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She is a cat, already with a name.
It is not that she particularly cares what she is called, but when her housemate makes that plaintive sound she has come to recognize, it nearly always signals the imminent arrival of food.
At times, however, Wagahai finds herself being the one to irritably remind the man to fetch her meals, when Soseki spends long hours hunched over his low table, poring over yet another book. She cannot fathom what humans find so interesting about them, save that the sheer number piled about the room gives her no shortage of high places to perch.
(The books also rip quite nicely when she sinks her claws into the paper, although Soseki is prone to shaking like a leaf if he spots her doing so, and the rapid muttering under his breath makes her fur stand on end, so most times she refrains.)
But despite the occasional unreliability of meals and wintry drafts that breach the walls, Soseki’s cramped room of books is hers as well, to roam as she pleases. If the cold becomes too much, she paws her way onto her housemate’s lap, an excellent heat source for his knack of sitting still for long periods of time. Absorbed into his literature, Soseki does little more than give Wagahai an absentminded pat, and in relative satisfaction, Wagahai closes her eyes and purrs.
Though there is far more noise and far more humans at Baker Street, there are also far more smells and objects to inspect at Wagahai’s leisure, and warmth is no longer just an infrequent luxury.
Today she has chosen to take up residence in the attic, as sunlight is streaming through the window in just the right spot to curl up. The prospect of a well-deserved nap is tantalizing, but Wagahai’s ears flick every time she hears splashing from the clear tank across the room, and she cannot help eyeing the occupants a little longingly.
A flutter of something catches at the edges of her vision, and Wagahai pounces on instinct, eliciting a yelp from the man seated at the desk as she rolls underfoot, batting at the long strips of fabric waving so temptingly in the breeze from outside.
“Wagahai,” Ryunosuke sighs, leaning over the edge of the desk. The lilt of the way he and Susato say her name and the words they exchange with only each other are similar to Soseki, more familiar to her ears. “That’s not a toy.” But his words now are of no matter as he attempts to pull the dancing red fabric out of her reach, and she meows in indignant protest. From above, Ryunosuke tips his chin into his hand as he watches, the edges of his mouth pulled just slightly upward.
“I guess your headband is as popular with cats as always.”
The door slams with uncharacteristic force, jolting Wagahai from her slumber on the bed with a hiss. Her eyes easily make out the figure still standing at the doorway, shoulders quivering.
“Oh, Wagahai-sama,” Susato’s voice cuts clearly through the darkness, higher than usual. “I’m terribly sorry to have startled you.” Her shadow moves towards the bedside table, rummaging about for a moment before the candle springs to life, casting the room in a dimly warm glow and throwing her expression into view for the first time. Susato smiles thinly, inclining her head. “I hope you’ll excuse the commotion.”
Susato has never once forgotten Wagahai’s meals and always seems to have a treat up her sleeve, so Wagahai replies with only a low trill, watching Susato gather objects from every corner and place them within a large box. There is a frantic energy to her movements, and Wagahai’s tail lashes back and forth in equal restlessness.
At last, after pacing the room several more times, Susato sinks onto the edge of the bed with her hands clasped tightly on her lap. Wagahai nudges at her elbow and Susato wraps Wagahai in her arms, lifting her so that they are nose-to-nose.
“Please take care, Wagahai-sama,” Susato whispers, with the same brimming smile. “I would like to see you and everyone well when I return.”
In response, Wagahai licks at the shining spots under Susato’s eyes, finding them to taste of salt.
“If it isn’t Wagahai. Come to keep a solitary detective company this evening?”
She wrinkles her nose at the scent of smoke, but is otherwise undeterred in pouncing onto Sherlock’s stomach, ignoring his surprised wheeze and tucking her paws underneath. The fire has burned low at this time of night, making the next best source of heat obvious.
Sherlock sets his pipe aside to run a hand through Wagahai’s fur in amiable silence, save for a quiet crackling of flames in the background. “You know,” the detective murmurs absentmindedly. “It occurred to me that I am fortunate to have never known the feeling of being separated from one’s children. I daresay you are more experienced with that by far.”
He pokes at Wagahai’s nose, smiling wryly when she bats his hand away. “I cannot imagine how people stand to do it. It seems as if I will never be able to prepare her with enough of what she will need in an entire lifetime. So, my dear Wagahai, I was hoping you would impart some of your wisdom with me.”
Wagahai yawns and flicks her tail lazily, turning a bright yellow gaze on him. Satisfied that Sherlock does not intend to disturb her further, she curls up and closes her eyes, a chuckle of amusement drifting distantly into her ears.
“Yes, I suppose a valid solution is to sleep on it.”
Splash!
Wagahai screeches at the cold sensation soaking into her fur, scrabbling against the sides of the dark hole that has swallowed her. There is a horrifying moment of water closing over her head before a strong force grips her scruff and lifts her back into the light. The man in white frowns in puzzlement, making to set her on the flooring, but she leaps towards his chest for warmth instead, eliciting a yelp.
“What is going on, Mister Asougi?” A deep voice devoid of amusement inquires, and a slightly disgruntled Kazuma turns towards Barok, Wagahai dripping in his arms.
“Wagahai fell into the vase.” An ear twitches at the mention of her name, the lilt of it from Kazuma so much like Ryunosuke and Susato. “Miss Iris will be terribly concerned when she returns. Is there something to dry her with?” Despite the deferential phrasing, Kazuma’s tone is anything but, as if he is willing to use even the frilly cloth around the other man’s neck.
“There is the cloth I use to polish my hallowed chalices,” Barok replies stiffly. “I’m sure the cat… Wagahai, will not object.”
“...Must you always call them ‘hallowed’ chalices?”
“It is what they are. Do you have a problem with that?”
Despite the snatches of her name she overhears, their biting attitudes towards each other mean little to Wagahai in her current state. She vigorously shakes the water from her fur, heedless of her nearby victims.
After all, she is simply a cat, already gifted with a name. And if there is one thing she has come to recognize, it is the name called by those she deems family. When the door to the prosecutor’s office swings open accompanied by Iris’s cheerful greeting, Wagahai purrs at the imminent prospect of warmth and affection, thankful, thankful, thankful.