saki101

Title: Rain
Author:

saki101
Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, OCs, Red, Gray
Rating: PG-13 to R-ish (for whole story)
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~1.7K this chapter (14.2K total so far)
Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine and no money is being made.
Summary: Kittens and their case.
A/N: Rain is a sequel to Milk and Red.

Excerpt: “We will literally be herding cats.” Anthea consulted her Blackberry. “Interesting expression,” she murmured, typing rapidly on the device.

“I believe I could write a treatise on the nuances of its meaning,” Mycroft said...

Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 on LJ.
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ

Rain
Chapter 4

“The number will only be limited by access, how often he is able to roam. Whether any enhancements ‘Three’ may enjoy will have made him more successful in territorial disputes with other males is an unknown. I expect we shall be finding out,” Mycroft finished with a tight smile.

His laptop chimed. He tapped a key and glanced at the message.

“We will literally be herding cats.” Anthea consulted her Blackberry. “Interesting expression,” she murmured, typing rapidly on the device.

“I believe I could write a treatise on the nuances of its meaning,” Mycroft said, looking up at Anthea’s bowed head.

“There’s a former tanning salon for let not far from Baker Street that we could use as a temporary cattery or will a mobile unit do?” she asked, meeting Mycroft’s eye. There was a distant look in it. “Sir?”

Mycroft did not respond.

Anthea waited.

“Ah,” Mycroft said, re-focussing on Anthea. “Let the property and have Dr Flaherty on call for the sterilising and microchipping.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthea replied and turned away. The door closed behind her. The computer chimed again.

***

John set the bag of cat litter on the floor and his other bags on the kitchen table. “Managed re-provisioning without being spirited away in any black cars,” he said, rubbing his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have minded a lift, actually.”

“Have you contacted Mike?” Sherlock asked from the desk.

“Stopped by,” John said, taking a corked bottle from one of the bags and heading for the sitting room. “He hasn’t, although he has an appointment for after their holiday.” He placed the bottle near Sherlock’s elbow. “The kittens recognised me.”

“Early imprinting, very important,” Sherlock murmured.

“They’re so young, I thought they’d forget,” John continued. “You should see how happy Freud and Apgar are with the girls.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock said, opening a new tab and typing.

“Anna, not Sigmund, I was carefully informed,” John said. “At ten, I would probably have named a cat, Blackheath.”

“One of your parents wasn’t a psychiatrist,” Sherlock said, scrolling down a list of search results.

“How do you know?” John teased.

“Once I had your birth certificate...” Sherlock began.

John expelled a long breath. “Fine.”

Sherlock leaned back in his seat and saw the bottle. “What’s this?” he asked, holding it up to the light and narrowing his eyes at the hand-printed label. He sniffed at the stopper.

“There’s a farmers’ market at the weekend near Mike’s house,” John said. “I walked through it and spotted that.”

“Blackberry melomel with wild yeast,” Sherlock read. “There are no quality controls on these sorts of things, John. Anything could be growing in here.” He looked from the label to John.

John grinned. “Thought you might like to experiment with it.”

Red streaked from the bookcase and out the sitting room door. Voices floated up the stairs on a cool gust of air.

“Or we could serve it to Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

***

Mycroft finished relating his version of the salient facts and held out a hand for Kit’s phone.

“Arrange for his transfer to Bart’s and for his mother to see him first,” Sherlock said, flipping the mobile between his fingers.

“Fine.” Mycroft took out his phone, pressed a button and got up.

A dozing Red slid off Mycroft’s shoes.

“A change in plans,” Mycroft said into the mobile as he walked into the hallway. The door clicked shut behind him.

Red arrived a moment too late and stretched up towards the door handle.

John shook his head. “You’ve a ways to grow before you can pull off that trick,” he said.

Red pushed and the door rattled slightly against the jamb.

“Matron,” Sherlock said, glancing out the window as he spoke. The cadences of the hospital tannoy droned through Matron’s reply. “How is your unknown boy?”

Behind Sherlock, the door continued to rattle in its frame. Below, Alistair stood by the Jaguar, mobile to his ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, tone dropping with the end of the word. “Today’s developments may be of help, however. His mother will arrive by this evening to identify him and accompany him to an hospital closer to their home. She has been advised to ask for you. Would you be able to stay until she gets there?”

A second car pulled up to the kerb.

Sherlock nodded as he listened. “I believe you will see the family resemblance, but their personal details cannot be added to his records just yet. In her relief, his mother may call her son by name. It would be best if no other hospital staff heard her do so.”

Anthea alighted from the second car, exchanged a few words with Alistair before getting into the first car with him.

Sherlock was silent. “We hope to have the matter concluded soon, but until then...” He listened and nodded. “The ambulance attendants will assist you in preparing your patient for transport. They can take the discharge instructions.” Sherlock paused. “You will find all the transfer paperwork has been completed by the time they are with you, despite the lack of name or National Insurance number.”

Alistair and Anthea drove away.

“There will be someone with them with a van to collect the motorbike. They’ll wait until you’re ready to show them the way to the garage.” Sherlock smiled. “It may well be the first thing he asks about when he regains consciousness.” He nodded. “Please contact me or my colleague if you have any concerns upon their arrival. You still have our numbers?” He nodded again. “Yes, ring once they are all underway. I shall be interested to hear if there are any reactions from your patient. Thank you, Matron.” Sherlock ended the call.

John cleared his throat.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him. “What?” he said.

“’Please’ and ‘thank you’ in one conversation?” John said. “I could get used to this persona.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Sherlock said.

“No change in Kit, I take it,” John said.

Sherlock shook his head. “Matron even told him that his bike had been found with little more than a few scratches on it, but to no avail.” He glanced across the quiet room. “Red gave up?”

“No, he used the door in the kitchen,” John said.

One side of Sherlock’s mouth curved upwards.

The sitting room door opened. Mycroft came in, putting his mobile away with his right hand, his left arm bent close to his chest with Red stretched along his forearm, face nestled in Mycroft’s palm.

The other side of Sherlock’s mouth curled up.

Mycroft pursed his lips. “It was preferable to having him moutaineer up my trouser leg,” he said.

Sherlock held out Kit’s mobile and the keys to the motorbike. “The bike needs a little bodywork,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure you have some division that can look after that and getting him a new number plate.”

“You’re most solicitous of your cat killer,” Mycroft remarked, dropping the keys into an outside pocket and turning his attention to the phone.

“Something panicked him on the way to Ramsgate and the well-paying and rather adventurous delivery run for one of Uncle Eddie’s dodgy business deals became a race for his life,” Sherlock said. “Might it have been one of yours he was running from?”

“Two of the ‘passers-by’ followed him,” Mycroft said, hitting several keys on the phone. “I sent someone to divert the ‘concerned citizens’.”

“I may have turned it off,” Sherlock commented.

Mycroft hit a few more keys and the phone whistled softly. “Not to worry, brother mine.”

Sherlock huffed and fell back onto the sofa. Gray lifted his head from where he had been sitting on the armrest and put his chin on Sherlock’s sleeve.

Mycroft swiped through the images. “Not transmitted?”

“Not according to the phone’s activity record,” Sherlock said.

“No doubt you were thorough,” Mycroft said, turning towards the door, “but best to double-check.”

“You’re taking Red with you?” John asked.

“He seems intent on coming,” Mycroft replied from the landing.

“You’re not going to have him vivisected or something, are you?” Sherlock asked.

“No-o,” Mycroft answered, “a little blood drawn perhaps.”

Sherlock strode to the hallway. “Bring him back to me when you want it done. Don’t let anyone else do it,” he said.

Mycroft turned on the stair. “Very well. You’ll have the rest of the litter in a few days. Start with them. I’ll send you any updates I get from the little game at the research facility and bring ‘Red’ for a visit when he has a better name.”

“You’re going to keep him?” John said from the doorway.

“I think such determination should be rewarded, don’t you, John?” Mycroft said.

“Perhaps you’re compelled to accede to his demand to ‘R-E-T-U-R-N’,” Sherlock suggested.

“You noticed that,” Mycroft commented, patting Red’s head. His umbrella swung on his arm and hit his knee. He barely winced.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How will you manage to hold him and your umbrella.”

“We’ll work something out,” Mycroft replied and resumed his descent.

“How many do you think you’ll find?” Sherlock asked.

“Impossible to estimate without more data,” Mycroft called as he turned on the lower landing. “First step is to waylay the sire and examine him.”

“More cat-napping,” John scoffed.

“If you have a better way, Doctor Watson...” Mycroft said, voice faint as he neared the entrance. The front door opened and shut.

John looked at Sherlock. “I thought there was a pattern in that rattling,” he said.

“Well, Morse code is barely used in the military anymore,” Sherlock said.

“I learned it as a Scout,” John replied, stepping back into the sitting room.

“You may want to refresh it a bit,” Sherlock said as he watched Gray rhythmically patting the sofa arm with one paw and looking back at him.

“R-E-T-U-R-N,” John decoded. “I never forgot it.” He grabbed Sherlock by the waist. “M-I-N-E F-I-R-S-T,” he slowly tapped out on Sherlock’s chest while staring at Gray.

“John,” Sherlock said, glancing down at John’s hand splayed over his chest. “He’s a kitten.”

“That’s all right,” John said, arm still tight around Sherlock. “No harm in being clear early on.”

Gray blinked. “M-I-N-E T-O-O,” he signalled with silent taps.

“Did I just teach him ‘mine’?” John wondered aloud.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied.

“How’d he learn ‘too’, then?” John asked.

“Maybe he watches you type.”

****************