#burnt-oranges

It had been concealed in an envelope and snuck through the Muggle post. And since no one except John got the post, John was inevitably the one who opened it. He reached into the envelope to find it empty but for some sort of powder, which he brought up to his face and sniffed. There was an explosion of sound as if lightning had just struck in the flat. Sherlock, who had been working on something on his laptop with his back to John, twisted in his seat and searched for his blogger, more puzzled than anything else. Mary, who had been napping in the bedroom, on the other hand, threw open the door with her hands crossed on top of one another, gun in one and wand in the other.

“What the hell was that?” she asked fiercely. “Where’s John?”

Sherlock stood and walked into the kitchen. On the floor was an envelope, but no John was to be found. He peered out into the hallway, behind Mary (who tucked her gun into her waistband but kept her wand out and ready), into the bathroom to no avail. Then he heard the strangest sound: a meow.

“That sounded like–” Mary started to say, but shut her mouth with a click as they both watched a handsome brown and white tabby cat walk out from under the kitchen table.

Sherlock blinked several times before saying, “John? Is that you?”

The cat nodded.

“You can understand me?”

Was it possible for a cat to roll its eyes?

“What did this to you?” Mary asked. The cat–John–looked over his shoulder at the envelope. Sherlock started towards it, but John arched his back, puffed out his hair, and hissed very fiercely.

Sherlock attempted to get around John, but to no avail. Finally, he picked John up to scowl at him. “I need to examine what did this to you, John,” he explained in an exaggeratedly slow voice. “Otherwise, we might not know how to bring you back to–ow!” he shouted as John bit his wrist. He dropped the cat, who landed neatly on his feet.

Mary, in the meantime, had secured the envelope in a plastic gallon bag and zipped it shut. She didn’t think that she had gotten any on her hands, but she washed them just to be sure. After that, she cast a quick cleaning spell on the floor as Sherlock argued with John. “I think,” she shouted to get Sherlock’s attention, “we should take him to St. Mungo’s. Along with the powder. Whatever it is, it’s clearly something the Ministry should be aware of.”

John trotted over to Mary and rubbed against her legs, purring. “Sounds like someone agrees,” she said, amused. Mary knelt to pick John up and held out her hand to Sherlock. “Floo?”

“Probably best. I don’t know what Apparation might do to him,” Sherlock agreed, pulling out his wand and lighting a fire in the grate.

—–

The specialists were baffled. It had been a day and a half, and they had tried everything they could think of to try to return John to his human state. The powder had been taken to Mycroft’s division in the Ministry, where it was being extensively tested. According to the updates, they were having no more luck in figuring out the powder than the staff at St. Mungo’s was having with John.

Finally, Sherlock had snapped. He grabbed John from a Healer and tucked him protectively in his arms. “ENOUGH!” he roared. “You and your obviously useless staff are just wasting your time. Maybe, if you were thinking more about your patient than the fact that your husband is cheating on you with the clerk at Weasley’s, then you would have fixed John already. However, I can see that whatever training you received from your correspondence class on magical maladies is obviously sub-par and will not be of any use to myself or my partners. We will be taking John home, where at least he will be watched by Mary and myself, who are far better suited to the care of John in any state than you will ever be with even a pet pygmy puff!”

The Healer’s eyes were welling up with tears when Sherlock stormed out, Mary following him silently.

—–

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said, exasperated. “I cannot allow you to bring a cat onto this crime scene. Even if it is John–er, no offense, bloke–or, I guess, cat–whatever–it could contaminate evidence, magical or mundane.”

Sherlock hovered over the dead woman, deducing. “Nonsense,” he replied absently. John walked from Sherlock’s shoulder to his back as Sherlock leaned down to look closer at something. “He is just as valuable a sounding board to me as a cat. And at least I don’t have to listen to him scold me when I point out how idiotic you all are.”

John dug his claws in, causing Sherlock to straighten and howl. “You horrible little–I could crush you with my bare hands!” he shouted. John, now sitting on the floor, didn’t even look at Sherlock as he started to wash.

—–

Mary woke up when she felt something drape over her eyes. “John?” she whispered blearily. Beside her, Sherlock shuffled in his sleep but didn’t wake. She picked up the cat from her face with a sigh. “Please don’t do that. You could have suffocated me.” John butted his head against her chin, and she sighed, giving him a good scratch behind the ears.

He tolerated it for a minute or two before sliding himself beneath the duvet. Mary lifted it, watching him curl up on her stomach. “Are you cold or something?” she asked. John meowed plaintively, giving her a pitiful look. “Alright,” Mary said, snuggling deeper into the bed.

—–

Lestrade burst into the flat. “Sherlock, I–”

“Yes, the graveyard case. I was wondering when you were going to enlist my services,” he said with a sniff.

“Hullo, Greg,” Mary said amiably. She was kneading bread on the kitchen table, which was free from experiments. Everyone in the flat had long ago learned not to object to Baking Days.

Sherlock walked over to John’s chair, where he was curled up, asleep on his pillow. Gently, Sherlock laid a hand on him. John woke instantly, making a chirruping noise as he did that Mary called his ‘cat activation noise.’ “Case,” Sherlock explained.