After much consideration, I've decided to transform this into a series of humorfics with little bits of fluff, slash, and the typical hardheadedness that only Sherlock could manage. I'm not British and thus am not sure about their diction, so I'm hoping it well enough. If you see any errors, drop a review and point them out. Now, enjoy the presentation!
It was just another day in the flat, filled with the never-ceasing boredom lacking a case provided, and the dullness of an absent John Watson. He had a job to go to, Sherlock knew quite well, but he required a sounding board much more animated than a hollow skull. The dead couldn't speak or think—something the consulting detective both liked and loathed.
Quicksilver eyes leered at a common household item, known as toothpaste, with a mixture of disinterest. Perhaps he could switch John's with this concoction—no, it was best not to hurt his flat-mate with boredom-induced creations. Perhaps he could slip it to Anderson… Poison Ivy subtracts carefully, and tastelessly, added to regular toothpaste. Oh, that would be quite the day—
The sound of heavy steps and an all too familiar gait echoed from the stairway leading to their flat, and these brought the tall man out of his evil plotting. Of course, he could have chosen to ignore John entirely, but he was the one distraction worth the aggravation. The door opened and shut, albeit a little bit more slowly than what was normal. Anticipation? Shame? Several ideas formed in the younger man's head. A silence ensued for a little over a second as, he assumed, the older man cast a look around for the mysteriously absent of plain sight detective. He didn't always stay in the main room, so why was it so baffling that he wasn't currently? "John." A simple greeting, as none more extensive was ever needed.
A grey-blond head poked around the corner, seeing a—on first glance—puzzled looking detective, although that was not the case. A single tube of toothpaste sat before him on the kitchen table, the curly-haired man sitting in a chair seemingly contemplatively, in what could be suspected had been a long silence before his intrusion. "Sherlock." The subtle tone of 'here we go again' crept into the doctor's tone, but it was without malice. "You… did something to that tube, didn't you?"
"Clearly." Eyes finally leaving their victim, Sherlock turned his head and looked at his single friend… and what he saw next caused even him, the world's possibly most unshakable man, to nearly drop his mouth. In the arms of the comparatively more warm-hearted man was a puppy.
A puppy.
The child form of a canis lupus familiaris.
"Before you say anything," Oh, now John seemed visibly more distraught, "She was a stray, in a box, in an alley on the way back. The cabbies recognize me from what you did to one of them in our last case, so I had to take a walk, and—" A hand halted the rest of his defensive babble.
"You know we can't take care of a dog." The baritone voice of the younger man seemed so much more authoritative than the older could ever hope to match, although that was not necessarily true. "We leave the flat on split notices for days, I conduct many experiments, you're gone most of the day—"
"She's a dog, Sherlock. She doesn't need twenty-four-seven care."
"And she's a puppy. What if she's not housebroken? She could mess on my documents, on the carpet, or in the walkway! I could cross the room, slip on fecal matter, and hit my head on the floor! Refraining from concussions is of vital importance in my line of work." Threateningly, Sherlock stood up.
"What—you're being paranoid, Sherlock! I already asked Mrs. Hudson, and she agreed to look after her during the day. You won't even notice her, anyway. I'm going to go give her a bath while I think of a name—you just sit there and stare at whatever that is on the table." Aggravation was terrifyingly thick in his voice as he slipped out of the room, leaving behind an air of finality. Oh, this was just perfect. Utterly perfect, if you counted not having any form of communications beside a cold shoulder to be so.
As the water was being run for the infernal infant, Sherlock retired to the living room, sulking in his chair, legs brought up to his chest. Why a dog? Why not a cat—no no, cats were just as bad.
As his thoughts became more irrelevant to that subject, he could hear some cursing and other sounds—sounds akin to falling objects and shaking—from the bathroom. Sounded like John wasn't having a good time with giving the pup a bath, which he deserved every bit of the hardship. They didn't need to give charity to a stray!
Before long, a rather triumphant husky pup padded out and sniffed around, followed by a John who was covered head to toe in soggy clothing, with soap suds strewn about on both his skin and clothing. The detective's eyebrow quirked in a silent question, although he already knew what had occurred. "I had a row with a miniature devil." Exasperated, and out of energy. Positively drained, and he'd only had them for an hour or so. It was to his surprise when Sherlock burst into his uniquely deep laughter. "What's so funny?" He just didn't see it.
"She gave you more of a bath than you gave her. Observe yourself." He quieted into a chuckle as John looked down at his top, his arms, ran a hand through his hair, and processed how he must look to the other. Once he had a glimpse of how silly he appeared, he decided in a quiet-and amused-huff to go take a proper shower.
And that tiny terror playfully nipped at his heels as he rushed about.
The next day, Sherlock found himself up and about long before John ever woke up without the aid of nightmares, as per usual. He eyed every inch of the flat as if it were his own personal battleground, but the puppy had, remarkably, done none of the things he felt so sure she'd do. She hadn't even sat on his chair, as was proven by the lack of dog fur on it. But, where was that blasted hound at? Soon enough, he found her sitting before an empty bowl, looking utterly rejected—although Sherlock didn't quite understand why. "John, make me—" Wait. John was in bed. With a sigh, he made his own tea, and sat down. Invariably, his eyes were drawn to the still-unnamed pet, who was by then staring back at him. Begging? For food, he assumed—the bowl was empty and the bag John had bought her was impossible for her to use for herself. Lacking thumbs and being so tiny had to be a cruel trick of nature. He felt no inclination to feed her—he had, after all, been told that he was excluded from all duties relating to her besides not killing her or using her for any form of entertainment (because, let's be honest—John didn't trust Sherlock with a puppy any more than he would with a newborn babe).
But, despite his efforts of ignorance to her demands, he found himself meeting her eyes. "I am not your caretaker." His words stood firm and solid, a sign that he would not budge on his oath.
And yet she stared.
Quicksilver eyes, meeting sweet blue eyes, locked in a battle of wits and wants.
Fighting for what each wanted, begging to be allowed what they so desperately needed. Food, and space.
And then she whined.
Maybe just a small fragment of his heart thawed. "Just this once, just this once, you ungrateful vagabond." It was utterly remarkable that he stood up, walked over, lifted her bag of food, and gave her a startlingly appropriate dosage of nutrients to get her going for a feeding's worth.
Later, when a groggy John made his way into the kitchen to make himself coffee, he was greeted to the sight of the puppy's dish refilled (Sherlock had, by then, filled it twice since he'd been awake for ages as is, and it was the older man's day off, thus he slept in), with Sherlock still sitting at the table, watching as the puppy chased after the newly-awoken man. And then John did a double-take. "Did you…"
"Yes, I did. Also, don't use the milk." Just as if he'd done absolutely nothing remarkable.
"You gave me a speech yesterday about how you don't want anything to do with her… and yet you fed her. I'm afraid I don't understand." He turned back to his work, gave the milk a strange look, and continued making his coffee with alternative means.
"I lost a battle, but I assure you, I won't lose the war." Guarded eyes searched for the other man's comparatively warmer ones, but to no success.
"Isn't like you to admit losing anything. You sure you're okay?" Amused, John waited as the coffee maker slowly hissed to life.
"Well, I have to admit the truth once in a while."
"Sherlock, you'll never cease to amaze me."
"Good, because I refuse to lose your interest." A devilish smirk played on his gorgeous lips as John whirled around, giving him quite a look.
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