“Yes, of course Mum… well, yes, I’m alone, but I’ve got scotch to keep me company… God, no I’m not desperate. Please. No, she went with dad to the party. I didn’t want to miss this…”
Hakuba glanced to the sheets of paper that he’d been writing on with his latest gift and tilted his head, smile soft and fond. He wasn’t getting any meaningful words down on the page, but each one felt absolutely wonderful to write. And he wondered, briefly, if it wouldn’t be so bad to be more of a Doyle than a Holmes… For the moment, anyway.
“Hm? Oh, sorry, Mum… a little distracted is all… The time? Oh, it’s… aha! Just ten second- eight, seven, six… yes, fine, count alo- two, one..” He stopped just in time to hear the large, wooden clock above the fireplace chime, closing his eyes to relish the sound. Each chime was clear, bright, and perfectly tuned. He counted each peel as it rang.
“Happy New Year’s, Mum. Yes, I’ll be safe. Love you, too. I’ll call you in a few days. Of course. Good-”
WHUMF.
The phone bounced on the carpeted floor when it hit and slid underneath the reclining armchair. Hakuba huffed, swathed in heavy fabric from the long-sleeved collared shirt, suit jacket, and tie that now covered him. Undergarments, socks, and trousers surrounded him. One of his fuzzy house slippers was beneath him.
Bloody hell…?
He struggled to dig his way out of the mass of far too much clothing, suddenly wondering why he insisted on wearing such formal attire even in the comfort of his own bedroom. Somehow, he pushed his way out of the pile backward, freezing momentarily at the suddenly cooler air on his back.
Keep calm, detective… he told himself, giving another huff before popping out of the clothes the rest of the way, and tumbled in a rolly polly ball of fluff onto the stones in front of the fireplace. Once equilibrium returned, Hakuba pulled himself up onto his haunches and glanced down at his paws, then to the big armchairs, back to the fire he had going, and finally to the glass of scotch that was now very, very high above his fuzzy little head.
Damn.
He licked his paws and drew them over his whiskers with a sigh. At least when he was a cat he could get to tall tables, but this? What was he, exactly? Some kind of rodent, he supposed, taking stock of the thin, round ears at the top of his head, paws running over each feature. Eyes on the side of his head – prey eyes, large chewing teeth, stout little body and, he smirked, turning to glance over his shoulder at the tiny little stub tail he sported. Hamster.
He’d become a hamster.
How or why he wasn’t sure, though he already had a few sneaking suspicions. Not that any of his theories would do him any good at the moment; he needed to get his phone to send an apology email to his mum before she worried too much. Fortunately, scrambling underneath the furniture proved no problem- especially compared to dragging the mobile back out into the open. Had it always been this heavy?
Sorry, Mum- got disconnected. Network’s having trouble. I’ll be in touch again soon. Love, James
It was a very terse email in comparison to what he’d normally have written, but each letter required a considerable effort to type. Once it was sent, he tested his claws on the armchair, then dragged himself up, up, up until he could just barely reach the table. After that, thanks to a little hopping, he returned to his glass of scotch which was… now much larger than he was, himself.
Did he dare drink any more? …well, it was New Year’s Eve… how could he resist? He stood on his haunches again and stretched up to the rim and wriggled, stretching and straining to move the heavy glass just enough to get his tongue to it. And just when he’d almost reached, it tipped back the rest of the way toward him and spilled the contents right onto him, drenching fur and tabletop in cold, Highland Park scotch.
…
Well, there are surely worse fates…
