Three Is Company

Stray Buttons

Sherlock POV, age seven: Sherlock could tell by the settling darkness that it was much past his curfew, and while his father wouldn't care where he had been he would undoubtedly care what time he arrived home. The Watsons had long since moved inside, their footsteps heaving down upon the porch right above Sherlock's head, with such force that he was worried the wood would collapse and betray his position. Eventually, with the family having passed inside, the boy dared to crawl out the way he came, scampering across the driveway and around the large wooden fence his father had installed for privacy. His ecstasy vanished with his return home, and as soon as Sherlock passed through the rusted iron gate he felt his heart drop back into his painful reality. His peacefulness with Buttons and his family time with the Watsons all dissipated as soon as he followed the solemn path into his solemn home. There was no love here, no companionship. The boy brushed himself off on the porch, trying not to make it obvious where he had been. He stowed his flashlight in his pocket, opening the door and kicking his shoes off politely onto the mat. The house was dark, thankfully so. Perhaps his father had already passed out, left alone with his beers and his gluttony. Sherlock closed the door silently, his stomach having twisted into a knot so tight that he couldn't even consider dinner. Instead he passed through the house, his socked feet padding along the unfinished floors, picking up the dust and dirt that had accumulated throughout the unkempt years. Sherlock peered into the living room, lit only by a crackling TV displaying the pixelated stream of a football game. His father, as predicted, was asleep. Sherlock sighed in relief, his little hands shaking as he moved past the man's recliner and stole his way up the staircase, clutching carefully to the banister and leaning most of his weight upon it, trying to keep his footfalls gentle and quiet. Eventually he escaped to his room, pushing in the small circular lock and fortifying his security with a desk chair pushed up against the knob. He knew this security system would not keep his father out for long, though in the event of an emergency Sherlock could always escape from the window. The first thing the man did when he woke from a blackout was come find his son. Sometimes Sherlock was helpless against it; sometimes he was able to wiggle away. Though he was growing old enough now to wonder if the Watson family had this sort of trouble as well. 

The next afternoon Sherlock was sitting again in the Watson's driveway, through this time he had been summoned by their oldest child. John Watson seemed to think him a good companion, though Sherlock still did not understand why his company was required. Today he was at his least attentive, trying to crawl under the porch again while John pushed his matchbox cars across the paved driveway. The little cars could not go far, as there were too many divots and stones for their wheels to avoid. Eventually John got bored, as Sherlock continually denied his challenges at 'racing' the little things from the end of the driveway and back.
"Sherlock, what are you doing under the porch?" John complained, taking up one of the smaller sports cars and pushing it anticlimactically across the puddle in their driveway. There had been rain last night, and so instead of sailing through the crater the small car only sunk down into the puddle, forcing John to get his hand wet in an anxious rescue mission.
"I'm looking for the cat." Sherlock admitted, as if that should have been obvious.
"I don't think Buttons will like you." John complained. "Remember when she scratched my hand? Mommy said I might have that scar for the rest of my life."
"Perhaps Buttons thinks you're mean." Sherlock suggested with a scoff, kicking his feet across the grass so that he could scrape across the dirt and settle comfortably in the darkness of the porch. John's feet were all that could be seen from this angle, his bright red sneakers with the toes bowed awkwardly.
"I don't think so." John debated. "I just think Buttons is mean."
"I'm sure we can get her to come say hello." Sherlock insisted, thinking it better not to vouch for the cat using only his personal experiences. As of right now John didn't know he took to liking it under the Watson's porch, the boy didn't realize that it was becoming Sherlock's favorite hiding spot. To divulge that secret would be to ruin his chances of ever making Buttons his own.
"I'm not crawling under there. Daddy says there are spiders." John insisted, tapping his feet apprehensively as he approached the porch all the same.
"There aren't any spiders." Sherlock protested, trying not to look above him at all of the intricate webs that were undoubtedly woven between the rafters. In the daylight he could see almost halfway across the house without the need for a flashlight, though he imagined this might only scare his companion more. John never liked the dark.
"We'll get in trouble."
"Oh well." Sherlock grumbled, scooting even farther through the dirt to allow John the space he needed to wiggle through. "I thought you wanted to be an explorer some day? Don't explorers go into dark caves? And to think you're scared of a little porch."
"Stop that!" John protested, dropping to his knees and staring through the gap in the wooden framework. There was a frown on his face, though he looked determined to prove himself worthy of his dream profession. He would have to conquer the back porch before he dared step foot into the wildlands. John began to wiggle his way through the porch, pulling himself with some hesitation through the gap and collapsing onto his stomach in the dirt. He looked exasperated, as if he couldn't believe his matchbox adventure in the driveway had ended up this messy. Sherlock smiled, crawling along the edge of the porch with his side pressed up against the wooden paneling, using the sunlight to illuminate his path as he searched for the cat he had finally befriended.
"If Buttons doesn't kill us, my dad will." John admitted, shuttering at the thought. Sherlock doubted that between both of their families it was Mr. Watson they had to worry about, though he kept his opinion to himself. Even at that age he knew he wasn't allowed to go boasting about the brutality of his father. If he ever made a joke about his death at his father's hand, well it may very well come true.
"Buttons, are you down here?" Sherlock called out, staying still and motioning for John to mimic him. John halted, his palms pressed firmly in the dirt, looking around with large, fearful eyes. It wasn't long until Sherlock's call was answered by a low, careful meow from the darkness. This came as a relief to Sherlock, though it made John cry out in fear and huddle closer to his companion, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's shoulders as if that was going to save him in some way.
"She'll eat us!" John whined. Sherlock merely smiled, stretching out his arm with some difficulty (as John was leaning nearly his entire weight across his shoulders) and gesturing for the cat to come closer. He didn't have any tuna as an offering, and so Buttons took some precautions as she approached. She was slow moving, slinking about in the shadows so that only the white patches of her fur were distinguishable in the light. John grew all the more apprehensive, his body shaking against Sherlock's back as he pressed himself up against his neighbor. It was rather ironic, as Sherlock had always been the smaller one, the more vulnerable. It was not every day that John used him as a shield, rather than the other way around.
"Sherlock, we should go." John insisted, whispering right into Sherlock's ear so that only his exhales seemed to make any sense. Sherlock ignored him all the same, snapping his fingers to beckon the cat closer. Buttons did a couple more loops around the shadows before finally emerging fully into the light, enticed by Sherlock's fingers and looking quite interested in what he had to offer. She approached carefully, though eventually her head got close enough to allow Sherlock to pat between her ears. The cat meowed, though not in protest. She got closer, eventually rubbing against Sherlock's outstretched arm to ensure she got her back stroked.
"I can't believe it." John whispered, his grip easing across Sherlock's shoulders as he began to feel more comfortable. In his eyes the cat was a menace, though Sherlock could see rather clearly that she was nothing more than a loving fur ball.
"She's a good girl." Sherlock assured, flattening the cat's ears to show his affection. Already Buttons had taken to purring. Slowly John sat back, scooting over towards where the cat was now sitting down, receiving its pets with a relaxed, tranquil look in her eyes. John dared to extend a hand, though he withdrew it immediately when the cat turned her attention to him instead. The bright green eyes flashed, perhaps in warning, as if trying to explain that Sherlock was the only one allowed to pet at the moment.
"You're like...a cat whisperer." John muttered, glancing towards his neighbor as if wondering what sort of magician he was faced with.
"I just think she likes me." Sherlock explained, as if that wasn't so hard to understand in the end. John nodded, withdrawing his hand and allowing Sherlock to work his magic. Apparently he was satisfied just watching, as if he was too afraid to startle the cat and ruin the moment. John Watson was hardly ever silent, though in that moment under the porch he seemed perfectly transfixed. Perhaps Sherlock had magical influence not only over the cat, but over his neighbor as well.