"Sherlock, for God's sake, slow down. If your deductions are correct,"

The taller man scoffed, rolling those brilliant bright eyes in indignation. "Of course my deductions are correct, John. Do you suppose I simply make wild guesses and run with them until results materialize? It must be terribly peaceful in that mind of yours."

John scowled, refraining from snapping at the genius standing before him. "All right, then, your deductions are bloody correct. How do you propose we approach a killer who has just cloned himself in order to terrorize the city? This isn't detective work anymore. This is dangerous."

"I thought you liked danger." Sherlock commented, raising his eyebrows.

John's mouth twitched into a smile. "This might be where I draw the line. This is magic and wizardry. This is not normal."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, resuming his brisk pace. It seemed that he had very little regard for John's concerns.

"There is no such thing as magic. Everything he has done has been an illusion. Now, come along, John."

"Do we even know who 'he' is?" John demanded, reluctantly following Sherlock through the crowded city, both men in pursuit of the leather-clad villain that had slaughtered a handful of people before terrorizing tourists and locals alike.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but he did not turn around to face his inquisitive friend. "He can't be too far from here. He wasn't moving at a particularly impressive rate, nor did he seem eager to disguise himself. I do love the ones that bask in the attention. They make their crimes that much more elegant."

John snorted. "He killed twenty people in front of hundreds of witnesses then took off. That doesn't sound elegant. That sounds bloody arrogant. Have you phoned Lestrade? He might have eyes on the man, whoever he happens to be."

"He wants to get caught and yet, he is nowhere to be found. Oh, this will be interesting, mark my words."

"Interesting my - "

"John," Sherlock interrupted sharply, drawing the immediate attention of the shorter man, "I need to think. Shut up. You're putting me out."

John grumbled to himself, but glared at the ground dutifully.

Sherlock looked around at images that didn't exist, reading texts that were not on display for anyone else. John had since grown accustomed to the strange looks they received; he was a blogger who chased an obsessive man around London under the guise of catching a criminal. As far as he was concerned, he deserved every look he found himself on the receiving end of.

The shorter man glanced at the mumbling genius inquisitively. He knew that Sherlock's mind worked in strange ways, but that same mind usually didn't take this long to come up with an answer. Sherlock usually had an answer after ten seconds or so.

"Turn around." The taller man growled, not opening his eyes.

"What?" John spluttered.

"Turn around," Sherlock repeated, "you're distracting me."

"How am I distracting you? Your eyes are shut!"

"I can feel your eyes on me."

John scowled before squeezing his eyes shut. "Can you feel them now?"

Sherlock cracked an eye open to glare at John. "Don't patronize me."

"God forbid I patronize a madman."

"A madma - " The genius froze, "that's it. Of course! How did I not see this before? Now we've got him."

Sherlock spun on his heel and took off running without offering a very confused John any type of explanation. John shouldn't have been surprised. Sherlock only enjoyed explaining things after the criminal was caught and congratulations were in order.

"We still don't know who he is, Sherlock!" John protested, rushing to catch up with his best friend.

The two men were panting by the time they reached Sherlock's destination.

John supposed that he shouldn't have been surprised to see the murderer standing before them, just as leather-clad and infuriated as ever.

"Ah, there you are," Sherlock remarked pleasantly, "I supposed I might find you here."

"You believe that you are capable of predicting my actions?" The murderer drawled, a devilish grin sliding across his face as his green eyes studied the two men standing before him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are not nearly as complex as you seem to think you are."

"Is that so?" The murderer challenged.

"It is." Sherlock responded with a smirk.

John shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He didn't particularly enjoy the way that the murderer was looking at Sherlock. There was not enough room for the combined insanity of Sherlock Holmes and the fiendish murderer he had just chased down.

"You think that you can predict the thoughts of a god?" The murderer, apparently a god, demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're a god, are you?"

"You doubt my power?"

"Absolutely." Sherlock confirmed.

John groaned, but before he could remind Sherlock not to provoke criminals, there was a loud noise, a bright light, and suddenly, there was no smirking man to scold. The infuriatingly oblivious genius that had just moments ago been tormenting the murderer (who had conveniently managed to disappear while John was distracted) was not to be seen.

In the place where Sherlock had been standing was a jet black cat with brilliant bright eyes.

"So, you're a cat." John murmured, sinking into his armchair, staring across the room at the black cat occupying Sherlock's chair.

Well, Sherlock was occupying his own chair, John supposed. Although he was doing it in quite a different form.

Sherlock stared back at him.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do? You're a bloody cat!" Now John was getting angry.

It was just like Sherlock to get himself into this situation. John hadn't the slightest idea how he was going to fix this. This was beyond anything he had ever heard of. Sherlock might have been able to assist him, if he weren't stuck in a feline's body.

Sherlock laid down, continuing to stare back at John.

"Can you offer me any sort of advice? Anything at all?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked around the flat before returning to John. He rested his head on his paws.

"Right." John sighed.

The phone rang; it was a welcomed relief from the forced silence.

"I suppose I had better get that. Excuse me." John murmured, nodding in Sherlock's direction before approaching the phone.

Molly was on the other line, insisting that she had the test results that Sherlock had asked for. John attempted to brush her off, claiming that Sherlock had taken a case in another country and might be gone for quite a while. This had only encouraged Molly to insist on John's presence, assuming that he would be terribly bored in his best friend's absence. Ultimately, John lost the polite argument. He found himself committed to meeting Molly at the morgue in an hour.

"Sherlock," John sighed, running a hand through his hair as he returned to the living room, "apparently you've shamelessly flirted with Molly enough for her to give you yet another test result. I tried to make excuses for delaying the pickup, but after hearing that you were out of town, she was quite insistent that I meet her at the morgue in an hour. Will you be okay by yourself? You won't...er, break anything?"

Sherlock cocked his head before leaping out of his seat and bounding towards the door, making it evident that he would not be left in the flat while John met with Molly in the morgue.

John hung his head. Now he would not only have to worry about acting as normal as possible around Molly; he would also have to worry about explaining why he had brought a cat with him.

Sherlock didn't seem too concerned with any of these facts. He simply sat down by the door and let out a meow that John was sure was meant to convey his frustration, but instead simply sounded pathetic. Sherlock looked taken aback, but continued to stare at John expectantly.

With a final sigh, John opened the door and followed Sherlock towards St. Bart's

"Hello, John! Oh, who do we have here?" Molly cooed as the pair entered the morgue, smiling down at Sherlock. John couldn't help cracking a smile as Sherlock scampered behind him in an attempt to hide from Molly.

Molly bent down in an attempt to pet Sherlock, who dodged her, twisting around John's ankles as he did so. Unbothered, Molly sat down on the floor, glancing up at John briefly before returning her attention to Sherlock.

"What's his name?" She asked curiously.

"Sher-"

Sherlock glared up at John. He couldn't tell Molly the truth, nor could he let the young girl believe that he had named a cat after his best friend. People talked enough as it was.

"Shirt." John answered lamely.

Molly looked up at John in surprise. "Shirt?"

Sherlock stared at John in the most condescending way a cat could muster. His momentary distraction proved to be his downfall; Molly scooped him up and secured him in her arms before the furry detective could notice or protest.

John nodded stupidly.

"Oh, I get it!" Molly exclaimed, stroking Sherlock's head as he attempted to wriggle out of her arms. "Was he named Shirt because he was found in a shirt? I've heard that shelters do that sort of thing when naming their animals."

John nodded again, relieved that Molly was offering him an answer.

"So, er, do you have Sherlock's test? I'm sure he's been waiting for it." He muttered, eager to get out of the morgue quickly. Sherlock looked as though he was on the brink of biting Molly, who had taken to planting kisses on the top of his head in spite of his wriggling.

"Oh, yes, of course, right over here. I just have to sign off on some of the information. Where is Sherlock, anyway?"

John shrugged. "He's er, he's following up on a lead."

Well, that wasn't entirely untrue.

"Oh, wasn't he after that terrible man that had terrorized Germany? He must have gone to New York, then. Everyone on the news was saying that New York is going to be in trouble." Molly commented, scratching the patch of skin behind Sherlock's ears affectionately.

Sherlock hissed and scratched Molly's arm. Molly stared down at him in surprise, but didn't drop him, as Sherlock must have expected her to.

"I think he wants you." She said sheepishly, offering Sherlock to John.

"What? Oh," John spluttered, unable to think of an appropriate response as he found his furry best friend in his arms.

Molly smiled at John for a moment before hunching over the documents.

John glanced down at Sherlock, who met his gaze with a blank stare.

"If you scratch me, I will throw you out of the nearest window." He informed his best friend under his breath before turning to catch Molly's eye once again.

"So, did you get Shirt after Sherlock left? I don't blame you. I'd imagine the flat would get terribly lonely without him. Or, anybody, I mean. Does he like cats?" Molly asked, clearly attempting to distinguish the parameters of John and Sherlock's relationship by asking questions about the cat in the room.

John shook his head hastily. "No, I, er, I actually didn't want a cat. This was entirely Sherlock's doing. I would have enjoyed having the flat to myself for a few days. Nice to be able to eat a sandwich or drink a cup of tea without worrying that Sherlock's doing an experiment that involves poisoning me."

John was surprised to feel a sharp pain in his arm. He glanced down and saw Sherlock's claws digging into his arms, extracting thick drops of blood. He immediately dropped his best friend.

"Really? Sherlock likes cats? I never would have, I mean, that's lovely. You don't miss Sherlock, then?"

John scowled. "You know neither of us is gay. Just friends. We can stand to spend time apart."

Molly's face reddened. "Of course not, I didn't think that you were! I was just asking, oh, but never mind, I um, here are the tests. Do they look all right?"

Still scowling, John approached the table, unsure of what the documents were supposed to look like. Sherlock leapt onto the table, undoubtedly hoping to get a good look at the tests instead of simply trusting John and Molly's judgement.

"Oh, no, Shirt, cats aren't allowed up here! My boss would not like seeing you here." Molly objected with a small smile.

"Oh, sorry. Sher, get down." John murmured.

Sherlock hissed before darting just out of reach, still studying the documents.

"I'm sorry, he's not very good at following directions." John apologized, shooting Sherlock a dirty look.

Molly smiled. "That's all right, my cat is just as naughty. Here, let me show you a trick that always works with Toby."

Before John could stop her, Molly snatched a spray bottle off of one of the nearby shelves and promptly sprayed Sherlock in the face. John couldn't resist laughing. If only Molly knew that she was spraying the great Sherlock Holmes with water like a common household pet.

"You know what, I think the tests look fine. If Sherlock has a problem with them when he sees them, he'll probably come torment you about it. We, ah, we had better get going. There's a lot going on with the man in, New York, did you say?" John said, still chuckling slightly.

Molly nodded. "Of course, there probably is a lot of work with that. Wish Sherlock luck for me. Oh, and tell him that we should set Shirt and Toby up for a little play date when he gets back. I would love to ask him a few questions; I'm sure he knows everything in the world about cats now that he has one."

John cracked a small smile. Sherlock was glaring at Molly.

"I'll let him know that you're interested. It was nice seeing you, Molly. Come on, then, Shirt." John said, nodding towards Sherlock before sparing Molly a warm smile.

"You're not going to carry him back to your flat? Aren't you afraid he'll run away?" Molly inquired curiously.

John snorted, shaking his head. "No, I'm not that lucky."

Sherlock scowled up at him before wandering towards the door, not waiting for his best friend to follow.

"Bye, Molly." John called over his shoulder.

"Bye John, bye Shirt!"

"Sherlock, would you listen?" John demanded in an exasperated tone, attempting to rouse his lazy best friend. "We've got to get you to New York. We might get killed trying to find the lunatic that did this," he gestured towards the cat body that was currently housing Sherlock's mind, "but that's better than going on with you as a bloody cat."

Sherlock stood up. John perked up, hoping that his best friend would finally help him come up with some sort of plan to catch the man who had turned the detective into a cat. Instead, Sherlock simply stretched, yawned, and curled up once again, this time facing the opposite direction of John.

John threw his head back with a frustrated groan. "Jesus, Sherlock, do you understand how bad this is? Do you like being a cat? You look like you're bloody well enjoying acting like one! This is perfect, you know, it really is. You can just continue being a cat and I can find some owner to pawn you off on. Maybe Molly would take you. She seems to know a hell of a lot about cats. Then I wouldn't have to worry about taking care of an annoying dick all of the time!" He snapped, unable to curb his temper any longer.

Sherlock's ears were pressed back flat against his head. Had John known anything about cats, he would have realized that Sherlock was, in fact, listening to every word he was saying, and was growing increasingly agitated as he went on. The unfortunate fact of the matter was that John didn't know anything about cats, having only grown up with dogs. Therefore, he continued the shaming of the helpless Sherlock Holmes.

"It's bad enough taking care of you when you're human - at least you can talk and solve crimes, then. Now, you can't even do that! How am I going to get you to New York? You can't do anything." John complained, sinking his face into his hands in frustration.

Sherlock glanced back at John briefly before curling into a tighter ball, not offering his best friend any help.

John glared at Sherlock before storming off to his room to research flights and alternative methods to get to New York. He was sure to slam the door behind him, letting Sherlock know just how mad he really was.

"Fucking cats." He grumbled to himself, snatching his laptop off of his bed and beginning his bout of research.

He weighed the options of each method of travel. A boat would take too long; he had no idea how long the madman that had turned Sherlock into a cat would remain in the area and couldn't risk missing him once more. Sherlock could not live the rest of his life as a cat. John just wouldn't permit it. Their only real option would be to take a plane.

Running a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to soothe himself, John began to research how to take cats onto planes. Sherlock would not appreciate being stuffed into an animal carrier, but it seemed as though it would be their only option. John couldn't bring himself to feel an overwhelming amount of pity for his best friend at the moment.

Wincing at the amount he would be forced to pay, John pulled out his credit card and began to fill out the necessary information to purchase a ticket for the night flight to New York; the pair would have to leave London at approximately four in the morning the next day.

John scowled at the time. "Jesus, that's early." He murmured, stuffing his credit card back into his wallet.

Due to the early flight time, he decided that he should fall asleep very soon. Sherlock was undoubtedly doing the same, though for entirely different reasons. With an irritated frown, John exited his room, shuffling towards the kitchen as quickly as his tired legs would carry him.

He didn't bother looking around the room for any signs that Sherlock had moved. The detective had gotten himself into quite a state and John did not have the patience to encourage his bad behavior at present. He would simply allow Sherlock to sulk in peace throughout the night. It wasn't as though he would have to listen to Sherlock complain throughout the flight; that was a treat reserved for the rest of the animals on the flight.

As John devoured his sandwich, he glanced around the kitchen thoughtfully. Sherlock didn't usually eat very much, but it was entirely possible that his new body required more sustenance than his previous one had. There was no telling with Sherlock. John's eyes flicked around, searching for something that Sherlock would find acceptable to eat. He cracked a smile at the thought of Sherlock eating cat food.

Finally, he decided to place a bowl of water on the kitchen table, as well as a bowl of chicken salad that might have been expired, although one could never really be sure when it came to the elements of their fridge. Still, John was quite proud that he managed to toss together a meal for a cat under the current circumstances. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, glancing at the clock before exiting the kitchen.

"I left some water and chicken salad in the kitchen, Sherlock. I don't know what cats are supposed to eat." He murmured sleepily as he crossed the living room once more, not bothering to look around for Sherlock as he made a beeline for his bedroom. The detective would likely reject the idea of eating, but John knew that he would sleep easier knowing that Sherlock at least had the option.

As John settled into his bed, slipping into a hazy, comfortable state of mind, he smiled to himself.

This would be his first trip to New York and he would be spending it chasing down a lunatic who had turned his best friend into a cat.

Thus was the life of the best friend of Sherlock Holmes.

The sound of a ringing cell phone woke John up around two in the morning. He did not make any move to answer it until it had rung a third time, indicating that whoever was on the other end of the line was determined to reach him.

His heart sank as he ran through every worst-case scenario he could think of. It was probably Harry, or someone calling him about Harry. He gritted his teeth as he retrieved his phone, holding it up to his ear nervously. If Harry was in the hospital again, he was going to kill her.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hello, John! I'm sorry for waking you, I didn't want to be a bother, but I just, well, Shirt is here."

"Shirt?"

"Yes, you and erm, you and Sherlock's cat."

John sat up. "What's he doing there?"

"I have no idea," Molly replied helplessly, "I just heard a noise, went down to the kitchen and saw him laying in Toby's bed. I think he came in through the cat door. Would you like me to bring him over tomorrow?"

John sighed, hanging his head. There were only two hours until they had to be at the airport.

"No, I had better come and get him now. We have a flight to catch in a few hours. We're meeting Sherlock in New York."

"Oh, would you like me to watch Shirt while you're gone? I don't mind, honestly. He is a really sweet cat."

John smiled slightly. "No, Sherlock really wants me to bring him along. I'm really sorry about this. I have no idea how he managed to get out. Mrs. Hudson must have opened the door while I wasn't looking."

"It's no problem at all! We've been having a pleasant time. He even watched a bit of telly with Toby and I."

"Hm. Shirt does love his telly. Guess he couldn't wait to be set up on a play date with Toby, huh?" John muttered as he slipped on a pair of shoes, grabbed his jacket, stuffing his passport and wallet into the front pockets, and slipped out the front door.

"I guess not. Now you and Sherlock will have to bring him over more often."

"That's assuming that Sherlock won't forget him in New York."

Molly laughed. "I don't think he would forget his own cat."

"No, Sherlock isn't very good at forgetting things." John agreed.

"I don't think Shirt would let anyone forget him, either. How can you keep up with him? He's only been here for half an hour and he's already demanded more attention than Toby has in a year!"

John quirked an eyebrow. "Really? He's demanding attention? That's, well, just a bit different. Maybe he's missing Sherlock. Er, I suppose I'll see you in a few minutes. Catching a cab at two in the morning might not be very easy."

"No, probably not. I'll keep Shirt company until you do!"

"Cheers, thanks. See you, Molly."

"Bye John."

John hung up his phone and glanced around the streets wildly. There was no sign of a cab anywhere nearby. He would have to walk to Molly's flat.

He did so, scowling the entire way. By the time he reached the flat, it was nearly three in the morning.

"Oh, John, there you are. I was beginning to worry." Molly said as she opened the door, admitting John into her flat.

He glanced around. The flat looked exactly as Sherlock had once predicted it would; like a place one would expect their grandmother to live. Toby was at Molly's heels, watching his owner through cautious eyes. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

"Oh, yeah, I couldn't find a cab. So, er, where's Shirt?" John asked, continuing to look around for any sign of his best friend.

Molly surveyed the living area, looking surprised. "That's funny, he was just here a moment ago." She muttered, closing the door behind John before wandering around the flat in search of Sherlock.

John rolled his eyes, annoyed that Sherlock was making everything so much more complicated than it needed to be.

After a few moments of searching for the detective, John finally spotted a twitching black tail from behind the sofa.

"There you are, you bastard." He said, approaching the couch and kneeling down, extending his hand to get a good grip on Sherlock before hauling him out from behind the couch.

He yelped in surprise when his hand came into contact with a rather sharp pair of teeth. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock, did you just bite me?" He demanded angrily.

Molly looked over from where she was searching behind a bookshelf. "Did you just call him Sherlock?"

John's face reddened as he snatched Sherlock by the scruff of his neck and extracted him from behind the sofa. Sherlock glowered back at him.

"Oh, yeah, I guess it was a slip of the tongue." He muttered, glaring at Sherlock, "Can't keep the two straight. When one isn't driving me mad, the other is."

Molly nodded, looking concerned. "I really don't mind watching Shirt while you're visiting Sherlock if he's bothering you."

John shook his head. "It's not my decision, unfortunately. I'm really sorry about all this. I don't know what's gotten into him. Uh, you have a good night, Molly."

John departed from the flat as quickly as possible, still clutching Sherlock by the scruff of his neck, not trusting his best friend not to either scratch or bite the second he set him down.

Sherlock struggled against John's tight grip, glaring at him all the while.

"No, I'm not setting you down. You just bit me, you arse. Now I'm going to get stuck in customs because they're going to think I'm trying to smuggle rabies into America. You had better hope that the guy who did this," he gestured to Sherlock's furry body, "is still in New York. If I have to live with you as a cat much longer, you're getting a rabies shot."

Lucky for the pair, John was much more successful in finding a cab than he previously had. Once seated in the cab, John set Sherlock down, glaring at him once more for good measure.

"Suppose I didn't get the chance to tell you that we're going to New York right away. I figured the faster we got you back to normal, the better. Don't need anyone else hearing me call you Sherlock. Molly probably already thinks I'm as mad as a hatter for you with all of my talk about visiting you in New York and calling a cat by your name." John murmured, glancing at Sherlock with the hint of a smile.

Sherlock cocked his head and blinked.

John couldn't stifle a laugh. "Jeez, I still can't believe this. Look at you. You're a cat. You're even sort of a cute cat. Molly was on the verge of adopting you. I don't suppose that you'd be able to tell me why you went over to her flat in the middle of the night, would you?"

Sherlock simply stared back.

John nodded, chuckling again. "No, I didn't expect you to. Just try not to run off when we get to New York. I can't lose you again."

Sherlock cocked his head once more.

John rolled his eyes. "I meant that I can't spend my entire life chasing after you when you're a fucking cat. Maybe I should get you a leash."

Sherlock hissed at the idea.

John laughed, shrugging. "Guess you'd better not run off, then. Ah, we're here. Come on, then."

After paying the cabbie, the pair made their way into the airport. John was relieved to notice that the airport was essentially deserted; he would not have to pick up Sherlock in an attempt to keep his best friend from disappearing among crowds.

John glanced down at Sherlock nervously as they approached the check-in area. John hadn't explained to Sherlock that he would most likely have to spend the seven-hour flight in a carrier locked up with other animals. He was hoping that Sherlock had simply made that assumption.

"Hello. Would you like to check your cat in? We have carriers that you can purchase for the flight." The woman sitting at the desk commented, glancing down at Sherlock disdainfully.

Sherlock's gaze immediately shifted to John expectantly. John nodded grimly.

"Right, the cat. Well, er, see, he's sort of supposed to travel with me at all times. You see, I was diagnosed with severe anxiety, especially after Afghanistan. He's an exceptionally well-behaved cat. He wouldn't cause any trouble." He lied, glancing down at Sherlock, who appeared to be demonstrating just how well-behaved he could be.

The woman sitting at the desk did not seem to care. "I'm sorry, sir, there are no exceptions. There may be members aboard the flight who are allergic to cats. That medical emergency would take precedent. I'm sure that your cat will be perfectly fine in a carrier."

John glanced down at Sherlock apologetically. They had to go to New York, one way or another, and this woman did not seem to want to cooperate.

Taking matters into his own hands, or rather, paws, Sherlock leapt up onto the counter, making direct eye contact with the woman sitting at the desk. Sitting up straight, tail twitching, Sherlock began yowling, as though he really expected the woman to understand him. John rolled his eyes and shook his head.

Without paying any attention to what Sherlock might have been saying, the woman snatched Sherlock off of the counter and stuffed him into a nearby carrier, locking the door before Sherlock could even think of taking a swipe at her. John made meaningless objections, but ultimately knew that there was nothing more he could do. Sherlock Holmes would be forced to travel like a common pet.

The flight to New York had been unbearably long. John had spent the entire seven hours glancing around the plane anxiously. When the pilot had announced that there would be a bit of turbulence, he had nearly jumped out of his skin. Everyone on board thought that he was a nervous flyer. On the contrary, John felt more at home on an airplane than he did on the ground. It was the thought of Sherlock's carrier tumbling over that horrified him.

Once the plane doors had opened, John had launched himself towards the exit, cutting a number of people off and undoubtedly making a few enemies along the way. He pushed his way through customs and security to the baggage claim, where he hoped to see Sherlock safe and sound, waiting for him with a brain full of insults he couldn't articulate.

After waiting in baggage claim for half an hour, John was a nervous wreck. His mind was racing with worst-case possibilities. He imagined cat thieves, stealing Sherlock in order to sell him to anyone who would pay a decent price. He imagined men like Sherlock taking strangers' cats in order to perform experiments. He imagined the airline refusing to tell one of their customers that their cat had fallen over and died during the flight.

He shuddered at that last thought. If anything had happened to Sherlock during the flight, it would be his fault. He should have argued with the woman at the counter more. He should have found another way to get Sherlock to New York. He should have…

"Excuse me?" He heard his voice ask.

He found himself staring at a new woman behind a new desk, his entire body trembling as he waited for someone to tell him where his best friend was.

"Can I help you, sir?" The woman asked.

John nodded dumbly. "Yes, there's a cat. I'm supposed to meet a cat here. I, erm, I've been waiting for thirty minutes now and I haven't seen any sign of him. Is there, I mean, have you heard…?" He was unsure of how to finish the sentence. He had been hoping that the woman behind the desk would miraculously produce Sherlock at his request.

The woman looked at him sympathetically. "It might have taken customs a little longer to process your pet."

John nodded, wincing at the word 'pet'.

He returned to his seat by baggage claim, staring at the conveyor belt with a focus he hadn't had in a long time.

Finally, after what seemed to be a decade to John, a carrier materialized in front of him. Without thinking his actions through, he ripped open the carrier door, extracting Sherlock and clutching him tight against his chest. He couldn't help it; after having a long time to sit and fret about the fate of his best friend, he was overwhelmed by the relief flooding through his veins.

As soon as he remembered that the cat in his arms was not actually a cat, John set Sherlock on the ground gingerly, wondering why his best friend had not simply scratched his way free, as he had in the morgue. Sherlock glanced up at John, his expression unreadable, before beginning to dart in the direction of the exit.

The pair quickly found that the rest of the airport was in turmoil. Whatever panic the madman from London was stirring up was causing people to flock to the airport in droves. Sherlock was scurrying between pairs of feet in a desperate attempt to avoid getting stepped on, but eventually, there were simply too many feet, some of which landed on his paws and tail.

"Sherlock, I'm going to have to carry you. There's no other way you're going to make it out of here without getting trampled." John murmured, scooping up his best friend before he had any time to object.

To John's surprise, Sherlock didn't protest at all. On the contrary, he settled against John's chest and simply watched the crowds as they passed. John looked down at his best friend, but didn't say a word.

The two made it out of the airport in a relatively short amount of time. John moved to set Sherlock on the ground once more, but instead tightened his grip when he saw the turmoil that was occurring around the city. There were fires, police running about every which way, utter chaos everywhere. John looked around for a safe place to harbor Sherlock before finding a way to assist the police.

As the retired soldier strode down the street, not batting an eye as a few shots landed just feet from him, he noticed a small coffee shop that appeared to be hosting a number of civilians. Police officers were hovering around the area, indicating that the coffee shop was meant to be a safe area for anyone who found themselves in the crossfire.

"Sir, we need you to take shelter here." One of the police officers called as soon as she noticed John.

John approached the group of police officers guarding the coffee shop, locking eyes with the young female officer who had spoken to him.

"I'm fine. I want to help. Will you take care of my cat while I do?" He demanded.

The officer's eyes fell on Sherlock, then flicked back up to meet John's. It was evident that she couldn't understand John's sense of priorities. "I'm not sure that we're allowed to harbor animals. We have direct orders to protect people under all circumstances." She replied uncertainly.

"We'll take your cat." Another officer interjected, holding out his hands expectantly.

John moved to hand Sherlock off to the officer, only to receive a brutal scratch from his offended best friend.

John's glanced down at Sherlock. Sherlock scowled back up at him. His body language made his opinion very clear. He would not be left behind; anywhere that John was going, Sherlock would insist on following. His claws remained extracted, threatening to fend off anyone that tried to keep him from chasing after John.

"Sherlock, this isn't safe. You can't take care of yourself like this. I won't let you run out into whatever the hell this is when you're a bloody cat." John growled, hoping to sound more intimidating than he felt.

Sherlock blinked, but did not relax. He simply dug his claws deeper into John's arm. John sighed, knowing that it would be futile to argue with his best friend. Sherlock would get his way; he always did.

"All right, all right. I'm sorry, officer, it seems my cat won't go quietly. Thank you for your offer. All of you stay safe." John muttered, sparing the police officers a quick nod before setting Sherlock down, glaring at the cat briefly.

John glanced down at Sherlock as he began to walk towards the action. His best friend followed eagerly, looking around quickly, studying the creatures that they were matched against. John mentally chided himself for being surprised by Sherlock's attitude; the man, well, er, cat, had an insatiable need to know everything. The fact that there were unknown beings roaming around the face of the earth was probably driving him barking mad.

The deafening sound of an engine overhead drew John's attention upwards. His mouth immediately dropped open. "Was that...Iron Man?" He asked, staring down at Sherlock in surprise. Sherlock simply stared.

John nodded to himself. "Right, so, we're in New York waiting for Iron Man to finish fighting aliens so you can get changed back from being a cat. Sherlock Holmes, how the hell did all of this happen?" He couldn't hold back a series of giggles. The entire situation was just too obscure to believe.

Sherlock stared back at him in what almost looked like amusement.

John continued to look around as they wandered through the battle zone, carefully avoiding the shots being fired around them. As they made their way to the very core of the action, John's eyes widened and his jaw went slack.

"Sherlock," he choked out, "Sherlock, that's Captain America."

Sherlock looked from John to the super soldier that his best friend's eyes were trained on, but didn't show any signs of recognition or even of being impressed.

John didn't seem to be able to control his enthusiasm. He all but sprinted over to the blond super soldier, who had just taken down an entire squadron of the alien army single-handedly. Captain America turned to look at John with wild eyes, as if he expected yet another enemy so soon, but relaxed slightly when he was met with a pair of excited blue eyes.

"Sir, you shouldn't be standing out here. The police have set up safety zones for civilians. If you and your cat," Captain America's eyes flicked down to Sherlock inquisitively, "are uncomfortable walking by yourselves, I can find an officer for you."

John shook his head stupidly. "No, no, I, erm, I already saw a few of those zones. Smart thing, those. Actually, I just returned from Afghanistan a while ago. I wanted to help." He explained, feeling his face redden under the noble stare of Captain America.

The super soldier shook his head. "I respect your service, sir, but I can't condone your involvement in this," he gestured towards an alien flying overhead, "this isn't something you were trained for. You'd be much better off staying off of the streets for the time being."

John's face hardened as he noticed a red stain on the super soldier's abdomen where the uniform was intended to be entirely blue. "You've been hit." The shorter man observed, taking a quick glance around at the weapons that the aliens were carrying before returning his focus to Captain America's wound.

Sherlock glanced up at John and rolled his eyes to the best of his abilities.

The super soldier glanced down at his wound before shaking his head absently. "I'm fine. I have a faster recovery time than your average soldier. I don't have time to worry about this now. What I'm worried about, sir, is the safety of civilians." He replied, his eyes flicking around anxiously.

John followed his eyes before refocusing his attention. "Captain; I'm a doctor. It looks as though Iron Man has the rest of these blokes under control, or at least, he will for a bit. I only need a moment or two to stop the bleeding. You can't fight properly when you're losing so much blood." He growled, no longer giving the super soldier the option of rejecting his opinion.

Captain America quirked his eyebrow, but stepped down from the car he had been standing on top of, approaching John, who had adopted his rigid military stance in the hope of gaining a bit more respect from the super hero standing before him.

"You have five minutes. Anything more than that and this whole city could be lost. Let's go to the bookstore over there. I don't want the Chitauri to see me exposed. There should be a first aid kit lying around somewhere." The taller man conceded, guiding John towards a bookstore, glancing around warily as he did so.

John forced himself to focus on the task at hand, instead of mulling over how extraordinary it was to be so close to a living legend. He had heard about Captain America from his grandparents and had listened to all of the men in Afghanistan tell the tale of the super soldier being recovered from the ice. Meeting the man behind the legend was something else entirely.

"That's some cat you've got there." Captain America commented, nodding towards Sherlock, who was watching the proceedings through narrowed eyes.

Sherlock looked at John, waiting for a proper introduction. John sighed before pressing a piece of bandage against the super soldier's chest.

"He's not exactly a cat. Well, er, he is, but he's not supposed to be. I think the same bloke that's causing all of this is responsible for turning him into a cat. This is Sherlock Holmes." John explained hastily, glancing at Sherlock before returning his focus to Captain America's wound.

The super soldier's eyebrows furrowed. "Loki turned your friend into a cat? Why?"

John shrugged. "Sherlock gets on a lot of peoples' nerves. Not entirely surprising that it happened," he paused as Sherlock yowled his objection before continuing, "oh, shut up; you're just as aware of it."

"I guess you'll want to get that fixed when this is all over." Captain America mused, glancing out the dirty window of the bookstore.

John cracked a smile. "I think that would be a bit less work for me, yeah. All right, I think you're all fixed up."

Captain America glanced down at his now bandaged chest before slipping the upper half of his suit back on. "Thanks, Dr. Watson."

"Oh, no need to thank me," John spluttered bashfully, "you've got a recovery rate twice the speed of any patient I've ever seen. You'll have to give me a ring if anyone finds out how to recreate that serum of yours, Captain."

Captain America smiled sheepishly. "Call me Steve."

"Steve." John echoed, his eyes shining like a child on Christmas morning.

As John was basking in the brilliance of being able to call Captain America an acquaintance, maybe even a friend, there was a bright light, something that wouldn't have meant much, except for the fact that Sherlock responded to the light by emitting a yelp and dropping to the ground. John reflexively looked in the direction of the window. When he did not see any sign of the alien that had shot his best friend, he quickly knelt by Sherlock's side.

"Sherlock." He muttered in disbelief.

John would have never predicted that Sherlock would get shot. Stepped on, maybe, but not shot. The man was much too observant, much too infallible. John grimaced as he realized that he had been incorrect to assume that Sherlock Holmes was immortal.

"Is he all right?" Steve asked, approaching John's side, staring down at the cat curiously.

"I don't know." John rasped, suddenly feeling short of breath. He rushed to check Sherlock's vitals, wishing that he had taken a few veterinary classes in uni.

It only took John a few seconds to realize that he shouldn't have bothered worrying; Sherlock was perfectly fine. His breathing was normal, his heart beat was strong, and there was not a single wound on him. It would appear that the detective had been faking an injury. John couldn't begin to fathom what would possess Sherlock to do such a thing.

"Sherlock, you bloody drama queen. Get up. You're perfectly fine." The older man growled, sparing Sherlock a disapproving glare before returning his attention to Captain America. Sherlock glared back at John before leaping up onto a table and watching the men interact.

"I'm sorry about him. Now you see why I could do with a super serum. He requires more energy than I've got in my system."

Steve nodded with a smile. "I don't know if anyone's going to try to make the serum again after what happened to Dr. Banner. If they do, you'll be the first one I call, Dr. Watson."

"John." John choked out, hoping to imitate Steve's laid-back attitude.

"John." Steve agreed with an amused smile.

John smiled back stupidly.

Steve coughed uncomfortably, his gaze flicking between an excited John and an unamused Sherlock. "Well, I should probably get back to fighting. Can't let the rest of the team have all of the fun. Thanks again for your help. I really appreciate it."

John nodded eagerly. "Anytime."

"Oh, and John?" Steve questioned, turning around to glance at John before exiting the bookstore.

"Yeah?" John inquired anxiously, secretly hoping that he would be asked to fight alongside of Captain America, perhaps as Captain Britain.

"Watch out for Dr. Banner. He's a little...uh...angry right now. You don't want to get in the middle of that."

John could only nod as Steve left the bookshop.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he murmured as soon as he was sure he wouldn't be overheard, "we just met Captain America. We just met Captain America, we saw Iron Man flying, and Dr. Banner is somewhere in the city. What the hell is happening? Am I dreaming?"

Sherlock watched John for a moment, his tail flicking back and forth as though it were a metronome to his thoughts. Finally, he seemed to tire of simply sitting in the quiet store with his best friend and darted towards the exit, hardly waiting for John to follow him.

There was undoubtedly more to do before the pair could track down Loki; the madman who had changed Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson!"

John turned around immediately upon hearing the distinct voice of Captain America.

The battle had been won; John and Sherlock had watched in awe as Iron Man intercepted a nuke and delivered it to the alternate realm that had been opened through some sort of magic. Each and every one of the aliens had immediately fallen, cluttering the relieved city. John had seen Iron Man fall from the realm in the nick of time, only to be caught by a seemingly in-control Hulk. All in all, it had been one of the most impressive displays John had ever seen in his life.

"Dr. Watson, Stark just fell out of the sky and we're not really sure what to do with him. Dr. Banner would know, but he's a little incapacitated right now. Stark's awake, but he's saying something about his heart." The super soldier explained breathlessly.

John nodded. "Right, where is he?"

He followed Steve over to where Tony Stark, the creator and operator of Iron Man, was lying on the ground, muttering something about shawarma. Surrounding him was the Hulk as well as a massive blonde man that John had never seen in his entire life.

Sherlock darted towards Hulk, something John might have worried about in other circumstances, while the army doctor knelt next to Tony Stark, attempting to maneuver through the inconvenient suit surrounding the billionaire's body.

"Woah, woah, who's this? I'm fine, Rogers. You just worry about your own pretty little head." Tony murmured, swatting away John's hands as he attempted to check his vital signs.

John glanced up at Steve. He did not want to end on bad terms with one of the most powerful men in the world. Tony Stark could have bought everything John owned with just the money in his wallet, John was fairly sure. Noticing John's hesitation, Steve shrugged with a good-natured smile.

"All right, Stark, if you think that you're good to go, get up off the ground. We've got to grab Loki. I think he's still in your home." The super soldier said, outstretching a hand to help his comrade up.

John glanced around for Sherlock, hoping he hadn't run off to perform his last experiment as a cat. The army doctor nearly passed out when he saw Sherlock perched on the Hulk's shoulders, batting at his hair inquisitively. The Hulk either didn't notice or didn't mind; he simply watched Tony with focused eyes.

"Dr. Watson, you and your friend should come with us. After Loki changes him to what I'm hoping will be his normal state, Thor's going to take him back to Asgard." Steve said, nodding towards the heavily damaged Stark Towers, a building that John would never dreamt he would enter.

John nodded, glancing back at Sherlock. "Right. Sherlock, come on, get down from there."

Sherlock scowled, but didn't move from his position.

"Don't worry about him," Tony murmured as he walked past John, "Bruce won't hurt him. I think he likes cats."

John glared at Sherlock briefly before following the rest of the Avengers into the Stark Tower, where Loki was waiting for them.

"If it's all the same to you, I think I'll have that drink now."

John stood in the background, forced to hold Sherlock, who seemed determined to crawl all over the Hulk. Sherlock attempted to wriggle out of John's grasp, using half-hearted scratching and biting in an effort to escape without angering his best friend. John thumped the back of his head with an irritable scowl.

"Before anyone gets started with any drinks, I think you've got something that you'd better fix." Steve commented, glancing back at John and gesturing for him to step forward.

Sherlock ceased his squirming at once, allowing John to step forward easily. The army doctor met Loki's challenging stare, refusing to be intimidated by the nut job that had turned his best friend into a cat. A wicked smirk cracked across the demi-god's face as he came to recognize John and Sherlock. The rest of the Avengers looked on anxiously.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, I see that you have traveled very far. Are you enjoying your stay in the city?" Loki inquired in a mockingly polite tone, his green eyes dancing with mischief. John glowered at him, slowly setting Sherlock down without breaking eye contact with Loki.

"No, I haven't had the chance to tour the Statue of Liberty quite yet. Seems that the city was a bit crowded today."

"Don't you hate when that happens?"

John clenched his jaw. "Almost as much as I hate cats."

Loki arched an eyebrow, still grinning. "Do you? How interesting. Would you like me to tell you how the cat feels about you? I am very capable of doing so. I specialize in mental manipulation of all kinds. For example, you currently wish that Sherlock would stand a bit further from me. Intelligent choice. Shall I give Sherlock's mind a try?"

Sherlock immediately turned to stare at John before backing away from Loki slowly, his ears pressed back against his skull. John didn't take his eyes off of Loki. He was not concerned with his best friend's reaction; he knew that Loki was simply trying to use Sherlock as a distraction.

"No need. I know enough about that batty old mind as it is. Just change him back." John growled.

Loki smirked, his eyebrows raised. "Are you sure, Dr. Watson?" He drawled, beginning to move about the room. "You do seem to know an uncommon amount about your, ah, shall we call him your friend? Yes, you seem to feel most comfortable with that term. You do know an exceptional amount about him, there is no denying that, but are you sure that you know everything? Aren't you even remotely curious about the unspeakable sentences lurking in his mind? Statements so extreme that they are destined to go unspoken by a man who has already committed more atrocities than you could have ever dreamt possible?"

John folded his arm across his chest, determined not to get sucked into Loki's speech. Sherlock was pacing across the floor, following Loki's every move. Loki watched the pair with a great deal of interest, as though they were acting out a play for him.

"You know damn well what I want. Change. Him. Back." John responded, nodding towards Sherlock, not taking his eyes off of Loki.

"Loki, this is not a time for games. Turn this cat back to a man." The tall, muscular blond man instructed in a deep voice.

Loki rolled his eyes, but obeyed the man's instructions.

John felt his face redden when Sherlock returned to his normal state, barring any sign of clothing. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't seem a bit concerned with it. Instead, he simply scowled back at the tall blond man that had instructed Loki to make the change.

"For the record, he did not turn a cat into a man. I have always been a man. I was never a cat. I simply took a temporary form. Really, the world's finest warriors should know this sort of thing." Sherlock scoffed, leaping to his feet and glancing around the room as though he were observing it for the first time.

John rolled his eyes. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock." He couldn't think of a way to finish the sentence. He could hardly think of a single thing to berate Sherlock about. He was too overwhelmed with relief.

Sherlock met his gaze, the hint of a smile crossing his face for a mere few seconds.

"Uh, Tony, why don't you grab some clothes for Sherlock? While you're at it, you might as well find something for Dr. Banner as well. It looks like he's starting to came around." Steve suggested, glancing around the room uncomfortably as Thor slid a pair of handcuffs on Loki's wrists.

Tony scowled, evidently irritated at the prospect of being told what to do, but sauntered out of the room. Once the billionaire was out of the room, John spared an awkward glance in Sherlock's direction and was surprised to see that the detective appeared to be beside himself with joy.

"Will Dr. Banner really recover in such a short time span?" Sherlock inquired, approaching the Hulk, who was now sitting, holding his head as though he had a severe headache. "Will he be able to speak immediately? Could you give me an approximate recovery time? Oh, never mind, you're all clearly oblivious to these matters."

John sighed and hung his head as the rest of the Avengers looked at each other in confusion. Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. He immediately set to work, fluttering around the Hulk, who appeared to have dozed off at some point, poking and prodding despite everyone's stammered objections.

"John, set a timer." Sherlock barked, sparing John a quick look before returning his attention to the Hulk.

John rolled his eyes, but set a timer on his phone without objecting. "What are you doing?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock demanded before resuming his activities. John wasn't too keen to make any further inquiries after the patronizing glare he received. It seemed that the Avengers felt similarly, as they moved to assist the muscular man arresting Loki.

"All right, guys, I've brought some - what the hell are you doing?" Tony demanded, striding across the room purposefully towards Sherlock, glowering at the taller man. Sherlock looked up from where he was prodding the shrinking being in front of him. He spared Tony a small nod before returning to his observations.

"This is fascinating; completely unprecedented. Do you know how quickly it takes him to mutate?" Sherlock questioned, ignoring the clothes that Tony was offering him.

John noticed Tony's angered look first. "Sherlock, put some trousers on. Honestly, I can't believe we've had to have this talk so often. Leave poor Dr. Banner be. He's been through enough today, I'm sure."

Sherlock scowled at John. "I spent days as a cat. Now there's something interesting to do."

"Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on." John was hoping that quoting Mycroft would shame Sherlock into complying.

Sherlock's eyes widened considerably. He glanced back at Bruce before returning his bright eyes to John. Every part of his body language screamed, "but John, this is interesting". John folded his arms across his chest impatiently. He refused to give in to Sherlock's childlike behavior.

John raised an eyebrow expectantly. Sherlock glared back for a moment before letting out an exasperated huff and snatching a pair of trousers out of Tony's hands. He shifted his dark stares from Tony to John as he put on the clothes, grumbling all the while. John bit back an amused smile; it seemed that Mycroft was not the only one who could coerce Sherlock Holmes into behaving.

Once Sherlock was fully clothed, he held out his arms in an over-dramatic manner, making it perfectly clear to John that he was, indeed, dressed. John gave a slight nod of approval, allowing his mouth to curve into a smile. Sherlock needed no further encouragement; he quickly set to work barking orders at John and examining the sleeping man sitting before him. Tony bristled and objected whenever Sherlock got particularly close to the doctor, insisting that Dr. Banner would not like his privacy invaded, but the rest of the team seemed decidedly oblivious to Sherlock's behavior. They were preoccupied with discussing the fate of the villain they had apprehended.

After a surprisingly short amount of time, Dr. Banner woke up. Sherlock immediately swamped the poor man with questions, ignoring Tony's constant attempts at interruptions. Dr. Banner was surprisingly kind to the excited young man, providing answers where he could and advising Sherlock from venturing down the path to discovering the serum that had changed Steve Rogers to Captain America. John distracted himself by sheepishly explaining Sherlock's behavior to a highly unamused Tony Stark.

"I have a website, you know. I enumerate various uses of ash. John says it's rubbish, but of course, his blog attests to his judge of value. Have you seen my website?" Sherlock questioned eagerly, sinking to the floor in order to establish eye contact with the exhausted scientist.

John glanced at Dr. Banner, affording him a small smile in the hopes that the scientist would humor Sherlock's behavior. Dr. Banner met his smile and gave a slight nod before turning to Sherlock and asking the detective a few questions about his line of work, most likely for the sake of being kind.

An hour later, it had been decided that Loki would be sent back to wherever it was that he was from to discuss the punishment that the Avengers had thought up with his father. Sherlock had persisted in questioning Dr. Banner, as though he fully intended to squeeze every bit of knowledge out of the scientist. Tony had half-heartedly grumbled something about Sherlock slowing down Dr. Banner's recovery time, but had stalked off to talk to an attractive redheaded woman who was lingering by the bar area. John had settled into the couch, perfectly content to watch the proceedings in disbelief.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." Sherlock's deep voice cut through the quiet chatter filling the room.

Everybody's attention was immediately drawn to the detective. Tony, noticing that he was the subject of Sherlock's comment, looked up from the drink that he was pouring in order to quirk an eyebrow.

"And why not?" He demanded.

Sherlock shrugged as if the answer were painfully obvious. "It upsets Dr. Banner to see you drink so much. You've had six glasses of whiskey in the past hour. Not the most you've ever consumed, but a substantial amount even by your standards. I would assume that he has had a previous partner with a drinking problem, but due to the time span of his mutation, it's highly unlikely that he is haunted by his past romantic endeavors. It is even less likely that he is actively considering further romantic endeavors. No, his concern is far more platonic,"

"Sherlock." John objected, removing himself from the couch in order to properly scold his best friend.

Sherlock frowned back at John. "What?"

John shook his head.

"Not good?" Sherlock questioned, as though he had not considered the possibility that he was saying something that Dr. Banner did not want the rest of his peers to hear.

John shook his head again. "A bit not good, yeah."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. He turned to look at Dr. Banner, who was awkwardly staring at the floor, evidently unsure of how to proceed in such unusual circumstances. "Did I offend you?" He asked.

Dr. Banner shook his head hastily. "No, no, you're, uh, you're all right. No need to be sorry."

"I'm not sorry, I'm just curious." Sherlock responded with a puzzled stare, as though apologizing was a completely foreign concept to him.

Dr. Banner nodded, looking equally confused.

Sherlock surveyed the room, watching each of the occupants cautiously until he was relatively sure that no one was watching. "Was your father an alcoholic?" He inquired in a low voice, hoping to impress Dr. Banner with his deductions.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned to look at John in mild surprise. He had been sure that the army doctor was fawning over Captain America. The pair were discussing strategies used in World War II. Sherlock had figured that John would spend at least the first ten minutes of the conversation entirely engrossed in everything the super soldier had to say. Obviously he had figured incorrectly.

Dr. Banner didn't seem to know how to respond to Sherlock's question, but the detective had his answer simply based off of the body language the scientist was displaying. He smirked triumphantly, ignoring the dark looks that John was casting his way.

"Does he do that often?" Steve asked John, nodding towards Sherlock curiously.

John nodded with a sheepish smile. "I don't know why I thought he would be easier to manage as a human being. I'm sorry about him, he means well, most of the time. He's just a bit too curious for his own good. Don't let him see the way you hold your tea or he will go on about your sex life for as long as he sees fit." He responded, glancing at Sherlock before meeting Steve's bright eyes once again.

The super soldier coughed nervously. "Oh, well, I don't think there would be too much of a problem there. I've been in ice for 70 years. Not much to tell." He remarked.

John raised his eyebrows in surprise. He had not spent an exceptional amount of time considering what the life of a superhero would be like, but he had imagined that each and every one of the Avengers had a fantastic love life. Each of them appeared to be indecently good-looking, as far as he could tell, and he had seen the way the citizens of New York had fawned over them while they were fighting.

"Really?" The army doctor spluttered, unable to hide his surprise.

Steve met his eyes, looking thoroughly puzzled by John's surprise.

"John." Sherlock's deep voice barked, tearing John's attention away from the puzzled super soldier.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade just rang. Apparently there's a new case. Level eight."

"Lestrade?"

"That's what I said."

John bit back a smirk. "All right, Sherlock, let's go solve your case. Have you booked a flight?"

"Mycroft is sending the jet. He insisted."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course."

Sherlock turned around to say his goodbyes to Dr. Banner, quickly asking for contact information while Tony was distracted by the redhead. John turned back to Steve, outstretching a hand with a wide smile.

"Captain, it was an honor to meet you." He said.

Steve smiled. "The honor was mine, Dr. Watson. Thanks for the bandage. And, uh, good luck with your friend over there."

John laughed. "Thank you. I'll likely need it. Sherlock, you ready to go?"

"Yes." Sherlock responded, immediately guiding John towards the exit of Stark Towers.

"What are you so smug about?" Sherlock demanded an hour into the flight.

John had been smirking ever since they left Stark Towers. He had smirked on the walk towards the nearest airport. He had smirked as they shuffled through customs. He had smirked as they sat in silence on the jet. It was driving Sherlock crazy; he could not understand just why John felt the need to smirk so much.

John's blue eyes flicked to meet Sherlock's. "Why did you lie?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "I don't follow."

"Of course not, you daft git." John chuckled, "Why are we really leaving?"

Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly. He mentally scolded himself for underestimating John's intelligence. He had tricked John often throughout the course of their friendship, but this particular time had been sloppy and careless; a spur of the moment trick.

"I already told you." The detective murmured defensively, hoping that John would simply accept his answer.

"I know that Lestrade didn't ring you." John stated with a warm smile.

Sherlock watched him closely. There was no anger behind the shorter man's smile. He appeared to be perfectly at ease, despite the fact that he seemed to know that he was being lied to. In fact, it looked as though he was encouraging Sherlock to reveal the details of the lie. Sherlock could not hide his confusion.

"How do you…?"

John rolled his eyes. "You left London in a cat carrier. I thought it was safe to assume you didn't bring your phone with you."

Sherlock nodded, steepling his hands below his chin. "Yes, I suppose that is a bit of a giveaway."

"So why'd you lie?" John persisted, crossing one of his legs across his lap, watching Sherlock curiously.

"I wished to return to London." The detective replied matter-of-factly.

John nodded, an amused smile playing on his lips. "Right that instant?"

"That would explain my timing, don't you think?" Sherlock deadpanned.

"One way of explaining it, yeah."

"And what other explanation do you think there is? Do you think I'm eagerly awaiting your next blog post? Or perhaps you think I'm desperate to return to the flat, where my brother will undoubtedly seek me out in the hopes of hearing about this particular debacle."

"I don't think anything of the sort." John murmured, picking up a nearby newspaper, eager to distract himself from Sherlock's ill-tempered comments.

"Then what is it?" Sherlock demanded.

John hummed noncommittally, continuing to read the paper wordlessly.

Sherlock huffed, attempting to busy himself by disassembling and reassembling a pen. Once he had done this approximately twenty times, he groaned, throwing his head back against the seat.

"John, I demand that you tell me what another way of explaining our departure is."

"I can't leave it to your own assumptions?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shook his head. "It would be cruel to ask that of me."

John chuckled, setting down the newspaper. "All right, but I'm only telling you because I know you'll whine the entire flight home. I think you were a bit jealous that today's adventure had very little to do with you. I think you're eager to get back to the flat, where all of the attention will naturally fall on you. I think you might have been a bit jealous of Captain America receiving praise while you were a victim who needed saving."

Sherlock's jaw dropped. "I was not jealous of Captain America." He objected in a scandalized tone.

John shrugged, moving to pick up the newspaper once more. Sherlock batted it out of his way quickly. John bit back a smile at the cat-like movement.

"Why do you think I was jealous?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, I don't know, Sherlock, it was just a joke."

"No, you were serious. I can tell you were serious. You always do that thing with your jaw when you're serious. Why do you think that I was jealous?"

John rolled his eyes. "For starters, you attempted to fake an injury while I was tending to Steve."

"I thought I was hurt." Sherlock insisted, scowling at the fact that John had used the super soldier's personal name instead of his official title.

"That's rubbish and you know it."

Sherlock glared, but didn't argue.

"Then there our abrupt departure."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "You think that I left because of Captain America? John, we left because New York was tiresome. My work is in London."

John's mouth twitched into an amused smile. "And you decided to get back to your work the moment I was talking to Steve?"

Sherlock snorted. "Talking is an understatement. You were essentially offering yourself up, body and soul. You needn't have bothered; he wasn't interested."

"I wasn't - I'm not gay," John hissed, "besides, I thought you weren't jealous."

Sherlock glared at John. "I'm not."

John rolled his eyes, but returned his attention to the newspaper. Sherlock did not stop him this time. The detective glowered out the window, largely ignoring John. This continued for another hour or so; John pretended to read the newspaper while sneaking cautious glances in Sherlock's direction, Sherlock continued to stare out the window, eyes flicking back and forth, as if he was reading a complicated book hanging out of the window.

As John reached the end of the newspaper, Sherlock finally looked away from the window, his eyebrows furrowed. "Does it really bother you?"

John glanced around the empty plane in confusion. "Does what bother me?"

"Assisting me. Coping with an 'annoying dick'. I understand that you find my mental capabilities to be a redeeming factor, but if you have come to the realization that they do not outweigh the negatives, I could certainly assist you in finding a more tolerable flatmate." Sherlock explained, studying John's face as he spoke.

John's shoulders sagged. "Sherlock, I never, I didn't…"

"There's no need to be hesitant, John. You knew that I was perfectly coherent, even while living a few dreadful days as a cat. You chose that moment in particular to address emotional frustration that has clearly been following you for some time now. Why did you do that? It's possible that you anticipated violence. I would have been much easier to overwhelm as a cat. However, it's far more likely that you were afraid of my response. You didn't want to address any questions or objections I might have had."

John's face reddened. "I don't want another flatmate."

Sherlock arched a cynical eyebrow. "You said…"

"I was frustrated, yes, but only because I didn't like feeling helpless. You were a cat and there was nothing I could do about it. I went off on you because I thought that you might be able to help, or at least cooperate as I tried to help you."

"And when that failed, you attempted to make me feel equally helpless?"

John frowned. "I, ah, I guess that was a bit mean."

Sherlock shrugged.

Neither of the men said anything for a few minutes; Sherlock's body language was making it perfectly clear that he had nothing more to say on the matter. His eyes focused on the window once more, while John fidgeted with his phone, which they both knew could not do much while the plane was in motion.

With a sigh, John set down his phone. "Is that why you went to Molly's?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from the window, slowly meeting John's eyes. "I'm sorry?"

"That night, you went over to Molly's. Did you go because I, erm, hurt your feelings?"

Sherlock scowled. "You didn't hurt my feelings. Sociopath, remember?"

John rolled his eyes. "How could I forget?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he waited for John to speak once more.

"Maybe it would be easier to ask why you went to Molly's." The older man sighed.

Sherlock shrugged. "I wanted to watch telly."

"So you went to Molly's flat?"

"I enjoyed the company."

"So I heard. Apparently you were quite affectionate. Er, do you, I mean, you and Molly, then?"

Sherlock looked at John sharply. "John, she sprayed me with water."

John couldn't help but laugh. "Yes. Yes she did. And she kissed your head a number of times. And I believe that technically, you were in bed with her. Should I tell Mycroft the happy news?"

"If you tell my brother that a Norse god materialized on Earth, turned me into a cat, and forced us to chase after over glorified soldiers destroying aliens, I doubt that he would concern himself with the minor details involving Molly. Although, knowing him, this whole thing was his plan."

"Do you really think that Mycroft has that kind of power?"

Sherlock shrugged sullenly. He disliked admitting that his brother had any kind of power. "One never knows with Mycroft. It seems that he has the power to do a great deal of things, aside from resisting the temptations of fresh baked cookies."

"You really should stop calling your brother fat."

"He really should lose a few pounds."

"So that's a no on telling your brother about Molly, then?"

"Correct."

"Think we should tell Molly?"

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Why would we?"

John shrugged with a smile. "She'd probably like to know that she's had a bit of success with you. You know that she's fancied you from day one."

"No, thankfully, it seems that Molly has moved on." Sherlock responded with a knowing smirk.

"What do you mean?"

"When I was a guest in her home, she mentioned what a lovely owner I had. She informed me that I might consider being a bit nicer to him."

"She was probably talking about you."

"My name's not John."

John rolled his eyes, but didn't comment. Sherlock watched him through narrow eyes, still smirking.

The men were relatively silent for the rest of the flight; Sherlock had found the obituary column in the newspaper John had been reading earlier, while John attempted to take a nap. Neither Captain America nor Molly were mentioned. Mycroft's name was used at the speaker's risk.

Finally, the plane landed, allowing Sherlock and John to return to 221B.

As soon as the pair returned to their flat, they walked right past Mrs. Hudson without a word, trudged up the stairs that seemed to go on for an eternity, and plopped on the couch, neither man objecting to the close proximity of the other. It wasn't that they felt obligated to tolerate each other after an event that had strained their friendship, nor was it that they were particularly keen to be near one another. They were simply too exhausted to entertain the idea of either moving, or convincing the other to move.

John was laying on his back, squished in between the back of the couch and the cushions, resting his head on a surprisingly scratchy pillow. Sherlock was curled into a ball, his back pressed up against John's side. A small smile crossed John's face at this; Sherlock slept like a cat.

Mrs. Hudson burst into the flat, indignant that her two boys had walked by her without so much as a "hello," but quickly changed her demeanor when she saw the men sprawled across the couch, eyes closed and mouths hanging open. She attempted to remain silent as she ran downstairs to get her camera, thrilled at the opportunity to take a picture of the boys together without hearing any arguments.

Once she had successfully snapped a few pictures, she darted out of the room, hoping that Sherlock would not find the camera and destroy the film before she had the chance to order copies of the pictures. She was planning on showing Lestrade and Molly just how sweet Sherlock could be when he wasn't conscious.

"Sherlock?" John's sleepy voice cut through the silence of the flat.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock responded, not opening his eyes.

"Now people will definitely talk."

A smile slid across Sherlock's face as John shifted to get comfortable, shoving the detective in a half-hearted attempt to gain more space. John bit back his own smile as he closed his eyes once more, hoping that Mrs. Hudson would not return for more pictures in an effort to create a 'Sherlock and John Cuddle Calendar'.

For a few minutes, the men laid on the couch silently. John allowed his body to relax against Sherlock's, too beleaguered by the events of the day to think about anything other than drifting off into a glorious sleep that would hopefully last more than the three hours he had received the night before. Sherlock, on the other hand, opened his eyes and stared at the other end of the flat thoughtfully.

After mulling over one specific thought while John dozed off, Sherlock finally spoke up.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I wasn't jealous of Captain America."

John chuckled, burying his face further into his pillow. "I know, Sherlock. I know."