There I was, lounging on the little patch of grass outside my home. It’s a good spot from which to watch the world go by. And on a sunny day, it’s a good spot for a nap. Being a cat, I don’t tan the way humans do. But when the sun hits my fur, it’s such a cozy, safe feeling.

I had recently returned, just a few months ago, from the Cat Wars. Like most wars—whether between humans or animals; within a species or between species—the Cat Wars were set off by a disagreement between two sides. One side says or does something the other doesn’t like, and before you know it, rather than talk it out, everyone is fighting.

Of course, I had not fought in the Cat Wars; I’m not much of a fighter. I’m a doctor, a surgeon to be exact, one who operates on the wounded. But in wars, even non-fighting doctors can suffer injuries. And so it was that when my leg had been hurt, and it became clear that I would have a permanent limp for the rest of my lives, I was sent home to London, where I live alone except for the presence of my housekeeper/cook, Mr. Javier. The Cat Wars ended not long after my return home, with one side—the side opposite to mine—conceding defeat. Sadly, that came too late for my leg.

I’m sure you were surprised to learn that I am a doctor. Believe me, I understand. No one expects the cat to be a doctor. Humans, and other animals, believe wrongly that cats don’t have enough focus to be professionals. And yet, a cat can spend more time focused on cleaning just one paw than an armadillo can spend deciding what to eat for lunch.

Yawn.

Some of us live more exciting lives than others expect we will. My own family expected me to settle down with a mate and have kittens, and I still might someday. But I wanted something more exciting. I wanted the most I could dream of, outside of chasing rabbits, and so I studied to become a surgeon. Being in a war, though, that had been plenty enough excitement for me. I was glad to be home again at good old 221B Baker Street, the two-story row house I’ve lived in since I got my license to practice medicine. It’s a row house, meaning that it shares side walls with other houses. I don’t mind having neighbors so much, so long as I don’t have to talk to them. I live mostly on the second story of my home, using the lower half for storage and things; also, the ground floor is where Mr. Javier’s quarters are. Not only does it allow him his own private space, but it’s also easier for him to get to the front door from there. Living on the upper story further allows me to keep more distance between myself and the rest of the world.

Now all I wanted was peace and quiet and to nap in my yard.

Only, I couldn’t stop thinking about the friend who had stopped by the day before. Let’s call him Paul. When Paul arrived, he had looked about awkwardly, clearly hoping I would invite him in for a treat or perhaps a go at playing soccer with my ball of yarn. But I had no such desire. I’m not much for entertaining.

Paul had then told me that he had a friend who was looking for a place to live and that, after my adventures, he thought it would be good for me to have some regular company. I snorted. The very idea! I know what comes with regular company: irregular naps, that’s what. As soon as I was done snorting, Paul mentioned how he knew I had plenty of rooms in my house and that he thought his friend would like those rooms very much. Also, he was tired of having his friend lodge with him and had exhausted his supply of other friends upon whom he might fob off this one. He told me his friend’s name—Sherlock Bones—and I couldn’t help but immediately think what an odd one it was.

That’s when I told my friend to be on his merry way. I informed him that while I did not mind occasional company, I neither wanted nor needed regular company.

There, I thought, watching him go. Paul looked so glum, slouching away, his orange tail between his legs. That’s taken care of!

Little did I know that I was about to learn just how wrong I was, and that, when it came to Sherlock Bones, nothing was ever easy.