sherlock had already begun to recover from the embarrassment of the first moments and was about to peek into the bathroom, out of sheer curiosity, when he heard voices. First a muffled hushing sound, then louder, clearly directed at him:
“Sherlock, is that you? Are you going home for the weekend?”
It was clear enough, and yet Sherlock suddenly could not answer. Someone was in there with Louis and the water was still running. The aspiring detective's arm turned cold and rigid.
“Yes, I was planning to,” he said at last, his voice as hoarse as if he had smoked more than he should have. Even though he was under a roof, he could not enjoy the last soaked cigarette he had fished out of his pocket.
The splashing ceased in the meantime, and Louis appeared in the doorway, wet, his sleeves rolled up. The white shoes he always guarded so carefully were stained with mud on his feet.
“Wonderful, I'll drive you,” he said, hugging a towel gathered into a bundle against himself. Meanwhile water streamed from his hair and down his arms, but he made no attempt to dry himself. “While I'm driving, you'll have to help me hold it.”
“And what exactly am I supposed to hold, Louis?” The tone was not intentionally suggestive, but Sherlock was embarrassed. He was experiencing one of those rare moments when he had no idea what was happening around him, despite the clues being right under his nose.
Before he could receive an answer, the towel Louis was holding so tightly moved. A plaintive sound came from within, which the blond tried to silence with the soft, rather pleasant voice Sherlock had already heard.
“It's all right, sweetheart,” he muttered gently to the bundle in his arms, rubbing whatever was wrapped inside the towel before allowing a drenched head to emerge.
Sherlock looked at his partner, then at the bundle pressed to his chest, from whose centre the terrified gaze of a soaked cat met his own as it let out another thin, frightened meow.
“Hush, it's all right,” Louis continued soothing it, then, as though he had suddenly become aware of himself, fell silent. He turned to Sherlock with a thoroughly serious expression, as though ashamed that his partner had caught a glimpse of this side of him as well. “The cat, Sherlock, obviously,” he said quickly. “I can't exactly put him on the back seat by himself.”
“Where did you find it?” Sherlock could have reconstructed on his own what had led to Louis bathing a cat in their bathroom while soaked to the skin, but he was impatient and wanted to hear it from him. Louis, who was still trying to dry the cat, sat down on the narrow sofa, while his roommate settled on the farther armrest and watched his efforts. “Wait, Lou, not like that. It'll scratch you. Just hold it tightly.”
He took the towel from him, and while Moriarty restrained the trembling cat, Sherlock slid closer beside him and thoroughly rubbed down its fur.
It was a small white cat with a tabby tail, which both Sherlock and Louis had initially mistaken for dirt. Frightened, wide green eyes darted between the two of them, and the kitten constantly tried to break free, but Louis, as Sherlock had asked, held it firmly and tried to turn it so that the clawed paws struck his jumper rather than his forearm. Meanwhile Sherlock dried its fur as best he could, the strands sticking up toward the sky in ridiculous tufts, and finally tossed the towel aside. He tried to take the kitten from Louis, who reluctantly loosened his grip.
“So? I'm listening.” While they had both been occupied with making sure the kitten did not run away, they had not spoken, but now that they no longer had to worry about that, they focused on each other over it.
“I was coming back from the library when I spotted him beside the stairs, among the bushes. He was terribly frightened, but I couldn't leave it there, so I went in after it and eventually managed to catch it.” Louis shrugged, thereby explaining the muddy stains and his soaked clothes. “He was dirty and completely drenched, so I tried to wash him and warm him up... could you bring another towel from the wardrobe?”
“And is it for you or for the cat?” Sherlock stood up and, holding the trembling cat against himself, headed toward their bedroom. Louis, who had finally managed to take off his shoes and his wet jumper, followed silently behind him.
“For him, I'm fine.”
“He'll be fine too. Dry your hair first.” Sherlock tossed him a towel, but the kitten began to struggle and leapt out of his arms. It crawled beneath the bed as quickly as possible, and Louis stared at his roommate in shock. “Sorry, Lou.” Sherlock knelt down and peered under the bed. The cat was crouching by the wall, too far away for them to reach, and clearly too frightened to come out. “But at least he won't run away. What do you want to do with him now?”
“Of course he won't, genius, because there's nowhere for him to go!” Louis's voice sounded more resigned than genuinely angry. He dried his hair and neck, then knelt on the floor as well and cast a glance at the kitten huddled beneath the bed, then at Sherlock, the two of them side by side with their heads close together. “You have a cat, don't you? Tell me what to do!”
“Well... actually, my brother has one, but it's all the same.” Sherlock sat back and drew one leg up while stretching the other out beside Louis, pinning his roommate against the side of the bed. “He’s probably hungry. Let's leave some food and water for him, and sooner or later he'll come out.”
“All right, come on.” Once Louis had overcome his earlier helplessness, he stood up and pulled Sherlock to his feet as well. His hand was warm, warming Sherlock's damp fingers too, but the sensation vanished by the time they reached the kitchen and Moriarty examined the contents of the fridge. “Can they eat salami?”
“Dunno, it probably won't hurt them. Colonel once stole the ham out of my sandwich.”
“You call your cat Colonel?” Louis turned to him with a short, disbelieving laugh, still standing in front of the fridge.
“My brother named him, he thinks it's funny.” Embarrassment and indignation mingled in Sherlock's voice, but Louis only answered with a fleeting smile and let the matter drop.
“I think salami is the best thing we can give him right now,” he mused aloud. He took out a few slices and placed them on a plate, then picked up a cereal bowl from the drying rack and filled it with water. “Do you think this is all right?” He cast a doubtful glance at Holmes, holding the cat's dinner in both hands.
“You don't even give me dinners this good.” Sherlock's teasing painted another brief smile on his face, but there was no opportunity to admire it for long. Louis returned to their room and set the dishes down beside the bed, then began calling to the kitten again, in that gentle, soft voice which Sherlock had thought had been directed at a person, and which had left such a bitter taste in his mouth.
“Leave him, he's probably scared,” he finally said when Louis still had not made any progress with the cat after several minutes. “Let's go out and leave the door open, we'll see when he comes out for the food.”
Moriarty agreed and they retreated to the tiny divided living room, where Sherlock's things lay scattered and where they could barely sit down at all. Louis had already tidied the part covered by the sofa earlier, despite their agreement not to touch each other's belongings. Sherlock had not minded that one time; the papers he had spread out were only his notes, and Louis had gone to the trouble of putting them in order, making them easy enough to navigate afterwards.
They sat beside each other watching a series on Sherlock's laptop, since there was no need to go back into the bedroom, but Louis kept glancing toward the room where they had left the kitten, or at the dark screen of the phone lying on the armrest. He had sent his brother a message saying that he would arrive the next day with the cat, then afterwards added: with the cat and his roommate, and had still received no reaction in the family group chat. He suspected that neither Albert nor William would mind, but he did not want to abuse their goodwill, and besides, the cat's condition worried him.
When yet another such glance proved futile, Sherlock had enough. He set down the tea with which he had been trying to warm himself, because even the quick hot shower had done little to help, and turned toward Moriarty. Glassy eyes and only superficial interest in the series met him.
“All right, Louis, this is pathetic. Let's not watch it if you're not even interested. But staring at the cat won't make him come out any sooner either.” Sherlock frowned. A faint crease formed on his nose, his features growing sharper in the bluish glow of the images flickering across the monitor.
Louis turned towards him. Figures and objects reflected in his eyes until his gaze found focus on Sherlock's face. He shook his head apologetically, damp strands falling over his forehead and clinging to his nose.
“Sorry, I just don't want him to catch a cold. He got so soaked in the rain, and I couldn't even dry him properly.”
For a moment Sherlock genuinely pitied him. As much as he knew Louis, he had never been this open and vulnerable in front of him before, and he attributed even this to his exhaustion. Wanting to snap him out of it, he wrapped an arm around him and gave him a slight shake, bringing the light back into his partner's eyes.
“Then come on, let's try to lure him out. We'll have to get hold of him by tomorrow morning at the latest anyway.”
Sherlock got to his feet and pulled Louis up from the sofa as well. They went into the bedroom, where a pleasant surprise awaited them: the food they had left out had disappeared, and a few drops of water on the floor showed that some of that was missing too.
“This will do,” Sherlock hummed, steering his partner toward the kitchen without letting go of his shoulder. “You don't mind the food?” Louis shook his head when Sherlock held up the packet of salami in front of him, and received a radiant smile in return. “Then let's try feeding him again.”
They knelt side by side in front of the bed and attempted to coax the cat out with salami and kind words. It took a long time, but either he was not as distrustful as he had first appeared, or the smell of the food triumphed over his fear. The kitten emerged and sniffed around, then turned toward the closer Louis and tried to take the salami from his hand.
Louis gave it to the cat and watched him eat with a faint smile, gently touching him in the meantime, and when he did not shy away, he stroked his back. The kitten lifted his head but did not run away, so he repeated the gesture, while Sherlock dropped another slice of salami onto the floor in front of him.
Louis petted the cat; slightly damp, soft fur clung to his palm, the raised grey tail gliding between his fingers. Since he remained calm, Sherlock came closer with the next bite and touched him too.
The cat tolerated being handled and moved closer to them in the hope of more food, resting his clever eyes first on one boy, then the other. He no longer seemed so frightened, and allowed them to feed and pet him in turns, and by the time most of the packet was gone, he had begun to purr.
Louis watched the cat, Sherlock watched Louis. Thin fingers disappeared into the soft white fur, his lips curved into a smile; the half-lowered blond lashes cast shadows over crimson eyes in which life and interest could finally be seen.
Louis stroked the cat's back, Sherlock the cat’s head, and eventually their fingers touched on his shoulder blade. Moriarty looked up, Holmes moved his hand aside and caught his gaze, but neither of them let go of the cat. When he rubbed his head first against Sherlock's palm, then against Louis's nearby hand, the blond began to laugh quietly, with a hiccup-like sound.
“Watch him for me,” he asked Sherlock, before his partner could ask for an explanation: Louis's phone had started ringing outside, and he was forced to struggle to his feet from the floor.
“No, no, it's all right, thank you for calling,” Sherlock heard quite clearly, before Louis walked farther away with the phone and the distance, together with the loud purring, muffled the words. “We'll be there around ten.” Something similar reached the bedroom from Louis's matter-of-fact explanation.
“It's really not a problem?” Apparently it truly was not, because palpable relief coloured his response to the agreement. “Thank you! We won't be a bother for long.”
A brief silence followed. In the meantime Sherlock played with the kitten, which had scented the remaining food in the packet and climbed into his lap in an attempt to reach it. The aspiring detective grinned and leaned back, then gave the kitten another slice of salami when he settled in his lap. The sounds of his munching and the rain beating against the window began to drown out Louis's calm, warm voice coming from the kitchen.
“I'll ask tomorrow. I'll hurry. Give my regards to our brother Albert as well. Good night.”
He was somewhat closer when he said his goodbyes, but Sherlock only noticed when Louis was once again standing beside him in the room.
“Is it really all right that you'll have to come with me tomorrow?” Sherlock had to tilt his head back to look him in the eye, until Louis crouched down opposite him. He stroked the kitten's head, which had remained in Sherlock's lap even after finishing his meal. “He seems to have taken quite a liking to you,” he remarked, then continued without waiting for a reply. “If you help me take him home, I'll take you home from ours afterwards.”
“I'm not in a hurry,” Sherlock shrugged, taking care not to jostle the cat in his lap. Louis crouched opposite him, close to his knees, and kept looking from him to the cat, making his mouth begin to go dry. “It would be dreadful to say goodbye to our cat already.”
“Come and visit him, if yours doesn't get jealous.” Sometimes it was difficult to tell whether Louis was merely teasing or being serious, and Sherlock seized upon the offer.
“All right, I'll visit you sometimes, strictly for his sake.” He winked, making it clear that he was joking, but Louis's expression did not even twitch. “By the way, is it really all right if I come with you?”
“Sure. I asked you, and my brothers know about you.”
“And what exactly do they know?” One of Louis's eyebrows rose slightly.
“That my roommate is coming with me because I asked him to. What else was I supposed to tell them about you?”
“Your friend, Louis, your friend! I thought we were past this roommate business already!” Sherlock shook his head theatrically, and the cat jumped at the sudden movement. Both of them followed his path beneath the desk, but there he no longer tried to hide quite so desperately. Louis sighed quietly, and Sherlock got up from the floor and brushed off his trousers.
“Of course, my everything, and my future detective partner.” Louis rolled his eyes. “All this is completely irrelevant, Sherlock. You might not even meet them at all.”
“You don't want to introduce me to them?” Louis pressed his lips together and turned away, staring once more at the cat hiding beneath the desk instead of Sherlock.
“That's not it, I just didn't think you'd want to come in at all. Once we've got out, I can hold the cat by myself.”
“And you want to leave me outside in the car?” A trace of irony vibrated in Sherlock's voice, and Moriarty answered with a weary sigh.
“Why, would you like to come in with me?”
Sherlock nodded, though Louis only caught the movement of his dark hair from the corner of his eye. He turned toward him and their gazes met. Despite the way Sherlock spoke, he no longer seemed quite so confident, and because of that Louis could not answer immediately either.
“Well... come, then. I'd actually be happy.” Louis clasped his hands in his lap and stared at the white hairs scattered over his tracksuit bottoms. Sherlock's clothes were covered with them too, and he began to worry that if Sherlock noticed, he would be angry about it.
“When are we leaving?” Sherlock changed the subject to grant him mercy and stepped around Louis as he left the bedroom. The answer caught up with him in the doorway of the bathroom.
“Be ready by eight.”
“All right,” he leaned out so that Louis would be sure to hear him, then withdrew to brush his teeth. “I'll pack up when I'm done.” With the toothbrush in his mouth, an incomprehensible jumble of sounds spilled from his lips, but Louis, who was already used to this, was able to interpret it.
Louis himself began packing while he waited, then, after they had swapped places in the bathroom, he finished gathering his things and knelt down on the floor again to lure the kitten out. He was still crouching under the table, watching the two boys come and go from his hiding place, but as the sounds of packing faded and Sherlock returned to the bedroom, he began to calm down.
The cat poked his head toward Louis's outstretched hand, and after rubbing his nose against him, slowly crawled out of his refuge. Louis smiled at him, picked him up, then placed him on the blanket. Sherlock watched with interest as Louis climbed into bed with his phone and the cat, and allowed him, once he himself had settled in, to lie beside his head on the corner of the pillow.
“I didn't know you liked cats that much,” he tried, to which Louis cast him a flat glance.
“Don't you let yours do this at home?”
“I do, but he rarely does,” he admitted, ignoring the edge in the question. “Colonel prefers to lie on my chest. I can barely breathe because of it.”
“That sounds nice.” Louis's face was lit both by his phone screen and the bright bedside lamp between them, his features dissolving into flickering colour. Sherlock exhaled with a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh, and turned toward him on the pillow.
“Want to try it?”
“Nothing I'd rather do.”
Neither of them moved, so the idle conversation ended there, but Sherlock kept thinking about it later, even in the dark. Yes, the Colonel was heavy, but the weight was pleasant when he curled beneath his collarbone. It probably did not resemble the pressure of another person's arm or head, but it was possible to play with the thought.
He could try it when he slept in his own bed again. He still remembered Louis's hair.
Louis's hair.
It was ridiculous.
Sherlock turned his back to him and pulled the blanket up between his bent knees.
A soft, steady purring drowned out the usual sounds of their breathing; the cat had drawn closer to Louis's face.