Sadie: (omg, you have NO idea how ready for this one I was! :D)
*based off an rp Mo and I did back in 2013*
John Watson was sitting in his chair, paper in hand, and was having a uneventful, yet peaceful, afternoon while his husband, one Sherlock Holmes, was on call for once, instead of the other way ‘round.
That perfect, warm, cozy aura of peace was abruptly shattered when their front door kicked open and Sherlock glided through, a broad grin on his face, and a covered, square-shaped item in his hands.
After his mini-heart attack, John was instantly on the alert. “Sherlock…?” he asked as he reluctantly got up and followed the other man into the kitchen, eyeing the mysterious package.
Sherlock delicately sat the box down (which did nothing to alleviate the increasingly uneasy feeling that was creeping up the back of John’s neck) and, with a great flourish, pulled the cloth covering off, revealing…
The biggest, fattest grey rat John had ever seen, sitting in the middle of a square wire cage like a furry puddle. The creature stood on up it’s hind legs, it’s whiskers wiggling as it smelled the new smells of the flat.
John let out an audible gasp and reeled back, holding his arms in the air as if he expected it to burst through the cage and go straight for his throat. “Sherlock, that’s a..! That’s a rat!” he hissed through clenched teeth, in utter disgust.
“Very good, John…I brought in a rat,” the detective repeated, the grin not leaving his face. He unfastened the latch on the front of the cage and held his hand flat out in from of the door, then waited patiently. The rat dropped back to all fours and sniffed all around again, before taking several small, tentative steps out of the cage and into Sherlock’s hand, where it sat and started sniffing his sleeve.
“WHY is there a rat on our kitchen table?!” The pitch of John’s voice was now several decibels higher than it normally was, as well as his blood pressure.
Sherlock finally took his focus off the rat and looked up at John, highly amused. “It’s perfectly tame, John…it was someone’s pet,” he said, getting a wicked little gleam in his eye and, after putting his other hand on top of it’s back to keep it from falling, held out his outstretched arms and took a step towards him.
“SHERLOCK!” John took another sharp step back and stumbled over a kitchen chair. After stumbling around for what seemed like a half hour, he finally untangled himself from the chair and kicked it aside. “That’s not funny!!!!”
Sherlock laughed and stuck it back in it’s cage, where it promptly buried itself in the shredded newspaper lining the bottom, then made sure the latch was fastened before going to help John up. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of a creature less than a fraction of your size…?”
John was not amused. He jerked his arm away and brushed himself off, lips pressed tightly together.
Sherlock had the sense that he *might* have pushed things a bit too far. “It’s harmless, John,” he said, and pulled another chair ‘round to sit in front of the cage.
“That still doesn’t tell me why it’s in our kitchen.”
“Because.” Sherlock stuck the tip of his finger between the bars, and a tiny, pink nose popped out. “He needs an owner, and I need a pet.”
John’s stomach churned at the mere thought. No…God, no! And he was going to tell Sherlock exactly what he could do with that bloody disgusting, vile, disease-ridden vermin and where he could do it with!…when the look on Sherlock’s face gave him pause. The rat had poked it’s head out of hiding and was stretching towards Sherlock’s finger, whiskers twitching.
John took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "Sherlock, why…aw, come on Sherlock…doesn’t he have an owner or…a trap…no, no, don’t look at me like that, I was only joking!” He sighed…”Where did he come from anyway?”
“Had an owner,” Sherlock corrected, still peering at John cautiously. “There was a rather portly gentleman that hadn’t been seen in a few days, and was discovered when the smell permeated the rest of the building.” Sherlock stood and shrugged out of his coat, then went to the sink to wash his hands. “They called me to come discern what caused specific wounds in his side, and when Molly used the rib-spreader…there he was, sitting in the chest cavity.” He turned, looking at John sadly; “They were going to dissect him, John!…dissect him! I couldn’t let them do that; he didn’t kill the man!” Now Sherlock looked to the cage; the rat had come out of hiding, and was cautiously walking around the perimeter of it’s cage, inspecting its boundaries. Sherlock pouted; “So…I took him.”
John’s face turned white, then green, then grey. He opened his mouth to say something…but only managed a weak “I think I’m going to be sick…” before dashing to the washroom.
“I’ve already washed him off!” Sherlock called after him, hoping that this bit of information wouldn’t ruin his chances of getting to keep the little guy. He was already planning several useful experiments…non-invasive ones of course, such as training him to recognize and react to certain smells and sounds. He’d even picked out a name already…Morris.
Sherlock walked to the cabinet and fetched a packet of crisps, then came back to the table. He could hear John retching into the toilet as he opened them, and rolled his eyes…and John had always chided him about being a princess. He passed a crisp through the bars and smiled as Morris made a beeline for it and took it between his eager little paws.
“Welcome home, Morris.”
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