Archive of Our Own ^beta

John hit rock bottom on a Wednesday.

The Friday before that, as soon as he had gotten home from work, he had taken his date, the sweet lady gin, straight to bed. Saturday was spent in the company of a refined, mellow scotch, and on Sunday only the hardened edge of a bourbon whiskey would do. Monday morning he called in sick, Tuesday morning the same. By the time Tuesday afternoon rolled around he was already mostly gone, having debased himself with a cheap tart of a vodka, strong and caustic on a tongue so desensitised it could barely form the word.

Four days he spent lost to the world, in glorious stupor. For the first time since it had happened, he did not feel his heart pump pure pain with each incessant beat. For the first time since it had happened, he did not feel much at all.  

Then, on Wednesday morning he shaved. He combed his hair, and washed his face. He took two aspirin with a full eight ounces of water. He went to work.

He smiled at his patients, and greeted Sarah with a hug. He was on schedule for all of his appointments, and even managed to fit in two walk-in patients: an eight-year-old with an ankle injury, and a 20-year-old with the flu.

After work, he texted Lestrade to tell him thanks for the offer, but he couldn’t make it to the pub that night. Perhaps they could grab a pint some other time?

He went home to 221 Baker St, and had dinner with Mrs. Hudson, as she had been pestering him for months about it. He had two helpings of her roast. He told her how delicious it was. They made light, pleasant conversation, and thought about Sherlock, although they did not talk about him.

He laughingly, reluctantly, allowed her to convince him to stay long enough for a cup of tea and a slice of pie. She said it was so good to see him laugh. He had a kind, warm laugh like nobody else. She had missed it.

At the end of the evening, he kissed her on both cheeks, exuberantly, the way Sherlock used to do. She giggled like a schoolgirl and told him, “Oh, get on with you!”

Then he headed up the stairs to 221B.

He locked the door.

He got out the gun.

In the hospital they make you fill out a questionnaire:

1. Are you feeling hopeless about the present or future?

2. Have you ever had thoughts of hurting other people? (If no, skip to question 3.)

   a. Do you have a plan to hurt other people?

3. Have you ever had thoughts of taking your own life?

John had referred emotionally disturbed patients before. +SI, he’d written in their charts: “positive, for suicidal ideations.” Sometimes they wanted help. Sometimes they did not.

They say that doctors make the worst patients. John supposed it was like cheating on a test. He knew all the answers already. He knew just what to say.

It was the mistake of a moment, he told the psychiatrist, a flash of irrationality. He was going through a difficult time in his life. The Depression stage of Kubler-Ross. Soon would come Acceptance. He had never had such thoughts before. He wasn’t planning to do anything that stupid again. He had dialled 999 himself, after all.

Dr. Gupta nodded, and wrote down notes in her chart.

He didn’t talk about how the familiar weight of his Browning had felt like finality in his hand; the only proper dramatic finish to a story already told. With the main character gone, everything after was just filler. The plot winding down. The falling action, if one could pardon the pun. Roll credits.

He didn’t talk about the sudden relief that he’d experienced in what he had thought would be the last 16 hours, 36 minutes of his life.

And he didn’t talk about the crushing sensation of defeat when he couldn’t go through with it. That feeling of intense pressure in his chest: that was how a lot of people described heart attacks.

Like an elephant, sitting on my chest.

“I...I think I’m all right, really,” John told Dr. Gupta. He offered her an encouraging smile. He may not have had Sherlock’s capability for charm, but he’d always had a certain earnestness on his side.

She smiled back. Women usually did.  This was the physician’s smile: genuine hope for the well-being of her patient, tempered with the reality of what she saw every day.

He felt great sympathy for her.

They kept him for 24 hours for observation. John signed himself in. He knew that he could leave at any time. He chose not to mention the gun.

They released him with his discharge instructions, a long-term plan with his therapist, and a script for antidepressants. They handed him his wallet in a clear plastic bag marked “Patient Belongings.”

John stood outside of the hospital and watched the people going about their lives, going to work, going to school. He watched a vendor sell mediocre food out of his hot food cart, smiling at his customers as he handled their pound notes and then their food.

He watched people buy their newspapers and balloons and get-well-soon cards from the gift shop. He knew that none of the papers had anything to do with him. He knew that the headlines no longer spelled out S-H-E-R-L-O...and so forth, not even the tabloids. They had been that way for a while.

This was the world that kept turning. He was the only one that had stopped.

And John thought, what now?

On the walk back to Baker Street, a sleek black car pulled up alongside him. John looked up at the CCTV camera trained on him and sighed. The door opened in invitation. 

“Hello, Mycroft,” John said as he took his seat. He didn’t bother with his safety belt. Never had. 

“How nice of you to still be with us, Dr Watson,” Mycroft said. 

John regarded Mycroft for a moment, then shrugged. He kicked at Mycroft’s umbrella, at the edge of his seat. It hadn’t rained for three days.

“Sorry,” he said. “Leg.”

Mycroft arched a brow.

“My brother would not have appreciated it, I think, if you were to redecorate 221B with the insides of your skull.” 

Your brother’s dead.

 Of course Mycroft would know, of course - Mycroft not knowing would bring about the End of Days. It would be the firebombing of London. People infected with debilitating disease would shamble the streets, ravenous for brains and human flesh.

“How’s the diet, Mycroft?” John asked, with sudden great interest.

Mycroft’s lips quirked. He didn’t need to ask how John was. He’d probably read everything about how John was faring in the time it had taken him to sit down. He’d probably seen it in the parting of his hair or the slight tremble of his hand at rest.

It was hard to hide things from Holmeses. Holmes.

Would the cavalry have rushed in at the last minute, then, just in time? Surely if Mycroft knew he also could have stopped it. If anybody had the resources to send a team to kick down the door and shoot the gun out of his hand, it would be Mycroft Holmes.

“It gets better, John,” Mycroft said. “Right now it may seem like the suffering is interminable, but I promise you, one day you shall look back upon all this and be very, very glad that you didn’t do what you nearly did.”

John sighed. “Great. Now you’ve made me embarrassed for you.”

“Why?”

“I would not have expected you, of all people, to give me a tired old platitude.”

“Truths are rarely witty.”

“Cliché,” John acknowledged.

They drove around London for a bit in silence. John was grateful for it. They passed Angelo’s, and the warehouse where Mycroft had first asked him to spy on Sherlock for money, and the cafe where he and Mycroft used to meet to discuss what to do about Sherlock now.

A sign hung on the door now: Closed for Renovations.

John wondered what that had to be like, to have the power of the British government at your fingertips but unable to get a slice of your favourite tiramisu.

He hadn’t seen Mycroft since the funeral. He remembered that Mycroft had not cried. Then again, neither had he. The tears had come later, at the most inopportune moments: into his plate at dinner, or in queue at Tesco’s, or while sitting at his desk at the clinic. Sorrow, like Sherlock, flaunted an appalling disregard for propriety.

John wondered what it was like, to have the power to start wars in foreign lands and to end them, but still be unable to save one man.

He knew, then, that there was no cavalry. If he had been determined enough not even Mycroft Holmes could have stopped him. With his lips wrapped around the barrel of the gun, it had all been up to him.

Mycroft was looking at him like he wanted to say something. John wasn’t sure if he wanted Mycroft to say something.

“Have you considered getting a cat?” asked Mycroft. 

The nonsequitur caught John by surprise, so that he laughed. It was the second time that he had laughed in as many days. That had to be a new record for him.

“I hope you’re not suggesting to get me one,” John said blithely, “only so it would be able to spy on me for you in exchange for cans of Sheba and catnip mice.”

“I am only suggesting that perhaps some companionship would do you good.”

“Right. Because clearly I am so incapable of attracting a woman now, that we’ve skipped right past the stage where we suggest that John start going out again, and gone directly to the part where John finds hope and peace in his life again by accepting his role as a middle-aged bachelor with a cat. The other night I had a gun in my hand and I have a prescription for Prozac in my pocket. Good seeing you, Mycroft. Talking to you has just done wonders for my self-esteem.” He tapped on the window between the back seat and the front. “You can just let me out here.”

The driver, predictably, didn’t stop.

“Come now, John,” Mycroft tsk’d. “Are you still with that same incompetent therapist? You must be. You have always been loyal to a fault. She should have suggested you get a pet a while ago; you should already know that they fulfill the basic human need for touch, and increase production of serotonin and dopamine - essential for the depressed.”

“Who says I’m depressed?” John quipped drily.

“Of course,” said Mycroft, “Normally functioning people do make a regular habit of putting firearms in their mouths.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” said John. “You ought to try it sometime. I find it very soothing.”

It was the type of comment that Sherlock would have enjoyed. The both of them paused for a moment, as if to allow for a third person’s interjection - an inappropriate comment, perhaps, about Mycroft and things in his mouth, that could have been construed as either a fat joke, or even more horrifyingly, a double entendre.

John looked up at Mycroft and caught something, a flicker of an expression - something wistful. The word came to him with painful precision. He had recognised it in himself in his less guarded moments, at the sight of a mug, next to his; at the discovery of a specimen slide in the soapdish.

John hated pity; that cloying, soft look of are you all right that left a taste in his mouth like milk starting to go off. That gentle tone that had manifested in his friends, in their voices and their hands on his back, the unspoken poor John, poor John. He hated Mycroft, then, suddenly and with passion, for what he saw was worse than pity.

Sympathy. Understanding.

“Why a cat specifically?” John asked. “Most people would read me - and correctly so - as a dog person.”

“Trust me,” said Mycroft, with the omniscience that allowed him to tune into not only people’s secret lives but also their perfect pet matches. “You want a cat.”

John sighed, and hated Mycroft for his good intentions.

How much easier Mycroft’s life was now, without Sherlock to constantly worry over. He only had to deal with trivialities: wars and the running of the country, the machinations of a world that insisted on revolving, incessantly, around a distant star. And now add one John Watson as well, apparently.

“How are you doing, Mycroft?” John asked suddenly. “I mean, really.”

Mycroft gave John a look of pure Holmesian curiosity, as if John were a marvel of modern science; if that little mouse Algernon, perhaps, had suddenly developed the power for human speech.

John suspected that this was a question that Mycroft Holmes was rarely asked, if at all.

“I’m...dealing, as they say,” said Mycroft. “With the aftermath.”

“Yes,” said John. It was as good an answer as any. “Aren’t we all.”

“You know how it was with him,” Mycroft continued. “As he’s always been. Very après moi, le déluge.”  

“Yes,” said John again. That had been Sherlock all over; the gathering storm, the moment between chaos and being; the exclamation point in the run-on sentences of John’s prosaic life. Sherlock: the drawn-out anticipation, the held breath, the pounding heart.

Exhale, now. It was all still, now.

Outside his window, the London sky had become grey and overcast, heavy with smog and sodden clouds. Gone was the sun.

“It was good to see you, John,” Mycroft said, which surprised him. “Perhaps we should meet for tea some time.”

John said, “Yes, let’s. That sounds nice.”

The car stopped in front of Baker Street. By the time John stepped out, it had already begun to rain.

John saw Ella three days later, as he’d promised Dr Gupta that he would do. It was part of his long-term recovery plan.

As was necessary, they discussed his recent stint in the hospital. He told her what a mistake it was. He told her how much he regretted it, really, thinking like that.

She looked at him, with an arched brow, but bent her head and made some notes. John read the word “?denial” upside down. 

“It’s more Depression, isn’t it?” he corrected her. “That’s meant to be progress.” 

Ella looked at him and sighed. “I was only trying to help,” John said, perhaps a little unhelpfully. 

He did not envy her. There was a reason why he hadn’t gone into psychiatry. Surgery was about fixing, about the concrete. Trauma was easy. Stop the bleeding, keep them breathing. He had once had a professor whose favourite saying had been: “blood goes ‘round and ‘round, air goes in and out, and if either of these things stop, then do something about it.”  The connection of blood vessels, the repair of muscles and torn tendons. The grafting of skin.  Stitches and injections, splints and blood transfusions. There was always something that could be done. Sometimes you were successful, sometimes you were not. You did what you could, until you couldn’t anymore. At the end of the day he would wash his hands of another man’s blood and resume his life.  Simplicity.

But what could hands do, for the illnesses of the mind? There were no special stitches to fix the breaking of a heart. These illnesses people walked around with, chronic and invisible, perpetual. Science has not yet developed a way to stop the bleeding.

“It’s a long-term process,” John heard himself say. “I just have to learn better coping mechanisms. I know it’s going to take some time. But I do believe that, you know...one day I’ll be all right.”

Ella nodded encouragingly.  John read the words “hope for the future?” upside-down.

“Do you have any ideas, John? Is there anything we can do differently? Let’s talk about some possible plans for the future.” 

“Well,” said John, “I was thinking about getting a pet.” 

Ella smiled. “Oh,” she said, “What an excellent idea.”

Mrs. Hudson had been delighted at the thought. “Now that’s just what you need in that big old flat,” she said, “a furry little flatmate!”  She used to have a dog, she told him, a darling little terrier named Gingersnap. 

“But I suppose one day Ginger finally snapped, poor thing,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Oh, you know how it goes.”

“Yes,” said John, who didn’t, but figured that he didn’t want to.

Molly took him to the shelter where Toby came from. She was the resident expert, after all. “Oh, I’m so excited for you, John,” she’d said happily. And she had smiled at him, in a way that she used to smile at someone else.

Together they stood in a room lined with cages, occupied by dogs and cats that needed someplace to belong. There were posters of cute animals on the walls. One poster featured small children hugging furry animals: a small boy hugging a cat, a girl with her arms around the neck of a golden retriever.

“Take home your new best friend today!” the poster urged, annoyingly cheerful. 

John sighed.

“John...I know we haven’t really had a chance to talk since...well.” Molly’s voice was soft, her hand reaching for his arm. It hovered for a moment before settling, just barely, like a butterfly alighting on a brittle branch. “But I just want you to know that...he really loved you. I just know it.” 

John flinched, cut by her kindness. He had not been expecting it. He had not known to put his defences up beforehand. Her words - her tenderness, her sympathy - pierced straight through him, like arrows shot over the castle wall. His heart was a soldier slain. 

He looked away. Molly made a small noise and let her hand drop.

“Oh, oh my god, look at the kittens!” she said. 

John looked.

A German shepherd barked at them as they stood in front of its cage. ‘Hello, my name is Barney,’ read the sign next to him. ‘I am four years old. My owners had to give me up when they moved. I am a bit shy, but if you give me a chance, I could be a good friend!’

Next to Barney, an English bulldog rested disinterestedly on its paws.  John regarded it fondly. He had always thought of himself as somewhat of a dog person. He had envisioned himself owning a dog like this, once. He could see himself taking it for walks around the neighbourhood, jogging around Regent’s Park with it in the morning. People would stop them and ask to pet his dog. They would play fetch with a stick, catch with a frisbee. He would teach it tricks. It seemed like it would fit perfectly into life at Baker Street. In the evenings, he’d sit with it by the fire, the dog’s head resting in his lap, while Sherlock--

“Oh, no,” John said, shaking his head. He took a quick step back.

“Not this one, then,” Molly said. “Let’s keep looking.”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea, after all,” John said.

 Molly wasn’t listening. She had found herself a small striped tabby to play with, giggling as it batted at the feathered cat toy, something put out just for this purpose.

 John looked around. Seeing the animals in their cages made him want to pace. He wanted to open all the doors and set them free; he wanted to take them all home; he wanted to leave, right now, this very moment. He could barely care for himself most days, how could he take care of something else?   

 In a cage in the corner, a black cat paced around and around, its tail flicking in agitation. John walked over to it. It stopped mid-pace and regarded him with cautious, narrow eyes.

 John looked at the cat. The cat looked at John. Its eyes were a pale blue.

“Hullo,” said John, if only to be polite. The cat was still staring at him suspiciously. John raised his hand slowly, up to the cage. The cat came forward, sniffing curiously.  John noticed now how it was all black, save for a small patch of white fur on its chest.  He very slowly spread his fingers over the plastic-coated wire. The cat’s nose was a cold, wet dot of touch against his fingertip.

 “Hey there,” John greeted gently. “What’s your name, I wonder?”

 On the cat’s cage there was a piece of paper, but instead of a picture and an introduction it only read: “CAUTION: DO NOT STICK FINGERS IN CAGE!!! I BITE!!!!”

 The cat rubbed its cheek against John’s fingertips. Its fur was warm and very, very soft. John took a slow breath and slid his fingers in between the wire, into the cage. The cat rubbed its cheek against his fingers again, only now it had started to purr.

 “Well, you’re a lot friendlier than advertised,” John noted softly.

 “Sir, please step away from that cage!” a worker said sharply. The cat startled and hissed at John, attempting to nip at his fingers before it turned tail to retreat to the back of the cage. There it huddled, ears flattened and teeth bared.

 “You scared him,” John reproached the shelter worker, who wore a name tag that read: ‘Hi, My name is Ezra. I’d love to help you today!’ John briefly entertained the thought that at the end of the day, they put all the workers into their own cages, each one with their own pictures and biographies taped to them. ‘I am 23 years old. I have been working at the shelter for four years. I may seem a bit of a prat at first, but give me a chance! Please take me home!’

 “Sir,” said Ezra, “Can you not see the sign?”

 “I can see the excessive usage of exclamation marks, sure,” John said.

 “Then I must recommend that you take heed of the sign,” Ezra continued doggedly. “There is a reason why we put up the sign, you know.”

 “Well, one would hope so,” John said. “It is rather an eyesore, and a waste of paper otherwise.”

 “Sir,” said Ezra, “the sign--”

 “Yes,” John interrupted, because Ezra’s worship of the Almighty Sign was beginning to transcend into the realm of fetishism. “Anyway, I have made a decision. I would like to adopt Sign Cat.”

 “Oh!” said Ezra, biting his lip. “Wouldn’t you rather have one of the kittens instead?”

 “I want this one,” John said.

 “We have many other cats, with sweet dispositions, very much in need of good homes--”

 “I want this one,” John said decisively.

 “We can’t let you have this one,” Ezra finally came out and said.

 “And why not?” John bristled. “This is an animal shelter, isn’t it?”

 “Well, yes,” Ezra admitted. “But this one...this one is far too feral. We’ve had him for a while and we’re starting to think he’s beyond rehabilitation, really. He was a stray when he came to us and he hasn’t been able to be handled by anybody. All attempts at socialising him have failed. He has a vicious temperament.” To illustrate his point, Ezra pulled up his sleeves to show a pattern of scratch marks, both old and new, over both his forearms. “And that’s after wearing gloves,” he said drily. “Trust me when I say that this cat is not pet material.”

 John looked at the cat in the cage, curled up into a tight black ball now, away from them, although its twitching tail and ears indicated that it was not asleep. It had an affronted look to it, as if it found the whole conversation insulting.

 “Hey,” John said softly, clicking his tongue at it the way he’d heard people do to cats. The cat raised its head and looked at him, then settled back down again, disinterested.

 John turned to Ezra. “What happens, then, if nobody ever adopts him?”

 “Well, we only want to do what’s most humane for all of our animals, sir.”

 “So you’re going to put him down if I don’t take him,” John translated.

 Ezra winced at his bluntness. “Not necessarily...we...we hope it doesn’t have to come to that...”

 “But that’s the only option left, isn’t it, if all attempts at rehabilitation have failed?” John said. “I’m sure you want one less mouth to feed, you need the space, and I need a pet. Let me take him.”

 “You really need to think about this properly. An animal isn’t a toy or a piece of clothing you can try on for a few weeks to see if it works for you, you know, and then decide to return if it doesn’t.’

 “I really don’t think clothes work that way, either,” John remarked.

 Ezra ignored him and continued, “Point is, once you adopt him, he’s your responsibility. If it doesn’t work out, you’re not to come crying back all scratched up.”

 “I’m not the type to cry over a few scratches,” John said mildly. “Why don’t you go get the paperwork started?”

 Ezra sighed, shaking his head, but walked off regardless, muttering to himself. Molly came over, as she had finally noticed something other than the adorable kittens. “John, have you found someone you like?”

 John nodded. “I’m going to get a cat.”

It took four attendants, all of them wearing thick leather gloves, to wrestle the cat into a carrier. The cat hissed and spat and fought, and now, inside the carrier, it was sulking heavily, every now and then letting out a pitiful yowl. 

John had to fill out pages upon pages of paperwork. There were the contracts: promises to keep his new pet indoors, to never declaw, to keep up with its injections and vet appointments. 

To cherish and to hold, in sickness and in health.

Other forms demanded the details of his life: not only his name and address, but a description of his living accommodations, the amount of time he spent at home, the number of holidays away he planned per year, his occupation and his salary. When John found himself writing an essay on his typical Sunday, he began to wonder if he weren’t in over his head, a little.

Finally, the end was in sight. He had only one line left blank now, the one underneath all of his own basic information. It read:

Pet’s Name: ______________________________

Molly was trying to soothe the cat, speaking gently to it through the door of the carrier. She stuck a feathered cat toy on a stick through one of the holes in the door, trying to distract it. It hissed at the intrusion.

"You know,” Molly turned to John and said, “when I first got Toby, I almost named him....well, you know. But Toby was too nice, so the name didn't fit. But...that one? Yeah."

John stared at the blank space. His pen hovered over the paper.

Sherlock would settle easily into his life at Baker Street. Or so John had to assume, as the moment he’d gotten home and opened the door to the carrier, the cat darted out and then hid himself underneath a chair. 

Sherlock’s chair.

“Well, it is your chair,” John allowed. 

But then Sherlock the cat stayed there, even after John set up his bowls and his bed. He was too thin, John noted, likely from living on the streets. John wished he would eat something. 

“Sherlock, dinner,” John called, placing the bowl of wet cat food onto the floor. Sherlock the cat did not pay him any attention when called. Then again, Sherlock the human never had, either.

John watched telly for a while and then went to bed.

Sherlock the cat spent his first two weeks at Baker Street hiding from John. John had no idea that their flat contained so very many hiding places. Days would go by where he never saw the cat at all, although food disappeared from the bowl and droppings appeared in the litterbox, so he was surviving, at least. 

Sometimes John would see the swish of a tail, from underneath furniture; oftentimes he would turn around to catch sharp blue eyes watching him from a distance. The cat shadowed him, soft and silent. It would appear suddenly in the same room as John, although it never approached him. Every time John made a move towards it, it turned tail and quickly scampered away. It was a little bit like living with a stalker, John mused. Maybe he actually was Mycroft’s spy-cat after all.

He dismissed the idea as ridiculous, of course. It was simply too illogical that anything named Sherlock would ever follow orders from Mycroft.

John woke one night to the feel his arse vibrating strangely. There was a warm weight upon it. He had been sleeping on his side. He shifted and the vibrations stopped. 

“Sherlock?” he mumbled into his pillow.

The cat jumped off in two leaps, first off John and then off the bed. John’s whole body felt comfortably warm, although the cat had only been sleeping on one part of it.

He tried to stay awake, lying very still, to see if the cat would come back.

Sherlock did not return. John eventually fell asleep again.

One evening John came home to an empty flat. He didn’t realise it was empty at first, since the cat spent so much of his time playing secret agent. Sherlock did not come out when John called his name, which was also not unusual. 

But then he was nowhere to be found; all his favourite hiding spots empty. John looked under the sofa and under the chairs. He was not under the bed and he wasn’t inside the closets. He was not inside the pantry nor huddled in a corner somewhere.

John took a deep breath and then forced himself to open a door that had been closed for many months: Sherlock’s bedroom. “Sherlock,” he called, tentatively, into the darkness. But Sherlock was not there.

Panic seized up, tight and horrible, clenching in John’s chest. He ran around the flat, overturning surfaces, calling for the cat. It was then that he saw the window, cracked open a few inches to let in fresh air. He could not breathe. His leg gave out beneath him suddenly and he collapsed into a heap on the floor. He put his head in his hands.

He was meant to be responsible for Sherlock. And now he had lost him. Or, worse yet, and more accurately, Sherlock had run away.

“It’s just a cat,” John sternly told himself. “It’s just a bloody cat.”

His voice sounded strange to himself, and when he lifted his face from his hands, his palms were wet.

He forced himself to get up, unsteady on his feet. He put on his jacket and grabbed his torch. Then he headed out.

John wandered up and down Baker Street, and then on to canvass the surrounding blocks. From Melcombe Street over to Gloucester Place, up Park Road over to Marylebone Road. 

The whole ambition was fruitless, he knew. Sherlock could be anywhere. He heard the squeal of tyres braking too sharply and ran to the intersection, throat clenched tight with panic. There he  found the soothing sight of a motorist and a pedestrian screaming at one another.

He looked down dark alleys and checked inside garbage bins. He found two alley cats, several rats, and a stray dog. He did not find Sherlock. 

He headed to Regent’s Park. He was never going to find Sherlock in its vast greenness, especially not in the dark.

“Sherlock!” he called, feeling faintly ridiculous. Sherlock had never answered to his name before, after all, why should he start now?    

“Sherlock!” he called again. He prayed to God that he wouldn’t run into anybody that he knew. They would think he’d finally gone ‘round the bend, wandering the park at night, calling for Sherlock. John has cracked, they’d say, shaking their heads sadly. What a pity, what an awful shame. 

He would have to explain then, that he was not searching for his dead best friend, only for a cat that he had named after said dead best friend. He was not sure if the latter was any better.

John searched the park late into the night, until his feet were sore and his throat was sore.  The sound of his voice carried away in the wind, calling “Sherlock...Sherlock...Sherlock....” -- desolate, and wanting.

One afternoon John opened his door to find Mrs. Hudson, with a freshly baked cake on a plate and a bag of cat treats.

“Sherlock’s gone,” John had to say. The words were awful.

“Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson said, with utmost sympathy. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” John said. “He was only a cat.”

He allowed her to coax him to a homemade dinner. They had the cake afterwards, and the cat treats sat on the counter.

“Maybe you could post up some fliers,” Mrs. Hudson suggested. “Some nice young men found Mrs. Turner’s lost puss that way, and she didn’t even offer a reward.”

John considered it.

LOST CAT. Name: Sherlock. Colour: black (with tiny bit of white). Eyes: blue.

He could not imagine himself plastering fliers for a lost Sherlock all over London.  He didn’t even have a picture. 

“It’s fine. He was mostly feral anyway,” John told her. “It would have happened sooner or later.”

“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said kindly, and patted his arm.

Afterwards, John returned to an empty home. He sat down heavily in his chair, the one across from Sherlock’s, and thought about the inevitability of all things.

Sherlock came home on a Tuesday. John came home to find him sitting on the doorstep of 221B, looking impatient and nursing an injured paw. 

“I am going to pick you up,” John told him. “Don’t you bite me.” 

Sherlock tensed but did not run away as John bent down to grab him. When he was in John’s arms he began to struggle and wriggle, yowling pitifully in protest.

“Oh shush,” John chided. “You brought this upon yourself.”

He wrestled the unhappy little bundle all the way up the stairs to the flat, where there was a brief struggle as John attempted to get the keys out and still hold onto the cat, and another minor one with the cat attempting to get the keys. They both finally made it safely inside the flat, and John deposited the cat on the kitchen table. The cat looked at him reproachfully.

“I know I said you’re not to sit on the kitchen table,” said John, “but this is a medical emergency. Now let me see that paw.”

Sherlock accepted these as fighting words, as another scuffle ensued since John and Sherlock had directly opposing objectives: John, in his desire to see the paw, and Sherlock, in his desire to keep his paw away from John. John got no less than five scratches for his trouble. He eventually managed to incapacitate the cat again by holding onto him with one arm, examining the hurt paw with the other.

“Well, you’ve definitely got yourself a nice laceration there, but it doesn’t look like it needs stitches.” 

Sherlock let out an unhappy meow.

“You’re very lucky,” John told him. “It’s minor this time, and I can fix it for you. If anything like this ever happens again, it’s straight to the vet for you. That’s a promise.” 

Sherlock looked at him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m a human doctor, not a vet,” John said, as he carried Sherlock over to the cabinet where they kept his kit of spare medical supplies. It had been a very long time since he’d used it. 

Another struggle ensued when John had to clean the wound, but John was an old hand with difficult patients, and he was quickly gaining experience in the art of cat-wrangling. Three incidental scratches, one spilled bottle of iodine and two unravelled gauze wraps later, the wound was disinfected. One ruffled very, very displeased Sherlock later, the wound was tightly dressed, the gauze wrapped in an unnecessarily large bundle around his paw. 

“You’re lucky I didn’t mummify you just to get you to stay still,” John said, and then set about to tend to his own recently acquired battle wounds.  

Maybe it was his hurt paw, maybe it was because the cat was tired, but Sherlock didn’t immediately run away and hide once John finally set him down. Instead he sat at John’s feet and looked up at him.

“You know, he used to be difficult, too,” John said as he blotted disinfectant onto a scratch and winced at the sting. “I can’t imagine the amount of infections he would have gotten if I hadn’t held him down to douse him with the Betadine. ‘But I want to observe it, John.’ ‘The effects of various bacterial cultures on living flesh are educational, John.’ Right, hm, how about no.”

 It was the first time he had spoken of Sherlock so easily, but the Sherlock sitting at his feet appeared to be a good listener.

 “I hope you’re better at eating than him. I bet you’re starving. Dinner?” John asked. The cat rubbed up against him in response. John stopped blotting. It was something that the cat had never done before, and he wanted it to do it again.

 “I’ll make your favourite,” John promised him. “Lumps of meaty substance swimming in half-congealed gravy. Yummm.”

“Mrow,” said Sherlock hungrily. 

“Yeah, I thought as much,” said John. “Well, we’ll feed you up and then you stay off that paw for at least a week, do you understand me? A cat would be a fool not to listen to his doctor.” 

Sherlock blinked, which John accepted as acquiescence. It was about as good as any agreement that Sherlock the human had ever given him.

John rang up Mrs. Hudson after dinner. 

“Mrs. Hudson? You’ll never guess what happened. Sherlock came home!” 

“Oh, John, really? I’m so happy to hear that, dear. I knew he would turn up eventually.”

“It’s like a miracle. He was just sitting on the front step, waiting for me.”

“You know, Mrs. Turner adopted these two little pussycats once, and they were both feral, and one day they both ran away. Two days later one of them came back, dear thing, and he’s stayed ever since. Sleeps in her bed every night, all curled up like a little bun. What I mean to say is - the things that we love, the creatures that love us, they have a way of finding their way home to you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” said John, but he found himself smiling nonetheless.

Sherlock celebrated his return to 221B by choosing to destroy a part of it. He clawed up a section of the wallpaper, revealing a whole other pattern beneath. The wall, fortunately, was used to the abuse, John considered, and had probably missed it.  Sherlock claimed the curtains as his next victim in his March of Destruction, as a direct result of a botched climbing attempt. The leg of the kitchen table made a formidable enemy, and ultimately Sherlock had to surrender his first battle. It was all right, John reassured him, it was only because Sherlock was handicapped by his injury. He would live to fight another day. 

John set about the unenviable task of cat-proofing 221B, crawling around on hands and knees to discover all the places that Sherlock could get himself into. Hours were spent taping up wires, picking up odd bits and ends. A possibly poisonous pill here, a bit of broken beaker glass there, refugees that had escaped John’s first thorough cleaning of the flat. Sherlock stalked after him, not helping, pouncing on wires and attacking John’s feet.

One day, at the end of a particularly long day, John sat down to watch telly. “Nasty case of norovirus going around again,” he told Sherlock as he sipped his single cup of tea. “If it weren’t for my fast reflexes, I would be wearing a hospital johnny right now.”

 Sherlock washed his uninjured paw, not listening. Then again, Sherlock had never really listened when John talked about work.

 When John set his tea down, however, Sherlock jumped up, suddenly, landing right in John’s lap. He was purring. John froze, afraid to even let his breath ruffle a hair of silky black fur.

 Sherlock purred some more and turned around and around, trying to find a position of comfort. He pawed John’s leg with his one good paw. The other paw was mostly healed by now, but John, ever the attentive doctor, still kept it bandaged, just in case.

 The cat settled himself down, curling into a warm ball of fur, just heavy enough for John to feel the weight of him on his lap. Tentatively, John ran a hand over his sleek back. His ribs could no longer be felt. Progress.

 Slowly, delicately, he dared to rub the cat’s head, stroking over his back, feeling the warmth and softness of him. He repeated the motion and soothed them both.

 “This is nice, Sherlock,” John murmured.

Sherlock fell asleep in John’s lap, still purring until the moment sleep overtook him. The programme ended and a documentary about World War II started, but the remote was out of reach. John had to use the toilet but he waited. He figured he could hold it for a little longer, still.

Sherlock was starting to learn his name. “Sherlock,” John would say, and the cat would look at him.

“Sherlock,” John would call, from another room, and in came Sherlock running. John had always thought cats never came when called. Sherlock was clearly a very special cat.

When it was time for sleep, John would say, “Sherlock, come to bed.”

And Sherlock would come, making his little cat noises as he followed John to his bedroom.

When nights were especially cold, he had learned to burrow underneath the covers, his furry little body tucked up against John’s, with just the tips of his pointed ears poking out of the top. John tucked them both in with utmost care. 

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” he would say.

About two weeks after Sherlock’s return, John had somewhere between 80 - 100 pictures of his cat on his phone. 

He put them onto his computer. He considered putting a particularly cute one up on his blog, but then thought better of it. He considered making a new blog solely for pictures of Sherlock, but then thought better of it. 

He pulled up a particularly adorable image of Sherlock on his computer and quickly added some text to it. He considered sending it to some of his friends, but then thought better of it. 

Sherlock jumped up onto his lap, purring, and then up onto the table. He insisted on helping John write a blog post. It read: “asdhjfjkfklf;lkkkkkkkkkkknboooooooooooooooo.” 

“Not everything is about you, Sherlock,” John scolded, as the little bastard, still purring, sat down on the keyboard and tried to rub his head against John’s hand.

John was wary of becoming one of those weird people, the kind who only wanted to talk about their cats. When he ran into Mrs. Hudson he found himself starting his sentences with, “Sherlock did the cutest thing today...” 

‘There is no real way to talk about your cat that makes you sound sane,’ John texted Molly. She had been pestering him for ‘kitty pictures’ ever since adoption day.

‘You can talk to me about sherlock anytime you want :) ’ Molly texted back. It was very kind of her, but she had always been kind. 

John decided to send her the image he had made. He had captioned it with, “I CAN HAZ CEREAL MURDER?”  The circumstances of the breakfast carnage that had led up to the picture were self-evident. 

‘omg lololol!! that’s perfect!!’  Molly texted back.

John thought so, too.  

Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock was capable of love.

He was only a cat, after all. His heart was so small, no bigger than a chestnut or a pigeon’s egg. How could an organ so small have the biological function for love? And even if it did, what miniscule quantity of love could such a tiny thing be capable of?

One evening John was cooking and became aware of a skittering noise across the floor. 

Sherlock had found a small object and was now batting it around, chasing it all over the flat. Upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a...

“Sherlock, is that an eyeball?” John said. Sherlock wiggled his bum and pounced upon it, gnawing at it briefly before kicking it away again.

“Sherlock, that’s disgusting,” John chided. “And I’m sure it’s not very good for you.” 

John snatched up the eyeball quickly, before Sherlock could make another jump for it. It had obviously been sitting in preservative for a while, and had been out of it even longer. Now it was all dried up, and was about the size and feel of a small rubber bouncy ball. 

“I’ll get you some proper toys tomorrow,” John told him, and threw the eyeball in the bin.

In the morning John woke to find the trash bin knocked over, the garbage spread out over the floor, and Sherlock batting the eyeball around the flat. John sighed, and resigned himself, as always, to Sherlock’s stubbornness.

A package arrived at Baker Street the next day, a large basket tied up neatly with a pink bow. It came with a small card that read: Congratulations on the acquisition of your new flatmate -- Mycroft. 

Inside there was a brand new cat bed, along with a large variety of cat toys and treats.

Sherlock insisted on sleeping in John’s bed, still. He had no interest in the laser pointer, the feather toys earned a hiss, and the catnip mice...Well, the catnip mice he adored. However, the eyeball remained reigning champion in its number one spot as Cat Toy of the Year, according to Sherlock.

“John, it’s good of you to come out,” Greg said, smiling. “I was beginning to think you were purposefully blowing me off after so many aborted attempts.” 

“As if I could elude a Detective Inspector for long,” said John.

“I think you might be surprised,” Greg said with a wink. John tried not to think about the feel of a cold steel handcuff encircling his wrist, strong fingers clasping his, the hand tugging him along, himself pulled along in the thrall of it, wanting to follow; the pounding of his heart, the night air sharp in his lungs. The held breath, the pounding heart.

Exhale, now.

John took a large gulp of his lager. He tried to think of something to talk about, anything to talk about.

Do not talk about your cat, he told himself sternly. Do not talk about your cat. 

A man’s cat is not appropriate pub conversation. Repeat: do not talk about your cat.

“Did you get a cat?” Greg asked him, apropos of nothing. 

John looked at him suddenly, surprised, unnerved, and a bit embarrassed, as if he’d been caught thinking about schoolboys doing the can-can in lingerie, rather than his little kitty-cat at home.

“Well, it’s only just...” Greg reached over and plucked a fine black hair, maybe two inches long, off of John’s jumper. “Either you’ve got a cat, or your new girlfriend is sporting a military-style haircut.”

Ah. Obvious, snorted a familiar voice in John’s head.

“Unfortunately it’s the former,” said John. “It kind of just...happened.” 

“It’s funny, I actually would not have figured you for a cat lover.”

“Me either, actually,” said John. “But he’s rather perfect for me. He’s really quite adorable.”  He winced at his own last statement.

But Greg just said, “Do you have any pictures?” 

John currently had 157 pictures, to be precise, but he felt no need to share that fact. Instead he pulled out his phone and began showing Greg pictures of Sherlock engaged in various activities: Sherlock sleeping, Sherlock playing, Sherlock eating, Sherlock watching the telly.

“Aww,” Greg said politely. “What’s his name?”

John hesitated.

“Sherlock,” he finally said, a moment before the silence became really awkward, rather than only just.

“Oh,” said Greg. He took a quick sip of his beer. John held his breath, and then took another large gulp of his own drink to chase the breath down.

But Greg just said, “Let me see more pictures.”

And so John showed him. He scrolled through to find some older ones to show Greg, and in doing so, scrolled too far. His heart performed a quick impression of an atrial flutter.

“Oh...I’d...I’d forgotten about this.” There on his phone screen was Sherlock, sprawled out on the floor and drooling, after a certain Miss Adler had drugged him.

“Oh my god,” Greg said, looking at the picture and trying very hard to stifle a laugh.

John found himself laughing as well. Sherlock’s hair was a mess, and in the next picture in the series it was even messier, when all the Yarders had had a go at putting random things in it. 

“We had to physically restrain Donovan, remember? Because she had the chewing gum...” John said, laughing.

“Oh god,” said Greg.  “And we only just barely stopped...”

“Anderson...”

“From drawing dicks all over his face!”

John doubled over in laughter. “Oh...Not that he wouldn’t have deserved it, but it was permanent ink....”

“Oh...oh do you remember?” Greg said, gasping for breath. He pulled a face that resembled something like a nauseous llama. His face slackened, and he took a sip of his beer and dribbled some out of his mouth for effect. “Mmmfghjkll ‘m Sheeerrrrlock Holmes,” he said, deepening his voice and flailing his limbs. “Boom! Boom! Boomerang uuurgh! Nitwit! Cheese! Huwwarrgh!”

Greg always did have the best Drugged Sherlock impression. John begged for mercy, clutching at his sides because now his stomach had started to hurt with laughter.

“Uuurrgghh you don’t know mmmmrghh Jaaawwwn,” Greg said, very seriously, flailing again and nearly knocking over his glass in the process.

After some prodding John was convinced to showcase his own Drugged Sherlock impression, which, while not as good as Greg’s, had certainly won him accolades from the Yarders, including one proposed BAFTA nomination.

John made a noise that could have been mistaken, perhaps, for a cow attempting to mate with a dying whale, or vice versa. “Oooohhhh oranges in pyajamas! Mmmphrgl the baker! Oooobbviooouuusss....” He attempted the artful dribble, and ended up wetting not only his chin but his entire shirt front in the process. It was all right; an artist must suffer for his art, after all.

They both laughed until they nearly fell off their barstools, flailing their arms wildly in a way that could easily have been mistaken for impressions of colourful giant inflatable men in a used car lot on a sale day. This continued until a displeased bartender came over and informed them stiffly that they had to be cut off, as they were clearly inebriated far, far over any possible legal limit. This, of course, only made them laugh harder and flail more.

After they could finally breathe again, John wiped the tears from his eyes. “Oh my god...” he gasped. “Oh my god.”

“Good times,” agreed Greg, and John felt an ache settle in his stomach. The silence left behind by laughter was awful, and loud.

“Hey!” Greg said brightly, quickly. “Why don’t we head back to your flat? I’d like to meet Sherlock.”

“Sure,” said John, knocking back the rest of his beer.

Sherlock seemed amenable to meeting Greg initially, even coming forward and sniffing at his hand when it was offered. This all changed when Greg actually tried to pet Sherlock, at which point Sherlock hissed at him and ran. 

“He’s....charming,” said Greg. 

“He’s a little wanker,” said John, who was picking up pieces of tissue from the floor. Sherlock had apparently taught himself a new trick in his absence: pulling every piece of tissue out from a pop-up box of Kleenex.

Greg made himself comfortable at John’s request, taking a seat in one of the chairs. He put his hand down on the armrest, touched something, and immediately recoiled.

“Is that an eyeball?” Greg asked.

“Sorry about that,” said John. “Sherlock’s always leaving his toys all over the place. Tea?”

“Ta,” said Greg, getting up and changing seats.

John was pouring the boiling water for tea when he heard Greg curse from the other room.

“Ow!” cried Greg, “That little --”

“Is everything all right?”

“He was hiding under the chair! I didn’t even know! And then he attacked me.”

“Told you so,” John called from the kitchen. “He’s a little wanker.”

“You know,” said Greg, “Sherlock’s actually a perfect name for him.”

John smiled down at the tea.

And so the world kept turning. John met a very pretty dental assistant named Cheryl, with dark eyes and dark hair, who flushed when he took her hand.  He hadn’t felt like taking anybody’s hand in a very long time, and he felt himself flush a little, too.

 On the third date he brought her back to the flat. Sherlock greeted them at the door, meowing, as he sometimes did.

 “Oh,” she said, “I didn’t know you had a cat.”

 “Yeah,” said John. “Is that a problem?”

 “Oh no,” Cheryl said quickly, “I love cats!” She smiled a bit too wide. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

 John was about to tell her that that didn’t work on cats in general, and especially not on Sherlock, when Sherlock actually came, and not only that, began to rub up against her.

 Sherlock was a dirty little traitor.

 “Wow,” said John. “He doesn’t like anybody. Well, except for our landlady, but that’s only because of bribery.” Mrs. Hudson had won Sherlock over the first time she had fed him a bit of cake off her plate, even though John was fairly certain that wasn’t part of a proper balanced diet. Sherlock hadn’t gotten sick, however, even after 24 hours of close observation, so John figured a little cake every now and then was all right.

 Cheryl gave Sherlock an awkward little pat on the head, not the way he liked to be stroked at all, and miraculously didn’t get hissed at or threatened with a bite. “Well,” she said, looping her arms around John’s neck, “I guess we both have something in common...we both like you a lot.”

 John smiled, and forgave her in an instant. He closed his eyes and leaned in to kiss her. And then very suddenly, he was pushed back.

 “Cheryl?” he asked.

 “I’m sorry,” she said and turned her face to the side to let out a little sneeze.

 “Bless you,” said John. She sniffed.

 “Ooh, excuse me,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 “That’s all right,” said John, but the moment was ruined. “How about some wine?”

 “Mm, good idea,” Cheryl said, and kissed John on the cheek.

John had gotten rid of the alcohol the day that he’d brought Sherlock home. He had bought a modest bottle of red wine, however, just for this very occasion, and he poured two generous glasses. When he returned to the sitting room, he found Cheryl sitting on the sofa, holding very, very still, while a purring Sherlock tried to find a comfortable position on her lap, holding her hostage.

 “He really likes you,” John remarked, sitting down next to her. He handed her a glass so that he could scratch Sherlock’s head with the other hand. “That’s remarkable.”

 “Mm hm,” Cheryl nodded tightly. “Nice kitty,” she said.

 “Shoo, Sherlock,” said John, giving him a little push. Sherlock jumped to the floor, looking insulted, but continued to rub up against Cheryl’s legs.

 “Now, where were we?” Cheryl cooed. She rubbed John’s shoulder encouragingly.

 “You look so lovely tonight,” John said, gently twining a dark lock of hair around one finger. She giggled and closed her eyes. John subsequently closed his and began to lean in one more.

 Which was the exact moment when she sneezed in his face.

 And spilled the wine all over him.

 And caused John to spill some of his wine as well.

Sherlock, of course, scampered away to watch the goings-on from a safe and dry distance.

 “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m so, so sorry,” Cheryl apologised, mortified, dabbing ineffectually at John with an overly damp napkin. John took it and used it to wipe his face of mucous and saliva.

 “It’s fine,” said John.

 “Oh, it’s not, it’s not, I’m so sorry,” Cheryl bemoaned.

 “It’s fine,” John repeated, and to prove it, stripped himself of his shirt. “There. See? Problem solved.”

 “Oh,” said Cheryl, eyes raking over him, obviously admiring the view.

 John offered her a smooth grin. This time they actually did manage to kiss, but when he pulled back to look at her, she was crying.

 “Oh God,” said John, “Is everything all right? Was it something I said?”

 “What? No, no, everything’s fine,” Cheryl said, furiously blinking back tears. Her eyes were reddened and leaking. “It’s nothing, ignore it.” She leaned in to kiss John again, but not before sniffling loudly.

 “Cheryl, I think you might have allergies,” said John.

 “What? That’s ridiculous, I don’t have any aller--” Cheryl began, cut off by a violent and loud sneezing fit. It lasted almost a full five minutes.

 “Maybe we should...do this again another night,” said John, offering her the one box of tissues that Sherlock hadn’t gotten into yet.

 “Yesh, dat would be lubly,” said Cheryl, before she turned to loudly blow her nose.

She sneezed and sniffled all the way to the door. “I’ll call you,” she said, and gave him a half-hug with the arm that was not holding onto the tissue as if it were a lifeline. 

John closed the door behind her, and then whirled around to confront Sherlock.

“Oh, this is so typical of you,” he accused. Sherlock licked one paw daintily, and then padded over to rub himself against John’s legs. “Don’t you pretend you don’t know exactly what you were doing. And don’t think playing cute with me is going to get you anywhere, either.” 

Sherlock looked up at John and mewed at him until John sighed and, relenting, picked him up. Sherlock put both his paws over the starburst of scar tissue on John's shoulder, settling in comfortably.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” John said to him sternly.

Sherlock purred.

In the mornings, John read the headlines to Sherlock. Sherlock seemed to prefer The Daily Mail, even though John told him it was sensationalist, and then it occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock liked it because it was sensationalist. He had no interest at all in international affairs, unless it had to do with bizarre crimes in other countries, and he sat upon any crossword puzzles that John attempted. "No, I do not know how to make people murder each other in more interesting ways," John said, when Sherlock reached out with a paw and batted insistently at the page.

“That’s because people are boring,” John said, when Sherlock cocked his head and looked at him inquisitively. 

In the evenings they watched telly together. Sherlock enjoyed watching telly, sitting on John’s lap, blue eyes fixated on the screen. He especially enjoyed the Jeremy Kyle Show and Maury, and John would guess aloud whether or not the person in question was actually the father.

“Although I think a polygraph test is a faulty method of testing, there are far too many variables,” said John.

“I really don’t understand why you like this rubbish,” said John.

“Watching it all the time is going to rot your brain,” said John.

For a few weeks they did a Bond marathon, watching one movie per night, going backwards from the newer movies to the old classics, because John hoped to first entice his interest with fancy explosions and espionage. Sherlock always fell asleep by the middle of the film. 

“You always miss all the best parts,” John admonished him. Sherlock’s ears twitched and then he repositioned himself, curling up on John’s lap.

And what of love?

What of it?

Laying in bed one night, John stared at the ceiling. Sleep trickled through his fingers like water, elusive. He felt his body sag into the mattress; the sudden heaviness of his grief weighed him down, stone by stone. He had been hiding, but with appalling indecency his sorrow had found him; it slipped in beside him in the intimacy of his own bed. 

“Sherlock,” said John, into the darkness.

Out into the void he called for Sherlock, and out of the dark, empty places Sherlock came.

There was a sudden weight as the cat jumped up on the bed.

“Sherlock,” John said, quite brokenly, “I don’t think I’m ever going to be all right.”

Sherlock kneaded John’s chest with his paws, purring loudly. John sighed and stroked the cat’s soft black fur, holding onto the warm little body as he curled up against him. Sherlock tucked himself into his favourite spot, in the small space between John’s neck and shoulder. 

John could feel the warmth of his breath in small huffs. He felt the vibrations of the purr through both their bodies. He measured the rapid little heartbeat underneath his palm, and realised that this tiny life depended on him.

Gently they drifted off to sleep together. In the loneliness of night, each one was comforted by the other’s warmth; each one the other’s best friend in the whole world.