Seb the Cat

Jim had decided to sleep in that day.  The curtains on his four-poster bed were drawn, and he was dozing peacefully in the velvety darkness.  He sighed, stirring ever so slightly, moving over a bit, and curling up into a gangly ball.

A tiny rustling started to pull him out of his delicious nightmares.  The curtains were moving.  He grumbled and flipped onto his other side, his eyes unfocused as he managed to open his eyelids.

"Whasssssthifss…" he mumbled.

He was suddenly blasted with the full force of London sunlight, rare as it was, when the curtains were unceremoniously ripped open.  Jim yelped, gathering his covers around his head and quickly drawing a knife from under his goose-feather pillow.  "What the hell—?!"

A tall man loomed, casting a long shadow across the king-sized bed.  Jim was suddenly assaulted by what appeared to be a young man's body, oozing blood.  "WHAT THE HELL?!" Jim screamed.

He scrambled out of bed, quickly grabbing Seb by the collar.  He leaned in close, their noses less than an inch apart.  "Do you realize," he hissed, "that those are one thousand thread count Egyptian cotton sheets?  And you've just soiled them!  And I killed the last dry cleaner, so now I have to find another one, short notice!  All thanks to you!"

Seb chewed on his toothpick, his eyes half-opened.  "I did the job.  I got the guy.  He's right there."

"No shit, Sherlock," Jim growled.  "What, are you expecting a treat?"

Seb shrugged.  "Not really."

Jim's face reddened.  He released Seb and folded his arms, turning away.

"He's the rat, right?" Seb asked, his brow wrinkling.  "The one in that organization."

"Yes, yes," Jim said, waving his hand.  "You really are incorrigible, Seb.  I should get you a bell or something.  Then I'd know that the great rat catcher was approaching."

"I'm not a cat—"

"Tiger, cat, same difference.  Just don't start playing with yarn, okay?" Jim replied.  He sulked out of the room, slamming the door behind him.