Chapter Text
When Harold calls Carter to a fairly shitty motel room down in Brooklyn, she comes armed and expecting anything. Like there was the time with the baby they don't talk about any more, and there was also the time with the cooler they'd rescued from a hijacked UNOS transport with an actual human heart that she had to take to a hospital, sirens screaming. Or the time with John smiling his happy I'm-going-to-beat-the-shit-out-of-something smile, moving toward a mafia goon and saying, "But Detective, it's your birthday." ("How about flowers next time," she said, wrenching the goon into handcuffs afterward. "Flowers are so impersonal," said John, and the hell of it was she didn't think he was joking.) Well, she was expecting almost anything.
"Where's John?" she says.
"That's the problem," says Harold, and points to the table.
"Are you kidding me?" says Carter.
"I wish I were, Detective," says Harold.
"The worst of it is," says Carter, staring, "this isn't even the strangest thing I've seen happen around you two."
"Thank you, Detective," says Harold, voice tight. "Your input, however unnecessary, is appreciated."
John doesn't say anything, but John is currently one of the biggest cats Carter has ever seen, one of those rangy motherfuckers you see lurking around alleys and abandoned buildings. He's lying across the table, stretched out full length between Harold and Harold's laptop, so Harold can't reach over it to type. He's easily three and a half feet long from nose to tail, and if he weighs much under twenty pounds Carter would be surprised.
"How does this even happen to you," she marvels.
"Perhaps," says Harold, even more tightly, "perhaps, Detective, instead of asking fruitless questions you could help me solve this."
John opens one eye and regards Harold with tolerant disdain. That, at least, is still the same, thinks Carter, fighting a hysterical laugh. "Give me a second to get used to the idea," she says. "You got any idea who or what did this?"
Harold passes over a sheaf of printouts. "We think -- the current client may have had something to do with this," he says. He sounds perfectly calm, but Carter thinks he's pretty upset. Well of course he is, thinks Carter, his partner is licking his tail with studied carelessness and then pretending to go back to sleep. Which --
"How are you going to get him home?" says Carter. For all she knows they both sleep hanging upside down in old churches like bats. She can sometimes imagine John with an apartment, probably one of those shitty by the week ones in case he gets burned or made or whatever he thinks is going to happen to him, and with a heroic effort she can manage him going to the bodega and buying instant coffee. She's pretty sure Harold plugs himself into an electrical socket in a closet somewhere. Maybe at the Met.
Harold sighs, takes off his glasses and cleans them on his impeccable handkerchief. "I -- I sent out to a pet store." He points over to a corner, where a carrier that looks more expensive than the carseat Taylor had used until he was five is sitting. There are claw marks all around the waxed canvas of the entry; Harold doesn't seem to be bleeding but John's always been very efficient when he chooses to be.
"I see that went well," says Carter.
"Perhaps you would like to try, Detective?" says Harold, acid.
Carter looks over at John. He yawns at her, pointed teeth gleaming against the smoky grey of his fur, and stretches out to display corded muscle and long legs. His paws spread apart and his claws come out. They're thick and shaped like fishhooks, and have needle thin, obviously sharp tips. "Huh," she says. "What about a harness? He might not mind that so much."
"He's very proud," says Harold. "I suppose it couldn't hurt to try."
Speaking of harnesses -- "Where's that dog of yours?" she says. "Aren't you worried about him and --"
A thin, sad whine comes from under the table, and Bear pokes his head out. His nose is decorated with three or four shallow but business-like slashes, as if the person who had inflicted them was making a point but didn't care to use full force. He creeps out with flattened ears and rolls his eyes toward John, who licks one paw and stares back at him deliberately. Bear slinks around to Carter, carefully keeping Harold between him and John, and huddles up behind her. He makes a surprisingly compact bundle for a seventy-five pound killing machine. "Really, John?" says Carter. "Really?"
"It's probably for the best," says Harold. "Malinois have high prey drives."
"So he ripped his nose to shreds?" says Carter, aware of a headache beginning to throb at her temple.
"Well," says Harold, "Bear knows John won't put up with it now."
"Unbelievable," says Carter. "Can't you just -- won't John listen to you? If you tell him to do something?"
"John never obeys," says Harold. "Sometimes he agrees with what I want to do."
"So what you're saying is he was pretty much a cat anyway," says Carter, dry.
"Perhaps," says Harold. "I don't think he would think of himself in that way." He holds out his hand, curled slightly, in front of John, about three inches away. Carter holds her breath. John could strike out, do real damage, even a tenth his usual size. John sniffs at Harold's hand and nudges at it with his muzzle. Harold turns his hand sideways, offering his curled fingers to John. He isn't quite petting him, but letting John rub his grey head against his fingers as much as he likes.
"Well," says Carter.
"If you could research those for me," says Harold, still watching John as he gets up, coming close enough to sniff at Harold's cuff, "I think we could solve this sooner rather than later."
Carter eyes John dubiously. "You'll call if you need help with him? Does your apartment allow cats?"
Harold turns his head a little and looks at her. "I don't believe my landlord will make any difficulties about John."
"Riiight," says Carter. She picks up her coat, scratches Bear behind his ear and says, "Well, John, I hope you … feel more like yourself soon."
"I'm sure he hopes so too," says Harold politely, and Carter leaves them and Bear alone in the room.