Chapter Text
It was some sort of orange colour, with a hint of black creeping along the spine. It had wide, innocent eyes that seemed to turn in Sherlock’s direction whenever he snuck into Greg’s flat. Its fur was soft and fluffy, sticking up in odd angles.
It was adorable, and Sherlock hated it.
Hated it even more when he would sneak into Greg’s flat in the middle of the night to find the orange-coloured disaster curled up against his Detective Inspector, purring happily away and throwing him the smuggest smirk in the history of cat smirks.
(It was true. Sherlock had done an experiment.)
(John had threatened to lock him away after that.)
(Apparently spending two weeks talking to cats about their smirking capacity came across a bit batty.)
(Not that it had ever bothered Sherlock before. Still didn’t.)
So instead he was reduced to this, standing in Greg’s doorway and glaring hatefully at the smug bastard. The orange tail lashed about, and the purr increased, as if the cat was saying ‘Look at what I’ve got and you don’t.’ Taunting him. Baiting him.
Not that Greg knew any of this, of course. Sherlock would only come into his flat while he was asleep. It wasn’t creepy if he wanted to just watch the DI sleep. Was it? It was the cat’s fault, after all. Didn’t Greg know that cats could suck out your breath while you slept? Sherlock wasn’t sure if it was true or not, but if it evicted the smug beast from Greg’s bed, from Sherlock’s position, he wasn’t going to be put out in the slightest.
The cat lifted its head and turned its wide-pupiled eyes in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock scowled at it, trying to convey his displeasure in a way that was understandable in Cat. The smirk was back on its lips, and it raised a paw pointedly in Sherlock’s direction, obviously indicating its homicidal tendencies.
Sherlock decided a tactical retreat was in order and bolted back out through the kitchen window.
‘
Four days later, he tried again. The sneaky cat had placed a stuffed mouse on the windowsill. A warning. Sherlock approached the bedroom a touch apprehensively - was the cat a practicing taxidermist who had chosen Greg as its next test subject?
No, apparently not, for Sherlock watched the DI sleep, tossing and turning as the cat watched smugly from the pillow it had conquered. Bastard.
“That’s my spot,” he mouthed angrily, narrowing his eyes. The tail went flick flick flick and Sherlock ground his teeth in frustration.
Then, a miracle happened.
The cat stood up and sauntered out the open door. Immediately Sherlock scurried around to the other side of Greg’s bed, tossing off his coat and shoes and stealing the cat’s prior position.
However.
Apparently Sherlock was far less sneaky than the cat, for as soon as he finished settling in he looked over to see Greg’s eyes open and staring in his direction.
“Hello,” Sherlock said reasonably. That was a reasonable thing to say, right? Having ousted his competition from its spot?
“Sherlock,” Greg said patiently, a hand coming up to rub at his eyes. He looked adorable. More than adorable. Sherlock restrained the urge to steal the hand. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“I won,” Sherlock said smugly, looking at the door and pleased that the beast was nowhere in sight.
“What did you win? Do I want to know?” The hand went to his temples.
“Do you have a headache?” Sherlock inquired helpfully. He wiggled his fingers. “Cats can suck your breath out, and asphyxia can cause headaches.” Without waiting for a response, high on his victory, Sherlock took Greg’s head into his lap and started gently scraping his fingers over the DI’s scalp. It was supposed to help. Maybe. Not that it mattered. He rather liked playing with Greg’s hair. It was silver, and soft, and silky.
Greg was watching Sherlock, a slight furrow in his brow that was so endearing and Sherlock wanted to kiss it. It was acceptable, right? To kiss one’s to-be paramour? Even if the paramour had no idea he was a paramour. Sherlock would have to change that at some point. Was there paperwork for that?
The sleepy DI made a soft noise in the back of his throat as Sherlock’s fingers continued to work their magic. Sherlock paused, just a second, and scooted back. He cradled Greg’s head in his hands and leaned down, pressing gentle, butterfly kisses to Greg’s mouth. His lips were warm and soft, and Sherlock’s lips curved in a sense of smug satisfaction as Greg started kissing back.
The cat had officially lost.