The latest client’s hands are shaking slightly. Sherlock’s ever-observant eye takes note, storing away the fact in that ever-expansive mind. He comes to his conclusion:
"Your cat is in Mrs Hudson’s room."
Brian stares at him for a bit, unable to quite believe what he’s heard. “Sorry?”
"Brian May, you are? Of course you are, it’s obvious. You’ve been all through the news lately with your vehement opposition to the badger cull, it’s been turning heads in more than just DEFRA. I can’t tell you any more than that, I’m afraid, secrets need to be kept. Now, then. I knew you were missing something from the moment you walked in, and missing it around here. Eyes darting off in every direction, searching around — yeah, you’re searching for something. As for what that something is? You were here yesterday, I recall — just popped up to the doorway, took a photograph and, of course, tweeted it. And there was a little pet cat following you around. How sweet. Except she got lost in the crowd, didn’t she? Yes, seeing as my house is almost a tourist attraction these days… But she’s fine, she wandered in here, and our housekeeper — sorry, landlady — Mrs. Hudson’s taking care of her for the time being.”
Brian is speechless. Sherlock continues:
"John, fetch Brian’s cat."
John sighs, leaning back in his comfortable armchair. “Can’t you do it for once?”
The flatmates proceed to have a non-verbal conversation consisting of lots of frowning and sarcastic mouthing and disapproving eyebrow raises. Brian looks on, rather curious.
"Fine." Sherlock sweeps out of the door.
Once he has left, Brian speaks up again: “Is he always like that?”
John’s words are a mix of exasperation and admiration: “Oh yes.”