The Night Descending

"Are you sure," Mary asks, in a tone that suggests she's rather certain he isn't, "you've not been feeding the cat?" Before John can protest, she quickly adds, "Only it's been hanging around so much, and generally animals don't hang about like that unless they're being encouraged to do so."

"Of course I've not been feeding the cat," John lies easily, scratching at his stomach. In fact, he's been feeding the cat with astonishing regularity. He keeps a bag of cat food out by the bins (Mary never takes out the rubbish; that is a strictly relegated John-chore, just as John never does the laundry) and pours a healthy portion out into a little dish every evening. He also lets the cat in through the window sometimes, when Mary's out, and pats his spine, scratches under his chin, rubs his ears. The cat is a rough sort of tom, long of leg and lean like only an alley-cat can be, but John likes the cat's domineering nature and the low, deep rumble of his purr.

Mary, unfortunately, is allergic to cats.
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Inspired by several different "Sherlock is a cat" fics, although my version is...yeah. Depressing, sort of. And Sherlock isn't even a cat. Naturally.