Chapter Text
A rainy day in London. Not an unordinary sight, especially not for such a man as Sherlock Holmes. The thin reed of a man, with a mop of dark curls atop his head was quite familiar with the weather patterns. Just as familiar as he was with the streets that he chased various criminal about, dodging bullets, stabbing and blunt objects that flew his way.
The loneliness however, never went away; the need and the ache for a companion or really just someone to listen to his ramblings was always apparent. Apparently real human skulls were not acceptable in public, if the scolding by Mycroft and Lestrade were anything to go by.
A store caught his eye. Simple, a pet shop with an elderly attendant sweeping by the large bay window that read, “FIFTH NORTHUMBERLAND PETS” Strange, very strange considering the street was most definitely named Watson. He plunged into the store with a swing of his coat and scanned his surroundings. Real wood floors, most likely put down in the early 20th century, scuff marks. Well-worn during its early days, not taken care of. Beige walls that had been painted over twice—no three times due to the cracks and chips that showed three or four different colors. Cages and aquariums lined the walls, not made to be there from the way the overcrowding factor seemed to make some pets squeamish, maybe a move, or maybe downsizing but recent. The old man who was sweeping the floor was easily deduced. Late 60s, early 70s. A bit of shaving cream on the ear, widowed then or living along, most likely widowed if the ring around his neck matched the one on his finger. Ah it did. Well then.
“Good afternoon son,” the old frail man greeted as he stood up and put a hand on his lower back to steady himself. Old age, most likely back problems that resulted from his early career as a...weight lifter, construction worker? Some sort of hard labor no doubt from the amount of muscle and the muscle atrophy that resulted and sagged in his pale skin. “If you see anything you like just give a yell,” he said as he continued to sweep and check on many of the pets on a more personal level .Attached, getting rid of them because he had to.
Sherlock scanned the walls and shelves, birds, fish, dogs and cats in kennels, even a few rabbits. Nothing out of the ordinary. Boring. But what really caught his eye was a medium sized jar that was seemingly innocent and looked to be empty. He stepped closer the small sign next to the jar read ‘Octojohn $10’. Upon closer inspection, he saw a small creature. The bottom half was octopus, mimic octopus at that if the small spots meant anything and he knew they did. What was odd though (and definitely not boring) was that attached instead of a head, was a human body from the waist up. A small frail thing with deep blue eyes and a ruffle of blond hair atop his head. At first he tried to hide trying to blend in with the clor of the shelf jar sat upon, then he recognized the futility of such an action and that this human was different. Many would scream or sneer at him, but this one stared as if he was something interesting and on the inside that made OctoJohn preen. He pressed his hands against the glass and gave Sherlock a most pathetic look and seemed to be calling out to him, then a little sneeze and brown spots appeared, an indication the little hybrid didn’t have the best control over his mimicry.
No. Don’t be tempted Sherlock, no matter how cute he is. Did he just think that, how stupid. The thing barely served a purpose and looked as if he would take up more space than anything. You are a grown man, behave as such! He argued in his mind and when he went to turn away the little jar made a small said bloop! As the little Octojohn curled into a ball and turned away from Sherlock, the self-proclaimed high functioning sociopath could tell form the shake of its shoulder it was crying. He searched for any rational reason to procure the creature, any reason. He would be an interesting specimen to study. That was quite enough.
Long, thin musicians’ fingers reached for the jar and picked it up then he swept over to the counter. Little Octojohn was shocked and looked up as best as he could at the stranger with the metal top of the lid with holes blocking his view. Through those tiny holes he saw the shadows on the man’s face and let out a curious little blerp. Sherlock looked down then brought the jar up to his face as he approached the counter. “I’ll buy,” he said and placed down 10 quid then stroe back out to the rainy London streets with his coat collar upturned. The frail old man smiled and went to clear the Octojohn sign; glad the sweet creature had gotten his new home with such an interesting fellow.
Sherlock walked at his own pace and watched as the octopus stared at him with curious eyes, but that did not mask his happiness. With another blerp he began to wiggle his tentacles in what may have looked like a dance while his upper half only smiled and settled in for the slightly bumpy ride. Sherlock then knew that he had found quite the interesting flat share.