AN: This was written for katemacetak based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges gift exchange.

The prompt was: "John and Sherlock find a litter of abandoned kittens near their flat and take them in. Antics ensue. I obviously want it to be Johnlock centered, but bonus points if other characters make a cameo to help out. Any rating."

Apparently even when I write about kittens, I still manage angst. And I'm pretty certain my kittens are very OOC and more like a Disney version, but I'm not so much of a kitten person myself. Otherwise enjoy.

"John"

John heard the footsteps behind him closing up, but simply walked on.

"John"

The Doctor ignored the calls. Instead he simply focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. It was a simple pattern, which didn't need any attention. But he couldn't stop. If he stopped, he would … Well, he wasn't too sure what he would do, but he was pretty certain that he would regret it. So he kept on going, trying to work off some of the anger boiling in him. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. He could see his breath forming little clouds of steam, but the cold did nothing to chill down his rage.

"John"

Sherlock's footsteps were still following hm. Any other day, he might be amused by the abbreviation of their usual pattern – the Detective leading, John eagerly behind him. Right now he was too angry to be amused. Left foot, right foot, right foot.

They were on their way home from a case. A case which allowed his husband to prove once again his genius. But unfortunately it also showed Sherlock's remarkable talent of getting himself in dangerous situations. John knew that the Detective loved those situations, throve on the adrenaline and jumped head first in any danger that might come his way, but this time it had been plain stupid. Following a gun smuggler ring Sherlock hadn't waited for backup, not even for John. As a result the Doctor had found him held at knifepoint by one of the bad guys.

The memory made him shiver. For a moment he closed his eyes, felt a little hesitancy. No, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. When he he had seen the small red trickle of blood slowly finding its way down a pale neck, he had felt real panic. It had taken all of his military experience to appear calm, to wait for the right moment, to talk to the man. The smuggler hadn't been interested in talking; instead he had tried to drag Sherlock with him, using him as a human shield.

The moment Sherlock had let his body drop to the ground, John had pulled the trigger. For a short moment he thought he had missed, had hit Sherlock instead of the man behind his husband. Even now he could still feel the nausea, the urge to run to Sherlock. The instead relief had made him dizzy.

And until now a small part of him wanted nothing more than to keep the man in the safety of their home and never letting him out. He knew this was ridiculous, because one of the first things that had attracted him to Sherlock beside the brilliant mind had been the danger of his profession, their profession. In a way it fuelled his anger even more, that he felt the urge to change this remarkable man. He tried another calming breath. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.

It had been their first big case (including sleepless nights, violent violin sessions and pacing through the flat) since they had progressed from friends to husbands to lovers. There had been some minor investigations in the last four weeks – two cold cases for Lestrade, a theft in a warehouse, an attempted fraud – but none of them had involved any chasing of dangerous criminals. In fact everything had been very civilised, as if the criminal world had realised that Sherlock and John needed time to adjust to the change in their relationship.

And evidently this change also meant that the need to protect Sherlock had become even more urgent than before. It was astonishing that realising you were head over heels for this mad man for some time aggravated everything. Although technically nothing had changed, the love had been there before. But John was not in the mood for such philosophical thoughts. He still fought against the mixture of anger (at his husband, the smuggler and even Lestrade for being late) and the worry, the urge to protect, the adrenaline for having shot another man for Sherlock.

"John"

A hand touched his elbow. Immediately the Doctor spun around, shoving Sherlock against a nearby wall.

"Don't …"

John didn't even know what he wanted to say. He stared at the beautiful face in front of him, tracing the mark on the neck, finally meeting those mesmerizing eyes. What he saw calmed him a bit: curiosity, cataloguing, remorse. Sherlock made no movement, just let himself be pinned against the wall.

"I'm fine, John. I had everything under control …"

John snorted, a sound supported by another shove.

"Control? He had a knife at you neck … God … That's not control, that's stupid."

"John"

The smooth baritone transferred soothing helplessness; John didn't even know how he did that. For a moment the world stood still, when he suddenly felt a movement at his feet.

The adrenaline that had already been degraded, spiked to new level. With a sharp movement he shoved Sherlock further in the wall, while spinning around to look for the new danger.

Except there was nobody, no movement, no criminals. There were alone on the street. John tried to calm his ragged breath; he searched the ground for the source.

A kitten.

A little black kitten looking at him.

His knees almost gave out with relief, the rush of emotion forcing him to close his eyes. When he opened them again, the little cat hadn't moved. Instead it kept on staring, until it turned and walked away with a small miaow. His gaze followed the kitten to a card box. With adorable clumsiness it disappeared in the box. But just a moment later its head popped up, accompanied by two more and a canon of miaow started.

John walked over to the card box, looking into it. The black cat was surrounded by three more kittens, a ginger one, another black with one white paw and a grey one. Four pairs of eyes were watching him as he crouched down and tried to grab one of the furballs. Since the black one seemed the most adventurous one, he took it carefully, meeting no resistance. He set it on his hand, smiling at the fact that he could hold the animal in one hand. The kitten obviously had no objections, instead it curled itself on his palm and he felt a tiny rough tongue licking his thumb. He could hear a little purr and he felt himself getting calmer, finding his balance back.

For a while he just watched the little animal, attempted to pet it. Judging from the way the kitten nudged his head against his fingers, the animal liked his ministrations. He relaxed even more. His gaze lingered a little longer on the black furball, before he turned around to look for Sherlock. The Detective still stood against the wall, but his attention was settled on the kitten in John's hand.

Sherlock was confused. It was a rare feeling, but not so uncommon that he didn't recognize it. And certainly not an uncommon occurrence in regard of John. The Doctor had been angry at him for the stunt with the smuggler. It was a well-known pattern between the two, Sherlock would look for danger, John would rescue and lecture him.

But this time the anger had gone deeper. Was it because of the marriage? It hadn't changed anything, the feeling had been there for a long time, but now they were acknowledging it. Did this really change so much?

When John had pinned him against the wall, he had stayed calm. There was never a second of fear that John might hurt him. Instead he had watched the struggle on John's expressive face, the worry, the anger, the relief. He had been surprised by John's reaction to the kitten, but that could be explained – the lingering adrenaline from the case and reflexes learnt in the Afghan desert.

But the most confusing thing was happening right in this moment. John calmed down while caressing a kitten. Sherlock was used to fast changes, usually he was responsible for that, but the contrast between the soldier just moments ago and the caretaker seemed a bit too much, even for them.

The Detective had been mentally prepared for another lecture on safety procedures, which were totally reasonably, but not practical in the rush of chase. He had known that John would follow him, as he knew John would always follow, but somehow this situation brought back memories of Mycroft's lecture on marriage.

"You have to learn to compromise. John has put up with so much from you, you need to show him some commitment." – "I have married him." – "No, Mummy got you married. You just decided to stay married."

Which was of course true, but didn't change the fact that he felt committed to this marriage. He even liked the idea of 'forever', although he would never admit such romantical nonsense. Sherlock had always assumed that John knew, but maybe not.

In a brief moment of brutal honesty, Sherlock regarded their wedded life until now. He had been right, nothing had changed. It seemed that it was still mostly John who did the main work in their relationship, giving Sherlock free reign to indulge in his own moods. But the Doctor had always been the one responsible for the emotional aspects, Sherlock's job had been the analysis of facts.

That was probably the reason why he struggled to understand how this tiny creature could calm a very angry John Watson so effortless. (It had been at least a 7 on Sherlock's internal range of John's mood – starting from mild annoyance at a new experiment (1) to walking out on the Detective (10). Sherlock usually started searching for ways to calm his husband for everything higher than a 5).

He watched curiously the cat on John's palm, meeting the glance of his husband. When he approached the pair, he got the funny feeling that he was evaluated by the black beast. Sherlock settled down next to John, offering his index finger to the cat. It was met by a playful stroke with a paw. For a moment he enjoyed the game with the cat before he returned his attention to John.

Amazing. The Doctor seemed totally calm and relaxed. Sherlock couldn't detect any lingering anger in those blue eyes, only beginning exhaustion. What Sherlock took effort and time; this kitten had managed in moments. Sherlock felt an absurd gratitude (and jealousy). Maybe Mycroft was right (another thing on the never-to-admit-list), maybe this was the time to start with the whole compromise thing.

"Why don't we take them with us?"