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Шерлок и Джон завели шиншиллу в качестве домашнего животного. Точнее, Шерлок завёл.

THE CHINCILLA WAR
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Rating: G


Christmas passes, Mrs Hudson goes on holiday, and Sherlock, for no reason at all other than to screw with John's sanity, acquires a giant rat.
"You know what," John says to the idiot lying spread-eagled on the floor, "I don't even care anymore. Just don't let it crap all over the place again, and if you value that thing's life at all, don't let it anywhere near my room. I'll be picking fur out of my bed for a week."
"Not a rat," Sherlock replies serenely. The words must rumble through his chest, because the ball of grey fluff perched on top of him gives a happy little squeak.
"Couldn't care less," John informs him, and stomps out.
*
He lasts about half a day.
The third time the damned thing decides to use his cane as a chew, John picks it up from where it's rolling on the kitchen floor and dumps it unceremoniously on Sherlock's lap. It's a bit lighter than he expected, and so bounces a little with an indignant yip when it lands.
"Alright," he says. "I give in. Please, please tell me why we are now in possession of a tiny bouncing rabbit and why the whole flat now smells of hay and pellets."
Sherlock's long fingers disappear into the animal's fur, gently scratching at the top of its head. "Chinchilla," he says, as the thing makes an extremely disconcerting sound, like the bark or grunt of a seal. "Honestly, John, it looks nothing like a rabbit."
"Of course," John says. "No, you're right. It looks more like a pig mated with a squirrel and had genetically-improbable offspring."
Sherlock's face acquires a somewhat constipated look.
"But why is it here?" John presses.
It seems to take a long time for Sherlock to answer. Mostly he just seems to be staring at the ceiling. Finally, still stroking his fingers idly through the chinchilla's fur, he says, "Helps me think."
The chinchilla gives a bark of agreement. Then it wriggles off Sherlock's lap and runs to the kitchen to continue rolling in the dust.
"Right," John says. "Of course."
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*
John watches it over the course of the day. It doesn't look very helpful. If Sherlock wanted something to simper uselessly at him while he petted it, John would have invited DI Hopkins over and sat him down at Sherlock's feet instead; at least that way there would be less mess about it.
That thought lasts for a total of two seconds before John realises it is an utter lie. He wouldn't let Hopkins into their flat if Hopkins were being chased by rabid dogs.
"Mrs Hudson will flay you alive," he says to Sherlock, and feels entirely vindicated by the split-second flash of alarm that passes across Sherlock's face before Sherlock's expression dissolves into a scowl.
"Mrs Hudson owes me," Sherlock mutters, and slouches further into the sofa.
*
Day three, and the chinchilla is high off a box of raisins it found while nosing around under the kitchen table. Sherlock has his head buried in a book and is looking supremely unconcerned considering that the flat is at very real risk of being demolished.
"I think I'll name it Mycroft," he says contemplatively.
They watch as the thing zips around the room in a blur of ecstatic grey fur, stopping every now and then to backflip on one of Sherlock's increasingly unstable-looking piles of books.
"No," Sherlock amends.
*
"Anderson!" Sherlock says later, like it's an epiphany.
"For God's sake, Sherlock, no."
John's not even sure why he's still entertaining this conversation. Surely there are more pressing things he ought to be doing than babysitting a full-grown consulting detective and his mutant rabbit. Like getting pissed and drunk-dialing Lestrade.
He's operating on the assumption that the chinchilla is a temporary acquisition. It's the only explanation he can think of for why he's tolerated it this long.
"It fits perfectly," Sherlock is saying. "Anderson's rodent-like. Bounces. Makes strange chittering noises no one understands."
"No, damn it," John says.
Sherlock frowns at him. "Why not?"
Because you're giving that thing an extremely thorough neck massage and if you ever do the same to Anderson the image will be horribly and irrevocably burnt onto my retinas, John doesn't say.
"Because I said so," John says, and that is that.
*
A week passes. The hay dwindles and the pellets accumulate.
John forces Sherlock to buy a cage. How Sherlock knew what to feed the chinchilla in the first place is something of a mystery, considering that Sherlock usually doesn't even bother to feed himself unless said food is within reach of his arm.
It clinches John's suspicion that the chinchilla hasn't been foisted off on Sherlock by some overjoyed client, or given as a belated Christmas present by a distant relative (if Sherlock even has any). No, this has all been planned. Like some bizarre modern-day Robin Hood, Sherlock has stolen it from the rich and soon he will give to the poor, and by 'give to the poor' John means 'dispose of', and by 'dispose of' John means 'flush with some exotic toxin and dissect into disgustingly unrecognisable pieces and then leave to rot on the kitchen table, presumably all in the name of science'.
All that remains is for John to prepare for the day he has to clean all the blood off the chopping board. Again.
*
One evening, Sherlock goes out. Just leaves, without any explanation. John assumes it's something to do with a case, so he takes this opportunity to settle down in his favourite armchair and turn on the telly.
Sherlock doesn't like the telly to be on when he's thinking because he claims it disrupts his thought processes, and yet Sherlock will quite happily take on a barking, grunting pig-hamster for a pet and talk to it like it's his best friend and run his ridiculously lovely fingers through its short fur until he has the thing melting in absolute bliss.
Sometimes, John thinks, he really hates Sherlock.
He gets through about thirty seconds of Neighbours before he hears a low chittering sound emanating from a region somewhere between his feet. He looks down, and the thing is gazing up at him, dark eyes liquid and whiskers twitching.
"No," he tells it.
It chitters again.
"You don't even like me," he says. "How did you get out of your cage? Go and sit on the sofa and wait for Sherlock to come back."
He looks back at the telly. When the thing still hasn't moved after five minutes, he gives in and lets out a sigh of resignation.
"Alright. Up," he says.
The thing jumps up with the ease of practice and proceeds to settle down on the arm of the chair.
"I've Googled you, you know," John says finally. "You're very tactile for a chinchilla. But your obsession with raisins is frankly extremely unhealthy. They'll make you fat, and then we'll have to name you Mycroft after all."
It blinks at him, and then after a considered pause, tilts its funny blunt nose very slightly to the side.
John's seen Sherlock do this enough times to recognise it as a subtle invitation, and so he takes it -- reaches up with his hand and very gently strokes at the fur under its chin with the backs of his fingers. It's thick and soft, very soft, and pleasingly warm.
He continues doing that for a bit until the chinchilla slowly tilts its head upwards and closes its eyes.
"Hmm," he murmurs. "I suppose you're alright," and the chinchilla lets out a soft bark of approval.
He's not sure when he falls asleep, but he's awakened by a hand lightly touching his shoulder. The thing has somehow migrated to his lap and is curled up asleep there, a gently breathing bundle of fur. Sherlock is leaning over him, looking at him with an odd expression.
"Ugh," John says, a bit blurrily. "Did you just get back?"
"Yes," Sherlock says, and, "It's half past eleven," in response to the unvoiced question.
"Right," John says.
They stare at the sleeping chinchilla together. After a moment of deliberation, John lets out a weary sigh.
"I'll stay for a bit," he mutters. He doesn't miss the small quirk of Sherlock's mouth as Sherlock turns away.
*
At some point, Sherlock sets up on the sofa with his laptop. The chinchilla shakes its head, opens its eyes and yawns a bit at the first sound of Sherlock's fingers hitting the keys, but soon it settles down again. John rests his head on his hand and closes his eyes.
"It doesn't actually help you think, does it," he says, after a while.
The sound of typing stops. "No," Sherlock says. "Not as such."
"Then why --?"
A pause. "I've been reliably informed that keeping a pet conveys a multitude of health benefits."
John chokes, and then suddenly he is laughing -- breathlessly and possibly a little bit hysterically. The action dislodges the chinchilla from his lap, and with an irritated bark it goes bounding across the flat to sulk in its cage. He hiccoughs a bit and says, "Health benefits. Christ, Sherlock. If you want a pet, then get a dog, or a cat, or a rabbit, even, a real one -- not a bloody chinchilla. I don't even know where you managed to get it. It's not stolen, is it?"
Sherlock doesn't appear to share his amusement. "Of course it's not stolen," he says.
"You paid for it, then."
"Well -- no."
"Someone gave it to you."
"Not directly."
"Sherlock --"
"It was abandoned on the street," Sherlock says, sounding exasperated. "So I took it in. That's what one does on Christmas, isn't it? One last attempt at goodwill before we get on with the business of being horrid for the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year?"
John blinks at this extraordinary pronouncement. Then his mouth ratchets up into a grin. "My God, Sherlock, we may actually make a human being of you yet."
*
After few minutes, John continues more quietly, "You know we can't keep it, though."
"Yes, I had realised that."
They watch the chinchilla, which is once again rolling happily around in a cloud of its own filth.
It's cute in an ugly sort of way. John thinks he'll miss it when it goes.
*
In the end, they take the chinchilla down to a specialty pet shop in the East End. It takes exactly ten seconds of handing it over and five painful minutes of the shop owner gushing on about how terrible it all is, "really, what a thing to do to a poor chinchilla at Christmas, aren't some people just terrible?" before John realises Sherlock is gazing at a large snowy cockatoo hanging over the counter with an unmistakably speculative gleam in his eye.
"Right, yes," John says distractedly. "Terrible, really very --" As the woman starts cooing nonsense into the box, he grabs Sherlock's elbow and hisses: "Sherlock. Do not, I repeat, do not let the thought even cross your mind."
"John, cockatoos are possibly the only species aside from humans to possess an innate sense of musical rhythm --"
"If you're intending on playing violin to it at three in the morning just to watch it dance --"
"I would never do such a thing," Sherlock says haughtily.
"Oh, Billy is a wonderful dancer!" the woman exclaims. "Here, I've even got a mix --"
She reaches for a small CD player behind her, Sherlock's eyes light up, and John says loudly: "Well! We really must be going now, lots to do -- thank you, though, and good luck with your shop, which is, er -- very nice, and we might see you again. Possibly. No, probably not. Sorry."
And with one last glance at the flustered shopkeeper and the small snuffling box on the counter, he drags Sherlock out of the shop and back towards home.
*
A week later, Sherlock says:
"We didn't even give it a name."
If John didn't know better, he'd say Sherlock sounded almost mournful. He certainly looks like a child over there with his knees folded and his feet tucked up on the sofa.
"Probably for the best," John says. He takes a bite of toast, not looking up from his newspaper. "Did you really find it on the street? Seems like a weird thing to throw away. Maybe someone just lost it."
"No," Sherlock says, "it was in a cardboard box -- hastily dumped, though not without care. Belonged to a girl who'd received it as a gift some months ago but couldn't or wouldn't care for it anymore. Bit irresponsible to just leave it on the street, but she probably wanted it disposed of without fuss."
John hums around a mouthful. "So then you came along, and decided, out of the goodness of your heart --"
Sherlock sniffs, draws his dressing gown a little tighter over himself. "You're mocking me," he says, and John -- well, John smiles. He can't help himself.
"I'm mocking you," he agrees.
"Inadvisable."
"Fun, though."
Sherlock sniffs again and doesn't reply. John grins at his plate.
*
He's halfway through his morning cup of tea before Sherlock interrupts him.
"John," he says, sounding almost contemplative. "Come here."
"What?" John says. "No. Why?"
Sherlock just stares at him. John resists for all of ten seconds before he gets up, grumbling.
"You can bring your tea and paper, if you like," Sherlock says, as if that's any incentive.
Sherlock has pushed the coffee table away from the sofa. He flaps a hand at John when John gets near enough. Down. Sit down, says the gesture.
John narrows his eyes at him. "If this is what I think it is --"
Sherlock smiles at him winningly, but says nothing. On his face, the expression looks more terrifying than reassuring.
John sits down on the floor, back resting against the sofa, newspaper against the upside-down V of his drawn-up knees. His tea goes on the skewed coffee table.
For a few moments, nothing happens, and then he feels, with a slight shiver, the gentle slide of fingers in his hair.
It feels good. Very good. He has to fight the urge to close his eyes and lean into the touch. Above and behind him, Sherlock lets out a small, considering sound.
"Well?" John says.
"Satisfactory," Sherlock says.
John snorts. "Very flattering. Thanks." Sherlock's fingers press a little more firmly in retribution, and this time he can't stop his eyes from closing of their own accord. Damn it.
He forces them open and stares at the newspaper in front of him, though he knows and Sherlock knows that he's not reading a single thing. Smugness is radiating off Sherlock in waves, and for once, John finds he doesn't care.
"You are considerably less adorable than the chinchilla," Sherlock admits finally.
"Shut up, Sherlock," John says.