Work Text:
John Watson felt like a shell of himself.
He hated living in his new flat, hated the silence, the sheer emptiness. He often dreamt of Sherlock appearing on his doorstep and going on adventures together like they used to. He missed hearing Sherlock’s violin singing at 3 in the morning, missed the clutter of chemistry glassware on the kitchen table, though he didn’t necessarily miss the severed body parts in the refrigerator…
Work was a chore, there was nothing to blog about, no second or third dates to speak of. Life without Sherlock was terribly dull. Then one day, almost eight months after Sherlock’s death, something unexpected happened.
It was late March in London and the weather was just beginning to warm up. Spring rain started pouring as John walked home from the market. Upon returning to his flat, he discovered a shabby cardboard box sitting outside the door. Anxious to get out of the nasty weather, he picked it up and brought it inside. The damp box almost felt like it was empty.
John set the groceries on the counter and examined the box for an address label or anything to indicate for whom it was intended, but all he found were a few small holes on each side. A single strip of packing tape held the box shut, and when John opened it, he was shocked at what was inside.
A small ball of fur was huddled in the corner of the box, damp and shivering. He took a closer look at the small creature and realized it was a kitten, struggling to breathe. Its tiny eyes were still closed. It couldn’t have been much more than two weeks old.
“Oh, God…” John quickly got a towel and gingerly picked it up, carefully drying off its fragile body and warming it in his hands. In the process, he noticed it was a female. She was pure blue-gray with a dark nose, pink paw pads, white whiskers, and ears so small that John barely noticed them. He found a dry cardboard box and lined it with a soft blanket that had a texture similar to the kitten’s fur, then he added a hot water bottle under the blanket for warmth. He then unpacked the groceries and made a cup of tea.
When he returned, she was squirming and mewing like mad. He picked up the kitten with her blanket and held her. After a few minutes, she finally stopped meowing. “Don’t worry, I’ll bring you to a shelter tomorrow. You’ll be well taken care of.” John stroked her fuzzy head with one finger and she tried her best to swipe at him with her tiny paw, mewing softly.
“So adorable,” he smiled and sipped his tea as he watched the fluffy gray kitten fall asleep in his lap. She slept quietly, content and comfortable.
Something about this tiny kitten seemed special to John.
“Maybe some company wouldn’t hurt…”
~~~~~~
Watson hadn’t slept very well for the past few nights, often waking up to the heart-wrenching sound of a kitten crying. Tonight was no different.
He rubbed his eyes and stretched before getting up to feed her warm formula. She suckled and slurped the milk greedily, making some of it dribble down her small chin. After a late night suckle and cleanup, John placed the sleepy kitten back into the cardboard box that served as her bed.
Although she’d found a permanent, loving residence, she was still nameless. John wanted to wait until the perfect name came to mind.
The next morning, while John was feeding the growing kitten the second of her several meals, something wonderful happened. The nameless kitten slowly opened her eyes.
The right eye was a striking shade of pale blue with flecks of green, like shards of emerald scattered in a sunlit tide pool. The left one was an entirely different color, a swirl of golden caramel and dark amber. A thin, pale yellow ring surrounded the pupil, resembling a tiny solar eclipse. She blinked at John and looked up at him quizzically before attempting a playful swat to the fingers, accompanied by an adorable little hiss. Then, and only then, did she allow him to pet her tiny head.
“You’re a unique little one, aren’t you?”
She purred with delight as John rubbed her head.
“Unique… just like Sherlock…” John smiled sadly while stroking the kitten’s fur. He drew a deep, quivering breath; he wasn’t going to do this to himself. Not again. He looked down at the feisty kitten snuggled in his lap. She looked up at him and mewed when he momentarily stopped petting. Her heterochromatic eyes stood out beautifully against her blue-gray fur, but her right eye struck a chord inside him.
The lovely light blue-green reminded him of Sherlock’s eyes.
“Hm… Charlotte. I’ll call you Charlotte,” he declared.
Charlotte purred, vibrating in John’s lap before falling asleep after her morning meal. John held her to his chest and silently thanked whoever left this precious kitten on his doorstep.
Even with his new companion, it took over two years for the ache of loss to truly subside, for life to seem normal once again. It was then that John knew it was time to go back home.
~~~~~~
John had moved back into 221B only two weeks ago. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t cleaned out the flat, and everything there reminded him of Sherlock; bullet holes in the wall, Erlenmeyer flasks in the cupboard, nicotine patches on the table…
He knew the pain would fade, but the scars would stay forever.
Even as John made new memories of this flat with Charlotte, his heart ached from time to time. He would never stop missing Sherlock, and he knew nothing could change that.
~~~~~~
Some nights, John fell asleep in his usual chair, while Charlotte lounged on Sherlock’s chair. She watched John sleeping, heard his breathing, her nocturnal senses ever-waiting to pick up on the sound of prey. Tonight was the night she heard something different.
Her ears pricked when she heard footsteps approaching the door. It didn’t sound like Mrs. Hudson. It sounded like someone she didn’t know.
Charlotte jumped onto John’s lap and swatted his cheek with her paw. He opened his eyes and yawned. Charlotte meowed at him and walked over to the door.
“What is it, Charlotte? Is there another mouse out there?”
She simply sat by the door and stared at the threshold intently, waiting, her tail swishing back and forth.
John finally got out of his chair and glanced at the clock and sighed. It was 2:34am. Sometimes he wished cats weren’t nocturnal.
He opened the door, expecting Charlotte to chase after a mouse.
Instead, he saw a ghost.
“Hello, John,” it spoke quietly.
The phantom sounded just like Sherlock.