My Virtual Reading Room

As I walked home after a long and weary day, the rain that has been drizzling on and off for the majority of the afternoon was finally abating (much to my pleasure, I might add).  I was glad to reach the doorstep of 221B, however, when I suddenly heard a pitiful mewling sound in the vicinity of my feet.  I bent down to look and saw a little scruffy drenched kitten looking at me imploringly, as only cats can look.  Feeling sorry for the little creature, I picked it up and carried it inside.  Neither Mrs. Hudson nor Holmes was anywhere to be found.  I was surprised at first, then I remembered that Mrs. Hudson left that morning to visit her sister for the weekend, and Holmes was doing some research in the British Museum reading room for yet another of those obscure monographs of his.

I found some old towels and rubbed the kitten dry.  After pouring it some milk (which it lapped eagerly), and consuming a cup of hot tea myself, I sat down in my armchair and closed my eyes for a moment.  The next thing I knew, I was awakened by a yelp of surprise.  I opened my eyes to find that I must have drifted off, for it was a good two hours later, the cat was cuddled up sound asleep in my lap, and a very puzzled-looking Sherlock Holmes was standing next to my armchair.

"Watson, what is that on your lap?"
"I am certain, Holmes, that you will be able to deduce that for yourself."
"Please spare me your pitiful attempt at being humorous.”

Our conversation must have awakened the kitten, which took this opportunity to growl at Holmes.  He warily took a step back.

"Watson, if you would be so kind as to dispense with that--"
"I am sorry, Holmes,” I snorted, “I cannot hear you over the frightening roaring of this feline monster.”

“Watson, as I believe I already stated, I am not amused.  Now where on earth did you pick up this—creature—and what is it doing in our sitting room?”

“It’s called a cat, Holmes, or, more accurately in this case, a kitten.”

“Thank you, I was aware of that fact,” he retorted dryly.  “You have not answered my question.”

“It was sitting at our front door, drenched and hungry—I could hardly leave it there with a clear conscience.”

“Oh very well, I suppose it will have to sleep here tonight; my only hope is that it hasn’t any fleas…”

I surreptitiously scratched at an itchy spot on the side of my calf.

“Watson, it hasn’t any fleas, has it?!”

“I’m not sure, Holmes…”

“Oh no…you, a doctor, didn’t think to check for that before you rescued this confounded—cat?!”