Sherlock Holmes hated cats. Well, to be specific, he hated one specific cat. Namely the beast that lived in the flat above him.

The monstrous creature had moved in several weeks before and begun its reign of terror immediately. For hours, Sherlock laid awake that first night as the cat raced from one end of the flat to the other, its claws playing a spine-tingling symphony on the wood floors. It cried endlessly between the hours of 4am and 6am until its owner, who somehow managed to sleep through the racket, woke up and fed the demanding creature.

And if that wasn't bad enough, the beast had taken it upon itself to taunt Blackbeard, Sherlock's basset hound. On more than one occasion, Sherlock had had to manhandle an over-excited Blackbeard down the stairs for his walk while the cat, having escaped its confines, followed them while remaining just out of snout-reach.

Sherlock's curses and threats of finding a nice experiment on its front left paw, didn't faze the haughty beast.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes hated cats. And today, he was ready to commit felinicide.

oOo

He supposed he could be partly to blame. After all, he had left his door open, anticipating Mrs Hudson's daily tray of tea and gingernuts.

Blackbeard had been laying in the patch of sunlight by the window, worn out from chasing down an attempted murderer the day before. In Sherlock's opinion, the old boy had earned a day off. And Sherlock had been looking forward to a quiet day of experimenting on some appendages he had finagled from Stamford, who was more than happy to send him away with the parts, instead of having Sherlock underfoot as he struggled to keep up with the ever-increasing work at Bart's.

Yes, it was going to be a good day.

That is, until Sherlock discovered they were not alone.

Above him, a floorboard creaked. He paused in the process of removing a fleck of skin from a 45-year-old man's middle finger.

Another creak.

Sherlock straightened. Too heavy for that cat. And his owner had gone out early in the day, he recalled the outer door slamming shut.

He waited, but when nothing else sounded from upstairs, he promptly forgot about it and returned to his experiment.

It was at this point, looking back, that Sherlock knew he should have gotten up and investigated. If he had, he might have noticed Mrs Hudson's coat missing from the hall pegs and realised it was her that had left earlier. And he might have noticed the open door at the top of the stairs, where that demonic black cat sat staring down at him, waiting for the right moment to creep down and send everything to Hell in a handbasket.

But he didn't, so it did.

oOo

Like the calm before the storm, the seconds of blissful silence in the flat should have raised the red flags in his Mind Palace, sending alarms blaring and readying him for battle.

But they didn't.

So caught up in his experiment, he did not hear Blackbeard snort awake and growl a friendly warning. The uninvited guest ignored it and sauntered inside.

Blackbeard rose to his haunches and watched as the cat rubbed up against the nearest chair. Sherlock's chair. Leaving its fur and scent on it.

A possessive growl ripped out of Blackbeard's throat and he pounced. But the cat was quicker. Around the room they ran, knocking over piles of books and Sherlock's music stand, before the cat made a quick right and dashed into the kitchen and, in one graceful leap, jumped onto the table and scampered across.

Sherlock drew back in surprise as dismembered fingers went flying in every direction. His stool tipped back and he tried to grab hold of the table, but it was too late and he fell over backwards with a shout.

'Whooooaaaa!' His breath was knocked out of him and he lay there, dazed.

Blackbeard, unable to make the same leap, tried to go under and managed to knock loose the one bad table leg and only just made it out the other side before the table buckled and sent everything that remained on it to the floor.

Silence fell like a thick blanket over the room.

Laying there, his legs akimbo over the stool and suffering a bruised bum, Sherlock coughed and sucked in deep breaths as he tried to understand what had happened.

He turned his head and glared at the culprits. Blackbeard had the decency to look guilty and whined softly, padding over to Sherlock and nudging his leg.

Behind him, the beast was perched atop the microwave, triumphant. With a forefinger in its jaws.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his nemesis.

'Oh my god! Oh, oh are you okay?' A soft, feminine voice called out from the doorway. Sherlock turned his head back and looked straight up into the face of an angel.

Or, his upstairs neighbor. But with the overhead light casting a glow around her elfish face, he gave himself a little grace for the misunderstanding.

She was petite, but strong, as Sherlock discovered when she practically hauled him to his feet after ascertaining he had not injured himself too badly.

'I am so sorry, I didn't realise I had left the door open and Toby got out.' She continued to apologise profusely as she bent down and almost absentmindedly gathered up the stray fingers. Sherlock watched in bemusement as she laid them out on the counter, correctly in order, before gently but firmly taking the one from the demon beast, er, Toby.

'-not usually such a maniac. I think it's been the move and he is upset about having left Manchester.'

Sherlock eyed the beast in question. He didn't believe for one second that this was too out of character.

'I will replace your table and if there's any damage to the microscope, I'll pay for the repairs. I really am truly sorry! This is not at all how I wanted to introduce myself. I've just been so busy settling in and going through mounds of paperwork for my new job, I just kept putting it off.' She was wringing her hands and gnawing her lip, showing more guilt than Blackbeard. The faithful dog must have sensed her distress and he sat beside her and leaned against her leg to offer her comfort.

With two sets of big brown eyes staring at him so sadly, Sherlock knew he was in trouble.

Looking between the cat, who twitched its nose and tail as if to say 'you'll do' (whether as a begrudging friend or its next meal, Sherlock couldn't say' after all, the cat apparently had a taste for human flesh) to his faithful hound who had tilted his head back to gaze adoringly at the woman who was petting him in the perfect spot behind his right ear, he had a feeling things were going to change.

And when he looked back at his neighbor, took in the faint blush on her cheeks, her cherry print cardigan and long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, with glasses perched on her nose, and combined that with how she had not batted an eye at his experiment or gathering dismembered body parts from the floor of his flat…

Oh yes. He knew was most definitely in trouble.

AN: Just a one shot for now. Had a hankering for some cute, awkward neighbor fluff. Hope you all enjoyed it!