Archive of Our Own

The problem with living with a Felisian, John realised not long after he moved in, was the overwhelming urge to touch. As it was, Sherlock was a good-looking man. Perhaps not stereotypically handsome, but unusual in ways that made everyone sit up and take notice: pale eyes, the sharp-cut of a Cupid's bow mouth, creamy skin and a lithe body he used to its maximum advantage.

Then there were the ears, twin triangles of chocolate velvet among the russet of his curls, covered in downy, sleek fur. Not rounded, like many of the big cats, nor sharply angled like a domestic tabby's. Sherlock's were like those of a lynx, proportional to his body size and broad, almost as big as John's palm, with long wisps of guard hairs at their peaks. The first time they had met, John had been forced to screw his fingers into fists – it was that or surrender to the compulsion to see what they felt like – and that was far too intimate.

So he'd stared at Sherlock's tail instead, a graceful, sinuous whip of bone, flesh and fur, the same colour as his ears. Most people would probably have seen his apparent fascination as rude to the extreme, but Sherlock had seemed more amused than anything else. He hadn't held back in inviting John to move in, anyway, and as days became months, John found himself overlooking the cat-like characteristics or the occasional moments of feline behaviour. He forgot about Sherlock's sharper-than-usual canines and the way he could see in the dark. So what if he lived with a rare genetic variant of Homo sapiens, rather than a bog-standard example of the general population?

It was just Sherlock, unique in every respect and captivating for his mind as much as his physical appearance.

Today, though, he caught John's attention for a different reason. Sherlock was at the microscope, his graceful body tense. His ears were pressed down, almost at right angles to his skull, and his fretful tail lashed behind him. It was an obvious, evocative posture, the instinctive kind Sherlock normally worked very hard to control.

Except in John's presence, it seemed.

'You all right?' he asked, padding past to finish making his cup of tea. With one glance, he took in the glow of Sherlock's irises and the narrow ovoid of his pupils, constricted as they were in the reflected light from the lenses in the eyepiece.

A rough noise, mostly human but for the edge of a hiss to it, escaped Sherlock's throat. He flicked his fingers through his hair, quick and dismissive before shaking his head. 'Nothing about this case makes any sense. It's ridiculous.'

Frustration honed his words, and John restrained a sigh, skipping back through his memory in an attempt to recall when he'd last seen Sherlock eat – or sleep, for that matter. It was a couple of days ago, at least, and John knew him well enough to recognise when the usual efforts at sharpening his abilities were stone-walling him instead. There was no way he'd get Sherlock to consume anything, or even go to bed for a few hours, but perhaps if he could peel him away from the case for a little while, something would shake loose in that mighty mind of his.

Quickly, he put together two cups of tea, carrying them over to the coffee table in front of the couch before returning to the kitchen. He squared his shoulders, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's arms and bodily urging him to his feet. Protests came in rumbling, whining words, but they lacked Sherlock's usual force, and any resistance was a token effort.

'Just a quick break, Sherlock. Ten minutes. Drink your tea, and then you can get back to it,' he promised, pushing him down to the sofa. Sherlock paused, his gaze lingering on the kitchen table and his various experiments before he grudgingly obeyed. In one fluid movement he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, his long tail looping over to cover his toes and curl around his ankles.

John had always assumed it would be uncomfortable, living in a world relatively unequipped to accommodate the extra appendage. Most chairs didn't leave much room for tails, and the clothes readily available on the high street didn't help either. Oh, there were niche markets, but it was mostly an after-thought, like left-handed scissors. That was probably why Sherlock had his suits and coat custom-made. However, he never seemed to complain or grow frustrated about it. Perhaps if you'd spent your whole life looking like a human-cat crossbreed, you didn't think anything of having to adapt.

Now Sherlock sat in that familiar not-quite-normal way John had grown used to, hips canted as he dropped his chin to his knees and glared blankly at the carpet. It was different from his usual sulks, darker, but somehow less dense, and John sighed as he sank down next to him, sipping his tea before considering his options.

They'd known each other for almost a year, and in that time Sherlock had, oh-so-slowly, begun to accept the fleeting touches of friendship: the occasional hand on his elbow or brush of fingers as John handed him something. At first, he had actively recoiled, though John suspected it was more in surprise than repulsion. However, right now Sherlock's posture screamed for more comfort than a pat on the shoulder could provide, and John's stomach thrilled nervously as he wondered how Sherlock would react if it was offered.

He tapped his mug idly, taking another fortifying gulp before putting it aside as he decided to take his chances. Worst case scenario was that Sherlock freaked out and John had to endure the awkwardness of the aftermath. Being tentative about this would only make Sherlock more twitchy, and asking his permission would result in a mask of chilly indifference. Better not to give him a choice in the matter, really, at least not at first.

'For God's sake, come here.'

That pale gaze sharpened, and John caught a glimpse of surprise as he tugged Sherlock closer, wrapping his arms around those slender shoulders and the bowed column of that spine. His hands rubbed in awkward circles as Sherlock's entire body stiffened.

'What are you doing?' His voice was somewhat muffled from where his face was half-buried in John's wool-clad shoulder, but so far there was no mad scramble to escape the apparent horrors of John's determined embrace.

'Hugging you, you miserable git. Feel free to join in.'

At first, he thought Sherlock wouldn't move – would just stay where he was, rigid and disapproving until John gave up in his efforts – but gradually his hands crept from where they were still awkwardly tangled around his knees. Long fingers caught like claws in the knit of John's jumper, flexing and clutching, before they slipped around John's waist in earnest reciprocation.

By increments, Sherlock started to go slack, his knees drawing down so he could shuffle closer, his head still lower than John's, but a participant, rather than a vacant receiver for John's comfort. With anyone else, it would just be a hug. Humans – even the Felisian variants – had a basic need for physical contact, but John knew how rarely Sherlock opened up, and he was honoured to be one of the few.

That, and there was a guilty little thrill to it: the heat of Sherlock's body and the scent of his shampoo filling John's nose. John had it under control, pretty much, but he couldn't ignore the buzz in his stomach, which intensified when Sherlock's sigh fluttered over his throat and one ear twitched, a soft shadow in the corner of John's vision.

His hand moved without instruction, sliding up Sherlock's neck, rubbing at the lingering tension there before dragging through dark curls. He waited, breathless, for some kind of protest, but Sherlock didn't utter a word. Even when John's fingertips found the strange boundary between human hair and softer fur, stroking it in exploration, there was nothing but a whispering hum as Sherlock's grip tightened around him in fractional encouragement.

Emboldened, John guided his fingertip across warm skin and fur like the finest down, laughing quietly when Sherlock flicked it in surprise. The taller man huffed when John simply gave chase, using more pressure so it wouldn't tickle. He kept bracing himself for Sherlock to pull away, but it never happened, and he soon lost himself in cataloguing this new sensation.

Sherlock's ears were surprisingly strong, especially at the base, and John could feel the muscles that made them move: the biggest give away to Sherlock's mood. When he was unhappy, they would be flattened almost parallel to the floor, but fury drew them back against his skull, ready to fight. If he was concentrating or intent, they would be pricked up and forward, attentive. Yet it was now that they fell to their default state, mostly upright but pivoted slightly to each side, relaxed and neutral.

Against his chest, Sherlock was steadily getting heavier, the slow brush of John's fingers apparently dragging him down into some kind of stupor. John's back ached from the effort of keeping them upright, and after a moment, he nudged them both so that he could lie down on the couch. Sherlock followed wordlessly, sprawling across John's chest. His tail whipped around, the tip snaking over John's shoulder and twitching slightly as his fingers flexed in gentle repetition against John's jumper.

However, that wasn't the best bit. Even Sherlock nudging blindly at his hand, encouraging him to keep up his firm strokes through curling hair and along his ears, was nothing in comparison to what happened next.

It started out as a whisper of sound, deep and guttural, but soon John was grinning like an idiot, a bubble of joy lodged in his chest as he listened to Sherlock purr. He'd never heard that before, not once. Not even when Sherlock solved a particularly challenging or ingenious case. John had thought it was just a myth, one of the many rumours surrounding Felisians and their behaviour, but now he had proof to the contrary.

Sherlock's purr was far from delicate. Like a motorbike engine, it was low and dangerous and, John admitted to himself, kind of sexy. Especially because it was John who'd brought Sherlock to this point, eyes closed, body a dead-weight and almost catatonic. He was explicitly trusting, as if he knew John would rather cut off his own hand than do him harm. From Sherlock, that faith meant a great deal. John was sure there was no one else whom he would allow this close, skirting the uncertain edge between the platonic and the intimate, and his stomach twisted with quiet exhilaration at what this new development could mean.

John didn't know what the future held – didn't know if this was the first step on a journey from friends to something more, or the pinnacle of all they could have, but for once, he wasn't burning to put a name to it. This relationship, in any guise, had always defied definition, so maybe it was time he stopped trying.

They were what they were, and they'd get where they were going one day.

For now, this was enough.