Sherlock Fanfiction: Rain (Chapter 5)
Oct. 6th, 2015 09:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
saki101Title: Rain
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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: ~3.25K this chapter (17.5K 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: I need a hand. SH
From the fridge? John tapped out and pushed send.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 on LJ.
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
Rain
Chapter 5
The bell over the door jingled.
“Hallo?” the young man with a cardboard box in his arms asked. He sidled into the empty yellow room, walls bright with large photos of cats and kittens in gardens and on cushions. The door tinkled closed behind him.
Alistair rose from the nest of wires behind the oak counter. “Hello,” he said, genial smile in place. “Still putting things in order, I’m afraid.” He waved towards the neatly stocked shelves behind him with the wire cutters in his left hand and at the space beneath the counter, implying the existence of more.
“Oh,” the young man said, half turning back towards the entrance. “I thought you were open for business...”
The box mewed.
Alistair leaned forward, elbows upon the counter. “We are, just haven’t sorted all the supplies, or the wiring, yet.” He set the wire cutters aside. “How can I help?”
***
John turned to the last two pages of the book in his lap. The paper dragged along a furry spine and a faint purr sounded.
“No,” John murmured, eyes racing over the paragraphs, “I did not see that coming.”
Two little bodies rearranged themselves on his chest. Kneading claws caught on the wool of his jumper then stilled.
John flipped to the beginning of the final chapter, an occasional hum escaping as he ran a forefinger along the lines. “I missed that,” he murmured, “and that.” He closed the book, set it on the side table and tapped the cover. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Sherlock was writing bestsellers on the side.”
Freud opened her eyes and stretched around her sister.
“Or was acting as a consultant to someone who was,” John added. His brow furrowed.
Freud sat up, golden gaze on John. He scratched her head. “I’d be more than cross if he was helping someone else write,” he said and lapsed into silence.
Freud pushed her head up against John’s hand. He scratched down her forehead, rubbed the top of her nose. She tilted up her chin and he scratched beneath it as well. Apgar slept on.
Next to the book, John’s mobile chirped. He left off scratching to retrieve it. Freud climbed over the arm of the chair, onto the table and sat on the book, eyes returning to John.
“Speaking of,” he said, pressing the screen.
I need a hand. SH
From the fridge? John tapped out and pushed send.
There had been no hint of where Sherlock had gone when John arrived home. He had suppressed the unease that had crept over him with food and tea and the book. He stared over the mobile at Sherlock’s chair.
Gray twitched an ear from the nest he had made where one of Sherlock’s vests was wedged into the corner of the seat.
A small muscle in John’s cheek jumped. He recalled peeling the worn fabric off and dropping it somewhere the previous evening. Sherlock had needed a hand then, too.
The phone vibrated in John’s palm.
Your hand, John. SH
John did not suppress his smile. “Where are you, you mind-reading bugger?” he muttered, remembering how the fine hairs that had risen along the bared flesh had felt against his lips. He had brought a flush to the cool skin. It had not stayed cool long.
Left or right? he texted. His ambidextrous talents intrigued Sherlock. He was cataloguing the differences between the hands. They had not conducted any tests outside the flat as yet.
John’s glance flickered to Sherlock’s chair. John drew in a quick breath. Over that had been nice.
53 Huntsworth Mews. SH appeared on the screen almost instantaneously.
The name was familiar. John stroked Apgar while he placed the address. “Just around the corner,” he murmured, moving Apgar aside, “’course, a lot happens ‘round the corners ‘round here.”
Apgar mewed a complaint, eyes still shut. “Sorry, love, this warm cushion’s got to run.”
The phone announced another message. Close the curtains. SH
From her perch on the book, Freud watched the glow of the streetlights disappear. Her eyes followed John as he got his jacket and slipped into his shoes.
John swept an assessing glance about the sitting room and the kitchen before he left. Food and water levels were satisfactory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, mates,” he said and turned to the stairs.
Freud jumped down from the table, up onto Sherlock’s chair and curled around Gray. Apgar yawned mightily, stretched and went to join them.
***
Alistair peeped inside the box. Emerald eyes regarded him. There was a wiggling of ginger and white and grey amidst the long, black fur belonging to the green eyes.
The young man reached in to stroke her side. “This is Esmeralda. One night, I was putting out the rubbish and found her under some boxes beneath the front stairs. The kittens were very tiny then.” He glanced at Alistair. “My flatmates and I have been looking after them and when Sybil saw your sign yesterday, we were rather excited. I mean, we knew they needed jabs and things.” He grimaced and looked about the room, a fine flush creeping up his cheeks. “We’re all a bit short on dosh, I’m afraid, but if you ever need a chamber ensemble, you know, for a grand opening or something...”
“The services are free,” Alistair said, sliding a clipboard across the counter, “charity and all, and we hadn’t planned anything special to introduce ourselves to the neighbourhood, no budget for it, but I’ll pass your offer along.”
The young man caught Alistair’s eye for an instant, nodded and took up the pen atop the forms on the clipboard.
Alistair watched the neat script fill the blanks on the paper. “Alexei Livnev,” he read, “Royal Academy of Music.” Alistair hit a few keys on a computer tucked beneath the counter. “Maybe we ought to re-think the grand opening idea, Alexei.”
Alexei looked up through dark lashes, his eyes nearly as green as the cat’s. “They like it when we practice,” he said, pen poised above the paper. “The cats, I mean. Maybe other cats would, too.” Alexei added telephone numbers. “Now that the kittens can retract and extend their claws, they seem to do it to the rhythm of what we’re playing. We’ve all got tiny scratches to show for it.” He continued to write. “Possibly, we’re imagining there’s rhythm to it. I know I dream in time.”
Alistair hit the next key on his computer slightly harder than he had intended. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Cats are remarkable creatures.” He drew a long breath. “I’ll just tell Dr Flaherty that he has patients waiting.”
***
John recognised Huntsworth Mews. He had been lost the first time he had limped along it, looking for a shortcut to Baker Street after getting off the bus a stop too early. It was longer than most mews, two long blocks worth of former carriage houses and garages turned into expensive real estate complete with excavated basements and alarms proclaiming the names of all the finest security companies. John was not sure whether it was good or bad that Sherlock had not set any of them off.
“Here, hold this,” Sherlock whispered when John reached the cul-de-sac that ended the second street. For some reason the security light angled just where Sherlock was crouching near a basement level window did not have him in a spotlight. A single dot of orange glowed in its centre instead.
“What...” John began to ask softly as he bent down by Sherlock.
“Keep this in place,” Sherlock interrupted, tilting his head at the manila folder he was holding against the lower part of a window in a semi-circular light well.
John sat on the cobbled edge of the well and put his shin against the file. “...are we doing?”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Sherlock replied as he stood. He flitted to the second of the twin doors of the small building.
“Mm,” John said, observing Sherlock unlocking it in a matter of seconds and shutting it quietly behind him in a couple more.
The moon peeked around the edge of the clouds and illuminated the vacant doorway. “You collaborating, too?” John asked the bright orb. The white letters of the ‘to let’ sign jutting out from the wall by the door caught the moonlight. The house diagonally across the mews sported a matching placard. Above the latter, the blue aura of a telly lit an upper storey window. John leaned further back into the shadows and listened for Sherlock’s return.
John felt the taps against his leg more than heard them. “O-P-E-N,” he decoded without needing to think; it was such a familiar pattern around their flat. The series repeated.
Garden flat to let...broken window pane; John recalled the explanation. He squinted at the sign to see if he could read the name of the shoddy estate agent that had not replaced a smashed window in a couple months’ time. The taps became more rapid. He could hear the claws starting to dig into the folder.
The front door opened and Sherlock was beside him.
“We’re staking out cats now?” John asked.
“You can remove the folder,” Sherlock said, holding out a hand.
John passed up the file and got to his feet. “And that took more than ‘a moment’.”
“I needed to give him time to thoroughly take in my scent,” Sherlock said.
John glanced at the dark window. “I thought he’d come dashing out. His signalling was getting rather desperate.”
“He’ll wait until we walk away, I think,” Sherlock said, whirling in the direction of the intersection.
A shout came from the blue-lit window. John froze. Muted cheering rose in the moonlight and John remembered the rugby. He joined Sherlock before he strode across the road. They continued along the second block of the mews. “Why the long way round?” John whispered.
“It’s quieter,” Sherlock replied, “less likely to scare him off.”
John stopped himself from looking back. “He’s following us?”
“Tracking,” Sherlock said and pivoted towards Gloucester Place.
“That’s where you found the litter,” John said, tilting his head back the way they had come.
Sherlock nodded.
“But why would he keep returning? He must be able to smell that they haven’t been there in a long time,” John asked.
“Habit, hope,” Sherlock said, crossing another road and heading west on Melcombe Street. “Perhaps we can ask him.”
John stopped for a second then took a couple strides to catch up. “That’s how you knew to check there,” he said. “You deduced he must have been present regularly for the kittens to have learned the code.”
Sherlock smiled. “Good.” He turned up Siddons Lane, took out his phone and started hitting keys.
John glanced at his watch. “Most of the pubs have been closed for a while,” he said. “The mother cat would normally have been home from her rounds of the restaurants.” John looked at the buildings they were passing. “Back door?”
Sherlock nodded and put his mobile away. “I’ve alerted Mrs Hudson so she doesn’t disturb us. You may need to wait in her kitchen in the dark for a bit.”
“You think he’ll come into a house full of strange people?” John asked.
“He’s tracking us because our clothing smells of his offspring. The house does much more so,” Sherlock replied as he opened the kitchen door. “I’ll leave the door to the hallway ajar and wait on the stairs to the top floor. I’ll text you when he goes into the sitting room, so you can lock up down here and join me.”
John was about to ask how long Sherlock thought they would have to wait, but he had already slipped away.
***
“In the morning, we’ll be able to check how she did overnight. If all is well, you can collect Esmeralda any time after noon tomorrow. And for the kittens, three weeks from today for their second jab,” Alistair said, typing away on the keyboard below the counter.
As though on cue, the kittens started mewing and scrambling up the side of the box. Alexei opened the closed flaps a little. “We’ll be home soon,” he whispered.
“Does the same time of day suit your schedule?” Alistair asked.
Alexei looked up. “Sorry.”
“For the kittens’ next appointment. Does the same time suit?”
“It might be Sybil or Antonio who bring them next. Not Lev though, his schedule’s mad this year. Can I tell you tomorrow, when I come to get Esmeralda?” Alexei asked in a rush, his fingers drumming nervously on the top of the box. The meows grew louder.
Alistair pushed a button beneath the counter. “That will be fine.” He set the clipboard up on the counter. “If you could just add their names and mobile numbers to the form.”
Alexei wrote with one hand and kept tapping with the other. Alistair kept a finger on the clipboard to keep it from sliding away. The kittens quieted.
“It’s a tune, isn’t it?” Alistair said when Alexei put down the pen.
Alexei smiled. “Yes. Sybil was studying Haydn and the centenary tributes that used his name in compositions, so she wrote a piece based on Esmeralda’s name using a mix of notes and solmization syllables, C, D, E, F, do, re, mi and so on.” Alexei’s tapping changed, apparently to demonstrate Sybil’s work. There was a meow from the box. Alistair’s drumming resumed its initial rhythm. “The kittens seemed to like it if their kneading was anything to go by, so we all wrote one based on a word or phrase. They were well received by our furry audience, although the one that got their tails tapping in time was Lev’s.”
Alistair kept a polite smile on his face. “Do you have a theory as to why?”
Alexei shook his head. “Not really. Lev’s chuffed that his is their favourite. He had so little time, he just tapped a message in Morse code out on a tambourine with a little jangle at the end. Lev thinks they prefer his rhythm. Sybil thinks they like the message.”
Alistair chuckled as a laugh seemed expected. “What was it? ‘Feed me’?” he asked.
“Well, their mother mostly does that,” Alexei replied. “It was ‘Return and play’.”
Alistair could not keep his eyebrows down. “Other cats might like it,” he said.
“We could market the songs as cat entertainment,” Alexei joked. “I wonder if any radio station would play that.”
“You never know,” Alistair said, “but if you start selling it, we’ll buy a copy for the surgery.” He handed Alexei a business card with the surgery’s name, contact details and the date of the kittens’ appointment on it.
“We’d give you a copy,” Alexei replied, tucking the card in his pocket and picking up the box. “See you tomorrow.”
Alistair came around the counter and opened the door. “There are frequently asked questions about jabs and post-operative care on our website as well as tips on how to feed kittens this young. We put a carton of Cimicat kitten formula in the box so you can get them through the night.”
“Thank you,” Alexei said as the door jingled closed.
Alistair hopped over the gate between the counter and the wall on his way to the back rooms. “Did you hear that?” he said when the door shut behind him.
Anthea looked up from her Blackberry for an instant and nodded.
***
The wall clock ticked as the minute hand moved from one dark notch to the next. The refrigerator hummed. Muffled by several brick walls, the murmur of night-time traffic sounded farther away than it was. John inhaled quietly. Mrs Hudson had made the cinnamon cake again. He kept his eyes on the door. In dots and dashes of colour, the strands of beads over the doorway reflected the green light on the power strip beside the fridge. The minute hand lurched forward. The refrigerator’s motor took a rest. The beads clicked against one another, scattering green sparks over the walls. Only John’s eyes shifted towards the movement. No feline form was discernible among the shadows. The beads stilled. The clock ticked. In his pocket, John’s mobile vibrated. He checked the message, exhaled slowly and shut the door.
***
Mycroft smelt the sawdust, the solder and the glue. He slipped his umbrella into the stand by his desk and sat. Several files were stacked before him, a diagram topmost.
Red lingered by the closed door, sniffing metal and concrete repeatedly before making a complete circuit of the room then half of another. He halted in front of the mirror and stood, his paw flattening against the glass.
Mycroft glanced up from the final page of the first file as the mirror moved to the left.
Red jumped back and crouched.
The glass came to a rest over the adjacent wall, revealing a deep cupboard set into the cement, divided by carpet-covered shelves of increasing narrowness as they progressed upwards from the floor.
Ears out to the side, Red slunk forward, whiskers twitching.
Mycroft took out his pocket watch. Five seconds later, the tip of Red’s tail was no longer visible. Two seconds after that, the sound of kibble being crunched reached his ears. Mycroft made a modification to the diagram and picked up the second file.
***
John avoided the creaky stairs and the noisy boards of the landing. He sat on the step above Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder. “What next?” he whispered.
Sherlock touched his forefinger to his lips then pointed towards the sitting room door.
Three entered the hallway and stopped midway, looking first towards the stairs leading down and then those leading up. He found Sherlock and John and settled his gaze on them. Apgar, Freud and Gray had followed, pausing behind Three when he halted. Gray glanced up, meowed and began digging his claws into the carpet, the sound of the fibres ripping distinct as he pulled his paw up with his claws still hooked about them.
John recognised the pattern: R-E-T-U-R-N.
“My cue,” Sherlock murmured and stood, walking slowly down the stairs until he was a pace or two from the sitting room door. He crouched.
Gray meowed again and leapt onto Sherlock’s knee, stretched up to Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbed his face against Sherlock’s cheek and purred. Sherlock stroked Gray’s back until Gray turned and jumped down, trotted to where Three stood and touched his nose to Three’s.
Freud started kneading the carpet.
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John and raised his eyebrow.
“Right,” John mumbled and descended the steps. He sat on the hallway chair. Apgar and Freud chose separate legs to climb, circling each other when they reached his lap and purring as they butted their heads against his jumper. John felt a bit chuffed to have two of them making a fuss of him. He glanced up and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
When John looked away, Three was heading down the stairs. A moment later, the rhythmic scratching on Mrs Hudson’s door reached their ears.
“I’ll get that, shall I?” Sherlock said, extending his arm. Gray ran up it and arranged himself on Sherlock’s shoulder. Together they answered the summons.
Freud and Apgar curled into a furry heap and closed their eyes. John curved an arm around them, heard Mrs Hudson's door open. A minute later Sherlock and Gray came into view on the stairs.
"Gone the way he came?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
“We passed muster, then,” John said.
“It would appear so,” Sherlock replied.
“He’ll come back?” John asked.
“He knows the way now,” Sherlock said.
“But you aren’t going to tell Mycroft,” John surmised.
"Three's used to his autonomy," Sherlock said, his hand drifting to his shoulder. Gray nudged at Sherlock's fingers with his nose. Sherlock smoothed Gray's fur and strolled into the sitting room. “And it will mean so much more to Mycroft if he finds him on his own, don't you think.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Author:
saki101Characters/Pairings: John/Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, Anthea, OCs, Red, Gray
Rating: PG-13 to R-ish (for whole story)
Genre: slash
Word Count: ~3.25K this chapter (17.5K 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: I need a hand. SH
From the fridge? John tapped out and pushed send.
Also posted on AO3.
Chapter 1 on LJ.
Chapter 2 on LJ
Chapter 3 on LJ
Chapter 4 on LJ
The bell over the door jingled.
“Hallo?” the young man with a cardboard box in his arms asked. He sidled into the empty yellow room, walls bright with large photos of cats and kittens in gardens and on cushions. The door tinkled closed behind him.
Alistair rose from the nest of wires behind the oak counter. “Hello,” he said, genial smile in place. “Still putting things in order, I’m afraid.” He waved towards the neatly stocked shelves behind him with the wire cutters in his left hand and at the space beneath the counter, implying the existence of more.
“Oh,” the young man said, half turning back towards the entrance. “I thought you were open for business...”
The box mewed.
Alistair leaned forward, elbows upon the counter. “We are, just haven’t sorted all the supplies, or the wiring, yet.” He set the wire cutters aside. “How can I help?”
***
John turned to the last two pages of the book in his lap. The paper dragged along a furry spine and a faint purr sounded.
“No,” John murmured, eyes racing over the paragraphs, “I did not see that coming.”
Two little bodies rearranged themselves on his chest. Kneading claws caught on the wool of his jumper then stilled.
John flipped to the beginning of the final chapter, an occasional hum escaping as he ran a forefinger along the lines. “I missed that,” he murmured, “and that.” He closed the book, set it on the side table and tapped the cover. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think Sherlock was writing bestsellers on the side.”
Freud opened her eyes and stretched around her sister.
“Or was acting as a consultant to someone who was,” John added. His brow furrowed.
Freud sat up, golden gaze on John. He scratched her head. “I’d be more than cross if he was helping someone else write,” he said and lapsed into silence.
Freud pushed her head up against John’s hand. He scratched down her forehead, rubbed the top of her nose. She tilted up her chin and he scratched beneath it as well. Apgar slept on.
Next to the book, John’s mobile chirped. He left off scratching to retrieve it. Freud climbed over the arm of the chair, onto the table and sat on the book, eyes returning to John.
“Speaking of,” he said, pressing the screen.
I need a hand. SH
From the fridge? John tapped out and pushed send.
There had been no hint of where Sherlock had gone when John arrived home. He had suppressed the unease that had crept over him with food and tea and the book. He stared over the mobile at Sherlock’s chair.
Gray twitched an ear from the nest he had made where one of Sherlock’s vests was wedged into the corner of the seat.
A small muscle in John’s cheek jumped. He recalled peeling the worn fabric off and dropping it somewhere the previous evening. Sherlock had needed a hand then, too.
The phone vibrated in John’s palm.
Your hand, John. SH
John did not suppress his smile. “Where are you, you mind-reading bugger?” he muttered, remembering how the fine hairs that had risen along the bared flesh had felt against his lips. He had brought a flush to the cool skin. It had not stayed cool long.
Left or right? he texted. His ambidextrous talents intrigued Sherlock. He was cataloguing the differences between the hands. They had not conducted any tests outside the flat as yet.
John’s glance flickered to Sherlock’s chair. John drew in a quick breath. Over that had been nice.
53 Huntsworth Mews. SH appeared on the screen almost instantaneously.
The name was familiar. John stroked Apgar while he placed the address. “Just around the corner,” he murmured, moving Apgar aside, “’course, a lot happens ‘round the corners ‘round here.”
Apgar mewed a complaint, eyes still shut. “Sorry, love, this warm cushion’s got to run.”
The phone announced another message. Close the curtains. SH
From her perch on the book, Freud watched the glow of the streetlights disappear. Her eyes followed John as he got his jacket and slipped into his shoes.
John swept an assessing glance about the sitting room and the kitchen before he left. Food and water levels were satisfactory. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, mates,” he said and turned to the stairs.
Freud jumped down from the table, up onto Sherlock’s chair and curled around Gray. Apgar yawned mightily, stretched and went to join them.
***
Alistair peeped inside the box. Emerald eyes regarded him. There was a wiggling of ginger and white and grey amidst the long, black fur belonging to the green eyes.
The young man reached in to stroke her side. “This is Esmeralda. One night, I was putting out the rubbish and found her under some boxes beneath the front stairs. The kittens were very tiny then.” He glanced at Alistair. “My flatmates and I have been looking after them and when Sybil saw your sign yesterday, we were rather excited. I mean, we knew they needed jabs and things.” He grimaced and looked about the room, a fine flush creeping up his cheeks. “We’re all a bit short on dosh, I’m afraid, but if you ever need a chamber ensemble, you know, for a grand opening or something...”
“The services are free,” Alistair said, sliding a clipboard across the counter, “charity and all, and we hadn’t planned anything special to introduce ourselves to the neighbourhood, no budget for it, but I’ll pass your offer along.”
The young man caught Alistair’s eye for an instant, nodded and took up the pen atop the forms on the clipboard.
Alistair watched the neat script fill the blanks on the paper. “Alexei Livnev,” he read, “Royal Academy of Music.” Alistair hit a few keys on a computer tucked beneath the counter. “Maybe we ought to re-think the grand opening idea, Alexei.”
Alexei looked up through dark lashes, his eyes nearly as green as the cat’s. “They like it when we practice,” he said, pen poised above the paper. “The cats, I mean. Maybe other cats would, too.” Alexei added telephone numbers. “Now that the kittens can retract and extend their claws, they seem to do it to the rhythm of what we’re playing. We’ve all got tiny scratches to show for it.” He continued to write. “Possibly, we’re imagining there’s rhythm to it. I know I dream in time.”
Alistair hit the next key on his computer slightly harder than he had intended. “Not necessarily,” he said. “Cats are remarkable creatures.” He drew a long breath. “I’ll just tell Dr Flaherty that he has patients waiting.”
***
John recognised Huntsworth Mews. He had been lost the first time he had limped along it, looking for a shortcut to Baker Street after getting off the bus a stop too early. It was longer than most mews, two long blocks worth of former carriage houses and garages turned into expensive real estate complete with excavated basements and alarms proclaiming the names of all the finest security companies. John was not sure whether it was good or bad that Sherlock had not set any of them off.
“Here, hold this,” Sherlock whispered when John reached the cul-de-sac that ended the second street. For some reason the security light angled just where Sherlock was crouching near a basement level window did not have him in a spotlight. A single dot of orange glowed in its centre instead.
“What...” John began to ask softly as he bent down by Sherlock.
“Keep this in place,” Sherlock interrupted, tilting his head at the manila folder he was holding against the lower part of a window in a semi-circular light well.
John sat on the cobbled edge of the well and put his shin against the file. “...are we doing?”
“I’ll only be a moment,” Sherlock replied as he stood. He flitted to the second of the twin doors of the small building.
“Mm,” John said, observing Sherlock unlocking it in a matter of seconds and shutting it quietly behind him in a couple more.
The moon peeked around the edge of the clouds and illuminated the vacant doorway. “You collaborating, too?” John asked the bright orb. The white letters of the ‘to let’ sign jutting out from the wall by the door caught the moonlight. The house diagonally across the mews sported a matching placard. Above the latter, the blue aura of a telly lit an upper storey window. John leaned further back into the shadows and listened for Sherlock’s return.
John felt the taps against his leg more than heard them. “O-P-E-N,” he decoded without needing to think; it was such a familiar pattern around their flat. The series repeated.
Garden flat to let...broken window pane; John recalled the explanation. He squinted at the sign to see if he could read the name of the shoddy estate agent that had not replaced a smashed window in a couple months’ time. The taps became more rapid. He could hear the claws starting to dig into the folder.
The front door opened and Sherlock was beside him.
“We’re staking out cats now?” John asked.
“You can remove the folder,” Sherlock said, holding out a hand.
John passed up the file and got to his feet. “And that took more than ‘a moment’.”
“I needed to give him time to thoroughly take in my scent,” Sherlock said.
John glanced at the dark window. “I thought he’d come dashing out. His signalling was getting rather desperate.”
“He’ll wait until we walk away, I think,” Sherlock said, whirling in the direction of the intersection.
A shout came from the blue-lit window. John froze. Muted cheering rose in the moonlight and John remembered the rugby. He joined Sherlock before he strode across the road. They continued along the second block of the mews. “Why the long way round?” John whispered.
“It’s quieter,” Sherlock replied, “less likely to scare him off.”
John stopped himself from looking back. “He’s following us?”
“Tracking,” Sherlock said and pivoted towards Gloucester Place.
“That’s where you found the litter,” John said, tilting his head back the way they had come.
Sherlock nodded.
“But why would he keep returning? He must be able to smell that they haven’t been there in a long time,” John asked.
“Habit, hope,” Sherlock said, crossing another road and heading west on Melcombe Street. “Perhaps we can ask him.”
John stopped for a second then took a couple strides to catch up. “That’s how you knew to check there,” he said. “You deduced he must have been present regularly for the kittens to have learned the code.”
Sherlock smiled. “Good.” He turned up Siddons Lane, took out his phone and started hitting keys.
John glanced at his watch. “Most of the pubs have been closed for a while,” he said. “The mother cat would normally have been home from her rounds of the restaurants.” John looked at the buildings they were passing. “Back door?”
Sherlock nodded and put his mobile away. “I’ve alerted Mrs Hudson so she doesn’t disturb us. You may need to wait in her kitchen in the dark for a bit.”
“You think he’ll come into a house full of strange people?” John asked.
“He’s tracking us because our clothing smells of his offspring. The house does much more so,” Sherlock replied as he opened the kitchen door. “I’ll leave the door to the hallway ajar and wait on the stairs to the top floor. I’ll text you when he goes into the sitting room, so you can lock up down here and join me.”
John was about to ask how long Sherlock thought they would have to wait, but he had already slipped away.
***
“In the morning, we’ll be able to check how she did overnight. If all is well, you can collect Esmeralda any time after noon tomorrow. And for the kittens, three weeks from today for their second jab,” Alistair said, typing away on the keyboard below the counter.
As though on cue, the kittens started mewing and scrambling up the side of the box. Alexei opened the closed flaps a little. “We’ll be home soon,” he whispered.
“Does the same time of day suit your schedule?” Alistair asked.
Alexei looked up. “Sorry.”
“For the kittens’ next appointment. Does the same time suit?”
“It might be Sybil or Antonio who bring them next. Not Lev though, his schedule’s mad this year. Can I tell you tomorrow, when I come to get Esmeralda?” Alexei asked in a rush, his fingers drumming nervously on the top of the box. The meows grew louder.
Alistair pushed a button beneath the counter. “That will be fine.” He set the clipboard up on the counter. “If you could just add their names and mobile numbers to the form.”
Alexei wrote with one hand and kept tapping with the other. Alistair kept a finger on the clipboard to keep it from sliding away. The kittens quieted.
“It’s a tune, isn’t it?” Alistair said when Alexei put down the pen.
Alexei smiled. “Yes. Sybil was studying Haydn and the centenary tributes that used his name in compositions, so she wrote a piece based on Esmeralda’s name using a mix of notes and solmization syllables, C, D, E, F, do, re, mi and so on.” Alexei’s tapping changed, apparently to demonstrate Sybil’s work. There was a meow from the box. Alistair’s drumming resumed its initial rhythm. “The kittens seemed to like it if their kneading was anything to go by, so we all wrote one based on a word or phrase. They were well received by our furry audience, although the one that got their tails tapping in time was Lev’s.”
Alistair kept a polite smile on his face. “Do you have a theory as to why?”
Alexei shook his head. “Not really. Lev’s chuffed that his is their favourite. He had so little time, he just tapped a message in Morse code out on a tambourine with a little jangle at the end. Lev thinks they prefer his rhythm. Sybil thinks they like the message.”
Alistair chuckled as a laugh seemed expected. “What was it? ‘Feed me’?” he asked.
“Well, their mother mostly does that,” Alexei replied. “It was ‘Return and play’.”
Alistair could not keep his eyebrows down. “Other cats might like it,” he said.
“We could market the songs as cat entertainment,” Alexei joked. “I wonder if any radio station would play that.”
“You never know,” Alistair said, “but if you start selling it, we’ll buy a copy for the surgery.” He handed Alexei a business card with the surgery’s name, contact details and the date of the kittens’ appointment on it.
“We’d give you a copy,” Alexei replied, tucking the card in his pocket and picking up the box. “See you tomorrow.”
Alistair came around the counter and opened the door. “There are frequently asked questions about jabs and post-operative care on our website as well as tips on how to feed kittens this young. We put a carton of Cimicat kitten formula in the box so you can get them through the night.”
“Thank you,” Alexei said as the door jingled closed.
Alistair hopped over the gate between the counter and the wall on his way to the back rooms. “Did you hear that?” he said when the door shut behind him.
Anthea looked up from her Blackberry for an instant and nodded.
***
The wall clock ticked as the minute hand moved from one dark notch to the next. The refrigerator hummed. Muffled by several brick walls, the murmur of night-time traffic sounded farther away than it was. John inhaled quietly. Mrs Hudson had made the cinnamon cake again. He kept his eyes on the door. In dots and dashes of colour, the strands of beads over the doorway reflected the green light on the power strip beside the fridge. The minute hand lurched forward. The refrigerator’s motor took a rest. The beads clicked against one another, scattering green sparks over the walls. Only John’s eyes shifted towards the movement. No feline form was discernible among the shadows. The beads stilled. The clock ticked. In his pocket, John’s mobile vibrated. He checked the message, exhaled slowly and shut the door.
***
Mycroft smelt the sawdust, the solder and the glue. He slipped his umbrella into the stand by his desk and sat. Several files were stacked before him, a diagram topmost.
Red lingered by the closed door, sniffing metal and concrete repeatedly before making a complete circuit of the room then half of another. He halted in front of the mirror and stood, his paw flattening against the glass.
Mycroft glanced up from the final page of the first file as the mirror moved to the left.
Red jumped back and crouched.
The glass came to a rest over the adjacent wall, revealing a deep cupboard set into the cement, divided by carpet-covered shelves of increasing narrowness as they progressed upwards from the floor.
Ears out to the side, Red slunk forward, whiskers twitching.
Mycroft took out his pocket watch. Five seconds later, the tip of Red’s tail was no longer visible. Two seconds after that, the sound of kibble being crunched reached his ears. Mycroft made a modification to the diagram and picked up the second file.
***
John avoided the creaky stairs and the noisy boards of the landing. He sat on the step above Sherlock and leaned over his shoulder. “What next?” he whispered.
Sherlock touched his forefinger to his lips then pointed towards the sitting room door.
Three entered the hallway and stopped midway, looking first towards the stairs leading down and then those leading up. He found Sherlock and John and settled his gaze on them. Apgar, Freud and Gray had followed, pausing behind Three when he halted. Gray glanced up, meowed and began digging his claws into the carpet, the sound of the fibres ripping distinct as he pulled his paw up with his claws still hooked about them.
John recognised the pattern: R-E-T-U-R-N.
“My cue,” Sherlock murmured and stood, walking slowly down the stairs until he was a pace or two from the sitting room door. He crouched.
Gray meowed again and leapt onto Sherlock’s knee, stretched up to Sherlock’s shoulder, rubbed his face against Sherlock’s cheek and purred. Sherlock stroked Gray’s back until Gray turned and jumped down, trotted to where Three stood and touched his nose to Three’s.
Freud started kneading the carpet.
Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at John and raised his eyebrow.
“Right,” John mumbled and descended the steps. He sat on the hallway chair. Apgar and Freud chose separate legs to climb, circling each other when they reached his lap and purring as they butted their heads against his jumper. John felt a bit chuffed to have two of them making a fuss of him. He glanced up and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
When John looked away, Three was heading down the stairs. A moment later, the rhythmic scratching on Mrs Hudson’s door reached their ears.
“I’ll get that, shall I?” Sherlock said, extending his arm. Gray ran up it and arranged himself on Sherlock’s shoulder. Together they answered the summons.
Freud and Apgar curled into a furry heap and closed their eyes. John curved an arm around them, heard Mrs Hudson's door open. A minute later Sherlock and Gray came into view on the stairs.
"Gone the way he came?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded.
“We passed muster, then,” John said.
“It would appear so,” Sherlock replied.
“He’ll come back?” John asked.
“He knows the way now,” Sherlock said.
“But you aren’t going to tell Mycroft,” John surmised.
"Three's used to his autonomy," Sherlock said, his hand drifting to his shoulder. Gray nudged at Sherlock's fingers with his nose. Sherlock smoothed Gray's fur and strolled into the sitting room. “And it will mean so much more to Mycroft if he finds him on his own, don't you think.”
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