A/N: I just felt like writing something weird and full of nonsense. The title of is borrowed from a sly and spooky children's book of the same name by Canadian author/storyteller Richard Thompson. If you find yourself alone with this book be careful. It may draw you in with its clever words and shivery delights.

I'm placing this about two weeks after the boys meet, taking place in October instead of the actual time of the year they meet because October is spooky. And because I can.

Don't Own Sherlock or John or the story The Follower – just borrowing for a bit.

The Follower

On Monday, John walked home. It was night and between the streetlights it was dark, the kind of dark where it didn't matter whether your eyes were closed or open. The lights from the city appeared farther apart than usual, and many of them seemed in need of replacement as they twitched and blinked. If John were a suspicious man, he would have felt that the lights were deliberately waiting until he approached them before they went out. What was that saying once is chance, twice is coincidence, three times is conspiracy? Something like that. It felt way beyond three times when yet another street lamp sputtered and went out.

It was windy as well. The wind pushed from one side and then came around and pushed the other way, not seeming to want to make up its mind. It teased and tormented the man as he made his way back to the flat. It was not a warm wind. It was the cold wind of the grave, of standing on the edge of a December ocean. The promise of winter was in that wind.

When John was a small boy, he loved October. Loved the smell of the dying season as trees shed their leaves and winds chased the clouds across incredible blue skies. But the nights made him nervous, and the skeletal trees always felt like they owned grasping hands and evil thoughts. It became dark quicker so if one was use to crossing parks and streets that in the summer months were well lit in the evenings, one became more cautious when crossing the same stretches in inky blackness. The summer John was 13 he read a book by Steven King called 'Salem's Lot about a small town in Maine which was slowly taken over by vampires. That fall he was sure the vampire Barlow was following him, hiding behind hedges and the same skeletal trees.

When John became a man and a doctor and a soldier he discovered there were worse things in the night than imaginary ghosts and goblins.

It wasn't fear, exactly, that followed him back to the flat that night. It was more rememberings and imagination that chased after him, that left him lost in his thoughts and not paying attention to his surroundings. He could hear the skitter of the leaves as they raced by and the rattle of skips and bins. There was knowledge of the possibility of dark things climbing out of the alleyway, but he knew it was all in fun and atmosphere. He was enjoying the night and his musings.

Until something brushed his leg, that is.

And made him screeched like a girl.

He was rather glad no one was around to hear it.

His heart having made it's way back down from his throat and landing in the vicinity of his chest, he glanced down at his feet. In the half-light, he could make out a small form weaving its way between his legs. Its fur was picked out in glimmers from distant lights, which was fortunate because of the darkness of its fur, if he hadn't had seen it, he would not have known it was there.

Abruptly it sat on its haunches and looked up at him with luminous green eyes. It meowed a surprisingly deep and almost rusty meow. In the idle thoughts that flowed through his head, John was thinking that the cat sounded as if it smoked. As it was the meow almost, not quite, sounded like an apology, but an insincere apology at best.

John snorted at his reaction. It was his fault for working his imagination into a frenzy.

"Well then puss," said John "Are you lost? Not a fit night for man nor beast, eh? Shoo now, go on. Find your way home and stop frightening people on the streets."

Bemused at the whimsy that coursed through his brain, rather glad that Sherlock was not here to listen to him he started back down the street.

He had only made his way part way down the street when he heard an irritated yowling coming from behind him. The cat, it seemed was put out that it had been left behind.

"Now look here cat, scat. Go on," and he stomped his foot as if to scare it off. The cat just looked at him. John had the impression that if it could, it would cross its arms and tell him he was an idiot.

John tried clapping his hands and made more shooing motions while the cat stared an inscrutable stare. Finally, he shrugged and turned to walk the remaining blocks to the flat. Just once, he turned and looked behind. The cat remained seated and staring. He kept walking. He opened the front door to Baker Street and was just about to shut it when a black streak flew in and up the stairs, taking the steps three at a time.

"Hey! Oh bloody hell!" he ran up the stairs following the uninvited visitor, not sure how Sherlock would take a stray animal invading his private musings.

"Sherlock?" John called out hoping to stall grumblings and sarcasms and any other type of grouchy Sherlockian behaviours. "Sherlock?! Sorry. It followed me home and snuck in. I didn't…"

But there was no sign of the tall and lanky man with whom he was currently residing. It was then that John noticed the Belstaff coat was missing. Sherlock must have gone out.

John looked for the cat. It didn't take him long to find it curled up in Sherlock's chair.

"Oh, that's just bleeding wonderful. It's bad enough he's going to know I let you into the flat, but now you are sitting in his chair. One look, and he'll know you were here and what you had for dinner. Out!"

The cat looked at him with incredible smugness. John had never seen more smugness on any other face except probably Sherlock's. It could have written the book on smug.

John strode over to the chair and scooped the cat into his arms. A low growl rumbled out from the creature's chest, and it voiced its protest. John had heard that some cats could almost sound like they were talking. He was pretty sure this one was swearing at him.

"Hey now, none of that. You can't sit in that chair," John, rubbed the animal's skull in a deep massaging way. The cat's rumbles switched to purrs and the cat almost melted in his arms. It snuggled around and rolled on to it's back.

"Well then. That's better. No need to get in a strop. Let's see here, are you a him or a her. Oh, definitely a him. Must impress the ladies with that."

The cat blinked and looked bored. A phrase heard recently flitted up through John's thoughts. "Not your area, then? Interesting."

Not sure at which point he had decided to let the cat stay, John moved into the kitchen and puttered around, he put on the kettle and checked the fridge to see if there was anything in there that would do for someone who was not a cannibal. He pulled out milk for the tea and some leftover Chinese. The cat lifted his head in a languid sort of way and tried to paw at the containers.

"Hungry? I think there's some shrimp in here." John placed the containers on the counter and dumped the cat unceremoniously on the floor. The cat hissed at him and then sat and washed its paws as if nothing had happened.

John reached up into the cupboard and pulled down a bowl and poked through the leftovers pulling out shrimp and bits of beef.

He placed the bowl in front of the cat, which sniffed it in a somewhat disinterested manner and then deigned to carefully pick out a morsel or two. John watched the cat eat. In the bright lights of the kitchen, he could get a good look at the animal. The cat had dark fur, a rich black with reddish brown highlights. Its eyes were large and green. Its face was triangular and rather long for its body. It was too skinny with long legs, but despite that it was rather a handsome looking animal.

"No wonder you're so skinny," he said to the cat, "you don't eat much, do you? Well my lad, eat while you can because it's back to the streets with you. Although I really should find a place for you. I wonder if Molly would like a cat? She seems like a cat person." The cat looked at John and gave him another one of those disgusted looks. For a weird moment he thought he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head, Really John, do you think I would be happy living in a house with a woman that would probably name me something utterly pedestrian such as Mittens or Boots. John shook the musings from his head. He needed to eat. It was odd enough that he was talking to the cat. It was definitely a lot stranger to imagine Sherlock's voice coming out of it. Or at least sounding in his head.

He shook his head some more, and he turned to load a plate with the remains of the takeaway and put it in the microwave. While it was heating, he finished making tea. The cat looked up at the sound of the water pouring into the mug and before John knew it had jumped up onto the counter and was watching him make the tea with interest.

John sighed. There was no point in trying to chase the animal off of the counter, so he let it watch. The cat sniffed the mug and then looked up at John.

"Mrerow?" it asked.

John looked at the cat. "What? You want tea? Oh, good lord, I'm going round the twist."

He pulled out a smaller bowl and poured some of the tea into it. He set it aside to cool and finished making his own. Half a cup's better than none, he thought as he poured milk into the mug. He moved to put the milk away when the cat spoke again.

"Mrerowrow," it complained and looked at him intently.

"So now you want milk in your tea. It's not meant for cats you know."

The cat purred as John added milk and then it reached over and pawed the sugar bowl.

"No, I draw the line at sugar. I am not putting sugar in your tea!" The cat lowered its ears and another growl issued from its chest.

John gave the cat a look and placed the bowl on the floor. The cat looked at him again and leaped off of the counter and lapped the liquid. It did so with a series of grumbles and complaints, but it finished the tea nonetheless and then walked back into the living room slowly and languidly. It eyed Sherlock's chair and then jumped up onto the couch and rolled over onto its back, its paws pulled up under its chin, and it closed its eyes. John followed it in and sighed. He sat down on the couch beside it, wondering how on earth he was going to explain this to Sherlock. He hadn't been living with the man very long and for all he knew he was allergic. John leaned back against the couch while he was thinking these thoughts. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Before he knew it, he was fast asleep.

He awoke with a start several hours later, pulled out of an especially horrible nightmare by a plaintive mewing coming from his elbow. He turned and looked at the cat. The cat stared back intently. As John managed to get his heart and breathing under control, the cat batted its paw, tentatively, at his arm.

"s'all right, cat. Nothing I can't handle," It was later than he thought and there was still no sign of Sherlock. John wasn't sure if he should worry or not, but it wasn't as if Sherlock wasn't able to look after himself, or at least mostly and John was so very tired. He checked his mobile for texts and sent one off to Sherlock asking his whereabouts.

He then stretched out on the couch and decided he'd wait there for the detective to come home just to be sure. As he fell back asleep a warm, furry shape climbed onto his chest and he could hear and feel purring as it vibrated through its small frame. In comfort and warmth, John drifted off. He had no other nightmares that night.

At some point during the night the purring stopped, and the warm body was replaced with a tattered afghan.

John awoke in the morning to bright sun as it streamed in through the windows. He blinked as he tried to remember where he was. He groaned as he shifted and stretched, thought he was an idiot for sleeping on the coach, and he was going to pay for it with a sore and stiff shoulder this morning. As he blinked his eyes into focus, he saw a pale hand that held out a glass of water and two paracetamol.

John slowly sat up and grabbed the glass and the pills with a grunt of thanks and downed them both.

"Really John, you are an idiot for falling asleep on the couch," Sherlock's smooth baritone drawled at him. "There was no need to wait up. I'm not six."

"Much," muttered John. In spite of all the years in the army, he wasn't a morning person, especially after waking to a sore shoulder.

While John pulled his thoughts together, Sherlock sat down in his chair and grabbed a newspaper of off the stack on the floor beside it.

That's when John remembered the cat.

"Um, Sherlock? You didn't happen to notice a cat in here did you?"

"A cat, John? Why on earth would there be a cat in our flat? Are we taking in strays now?"

Sherlock didn't so much as glace John's way as he said this.

"Well, erm, you see it followed me home last night and snuck in and well when I feel asleep it was curled up on my chest, so I wondered, well is there a cat about?"

John blushed and stammered as he said this, embarrassed at the fact that he'd let a cat stick around for the night. He wasn't even going to mention the fact that he'd had a conversation with it.

Sherlock looked at John with an inscrutable stare and flicked the pages of the newspaper and resumed reading. "There was no cat when I came home last night. Or to be more precise early this morning." And he proceeded to ignore John in favour of the news.

John took a quick glance around the flat, mentally shrugged and went to make tea.

"Tea?" he called out to Sherlock.

"Yes."

Pause

"Make sure you add sugar this time.

The sound of a spoon hitting the floor came from the kitchen.

Sherlock just sat and read his newspaper.

And smirked.