Chapter Text
It was an unusually warm day in London, and as a result John Watson, former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and a doctor, was more irritable than usual. The teller at the store had been an absolute wanker when he was ringing up his toiletries, putting John in an even blacker mood. Anyway, as he was walking down the alley that led to his flat, a sort of smart-arse meow came from his left, and he turned to find a sleek blue-black cat with cold, steel-blue eyes that were sort of gold-ish in the center. They were hypnotic almost, and John found himself reaching out to pet it. 'Him,' he corrected, upon seeing the cat's gender. He crouched down awkwardly, stretching out his bad leg and resting on his cane to stroke the soft fur of the cat's head. He purred and lifted his front paws onto John's knee, rubbing his head into his hand and kneading his paws. "You're rather well-kept for a street cat, aren't you, boy? No collar?" John felt the cat's neck to find a strip of dark blue fabric, but no tags. "Hmm. I'd take you in, but I can't really afford the place I'm in now, much less a bag of cat food." He stood up and shrugged. "See you later, then."
John hadn't gotten far when he felt something rub against his shin. Looking down, he found the cat from before looking up at him almost judgementally. 'Why would you just leave me like that?' His meow seemed to say. "Sorry, but I can't. Run along now." John kept limping toward his flat, but the cat continued to get under his feet, making it hard going. John stopped and huffed, "Cat, you're going to make me trip and then we'll both get hurt. Can't you see I'm disabled?"
The cat sat there regally just flicking his tail. Rolling his eyes exasperatedly, John stomped off toward home, unaware that the cat was still following him until he got into the lift and the cat sauntered in after him, causing him to throw his hands in the air in irritability and rub his temples with his fingers. He ignored the "arsehole" cat and pushed the button to his floor. Once there, he walked to his room and quickly closed the door before the cat could come in after him. He put away his toiletries and was about to lay in bed when he heard a scratch at the door, and then a deep, agitated meow. He sighed. "I can't take you in!" He yelled. "I'm sorry!"
More scratching, then silence. John went up to the door and hesitated a moment before opening it and looking around. The cat was gone. Sighing once more, he went back to bed, rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes. He was alone.
^
Either by fate or by chance, John ran into his old friend Stamford at the park he was taking a walk through a few days later. He happened to mention that he needed a flatshare, and Stamford smiled and said that he was the second person to say that to him today. John nodded and said who it was who needed one, making Stanford smile wider and told him to come with him.
Where he led him to was St. Bart's hospital, the science lab. There was only one other person in there; a tall, pale man with dark, curly hair, a dark purple button-up shirt, and grey-blue eyes. John frowned a little; he seemed familiar somehow, but he didn't get to think on it much before the man began talking in this deep baritone voice that shocked him out of his mind.
They went through this thing where the man told him everything about him but nothing about himself other than that he played the violin and sometimes didn't talk for days on end. John came to realise that he wanted them to be flatmates. "Is that it then? We just met and now we're going to look at a flat together? I don't even know your name or where it is."
The man stopped at the door and turned around. Upon seeing the dark blue scarf and a better view of his eyes, John suddenly came to the realisation that the man, Sherlock Holmes was his name, reminded him a lot of that cat. With a wink, the man was gone. John turned to Stamford who nodded, "Yeah, he's always like that."