Disclaimer – No animals were harmed in the making of this fanfiction
As John Watson turned up his collar in a futile attempt to warn off the constant drizzle and freezing temperatures, he wondered what he was actually doing here. It had taken him less than two minutes to confirm the time and cause of death. Given the temperature of the body and the large brick shaped indentation in the back of the victim's head, it was the kind of information he imagined even Anderson would have been capable of supplying.
For the last twenty minutes Sherlock had completely ignored his presence as he bickered with Lestrade about the relevance of some piece of red thread caught in the victim's torn finger nail. If he was honest with himself, John had already had a very long day at the surgery; he was tired, very cold, extremely hungry and in the confided space of the small, Victorian alleyway, the rancid smells of decomposing rubbish and human and animal waste really weren't helping.
Then he heard it.
The mewling cry was soft, but insistent in its distress. Moving further into the alleyway, John briefly considered that this wasn't the most sensible course of action, if the brick wielding manic was still around. However, he was reasonably confident his Army training and the reassuring weight of his gun in his pocket was all the protection he might need. Tracking the sound to a battered cardboard box, he didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know what he would find when he opened it.
"Hello, little one."
Inside the puppy couldn't have been much more than six or seven weeks old. Its terrier ears, mixed with a Boxer body, topped off with a slightly too long tail was testament to its debateable parentage. Not exactly a pedigree, its size and weight also suggested it was most likely the runt of the litter. And rather than taking it to the RSPCA or Dogs Trust or any of the other animal charities which would have taken it in, some heartless git had dumped it in this freezing alleyway to die.
"Shh, shh, easy there."
John reached out slowly to caress the little ears. Leaning to his warmth the emaciated puppy raised its head with an effort so that its small, pink tongue could lick John's hand. The doctor responded by scratching him gently behind the ears, so that the puppy closed his eyes in ecstasy and tipped his head back, leaning into the glorious sensation. John couldn't stop the smile which spread across his face at its blissful reaction.
"Well, I can hardly leave you here, can I boy?" He decided scooping up the furry bundle in one large hand, before he frowned. "Or is it girl?" A quick check didn't require much medical training to ascertain the difference. "Okay boy, let's get you out of this cold and wet and see if we can't find something you'll feel like eating."
Tucking the puppy inside his jacket to share some body heat, John carried it out of the alley, past the crime scene where Sherlock and Lestrade were still arguing and across the road to the warmth and light of an all night cafe on the corner. Not at all sure what the puppy's stomach could tolerate John (carefully hiding the tiny puppy from the owner's eagle eyes in his lap) ordered a mug of warm milk and a plate of scrambled eggs for the puppy and tea and a full English breakfast for him.
"My friend will along in a tick." He smiled at the waitress, when she gave him an odd look at his double order.
Encouraged by the way his new protégé eagerly licked milk from his fingers, surreptitiously tipped some into the saucer held it under the table for the puppy to drink. Then he sneaked it morsels of scrambled egg, as he sated his own hunger with the bit plateful of sausage, bacon, beans, fried egg, fried bread and mushrooms. He decided to take his time. Let Sherlock wonder where he had buggered off to for once. As it was, he was just wiping the plate clean of orange baked bean juice with the last slice of fried bread when Sherlock slid in opposite him.
"I hope that wasn't for me."
Sherlock looked in distaste at the skin which had formed on top of the left over now stone cold milk and the congealed remains of the scrambled eggs, sitting on top of soggy toast.
"Did you eat anything today?" John asked conversationally.
"I ate yesterday, as you are very well aware," Sherlock pointed that. "That's perfectly sufficient for my immediate needs."
"You do know that most people eat at least three times every day?" John pointed out.
"Indeed," Sherlock sniffed. "Just as you are perfectly aware that I am not most people, for example, most people, the proprietor of this establishment included, would be utterly ignorant of the fact that you are presently attempting to hide a small dog inside your jacket inside an establishment licensed to serve food."
"And I'd like to keep it that way, if you don't mind," John hissed. "So, could you keep your bloody superior voice down?"
"Why exactly do you have a dog?" Sherlock brow crinkled. "And where did you get it from?"
"Someone abandoned him near our crime scene." John provided.
"And you thought the animal might be evidence?" Sherlock frowned.
"I thought he was cold and hungry," John shook his head. "Poor little mite's nothing but skin and bones, but a spot of food and a bit of warmth has perked him right up, hasn't it boy?" The puppy responded to John's attention by squirming happily and trying to climb up to lick his chin. "Settle down, Gladstone" John laughed, tucking the small body back down out of sight under the Formica table . "You're not even supposed to be in here. You'll get us all into trouble."
"Gladstone?" Sherlock stiffened.
"It's just a name," John wouldn't meet his eyes. "I needed to call him something."
Sherlock resisted the temptation to say that of course he didn't need to. The slight flush that lit John's cheeks and the way he turned his head away said he knew that already. But the way that his fingers continued to caress the soft fur in reassurance, cradling the small puppy securely in his lap spoke of an already established emotional relationship. Sherlock refused to acknowledge that the small spurt of feeling he experienced was jealously.
"I'm allergic to dog hair." He lied.
"No, you're actually not." John reminded him blandly.
"Yes, I am." Sherlock insisted. "I'm allergic to having dog hairs on the carpet, all over my clothes, right across the kitchen floor .."
"You keep a severed head in the fridge and yet you're worried about a few dog hairs around the place?" John challenged.
"Not just the hairs, obviously," Sherlock scoffed. "Dogs need time. They have to be walked, trained, occupied, they wished to stroked and played with, they need to be fed and watered and brushed and paid attention to."
"Might stop you from getting bored?" John suggested.
"Why didn't I think of that?" Sherlock scoffed. "Dogs being so well known for their scintillating conversation, honestly John, how could you possibly think a creature whose vocabulary is entirely focused on its own self gratification could ever hold the slightest interest for me?"
"I have no idea." John said with a completely straight face.
Sherlock regarded his flatmate sourly for a moment. Part of him was utterly thrilled that John Watson was a man whose conversation actually merited active engagement. The more childish part of him was distinctly put out that his friend knew him well enough to call him on his behaviour. It was not a circumstance he was entirely accustomed to.
"There are numerous charitable organisations," He pointed out. "Whose sole aim is to ensure that abandoned dogs..."
"Gladstone." John interjected.
"That they get suitable homes," Sherlock ignored the interruption. "I hardly think that the two of us, both with full time jobs, living in central London, exactly fit the bill."
"Since when did either of us have full time jobs?" John countered. "I do a few hours at the surgery here and there. And you spend most of your time between cases lying on the sofa in your dressing gown. Most dogs are fine if left for a couple of hours."
"Mrs Hudson would never allow it," Sherlock pointed out loftily, secure in his appeal to a higher power. "Or have you forgotten how terrified she is of dogs?"
"She is not terrified," John couldn't believe the blatant exaggeration. "Granted, she's a bit nervous when she goes out if that kid from the corner shop walks by with his Dad's two Doberman's, but that's because they're big, boisterous dogs and she's not confident he can hold onto them. She's perfectly happy to look after Mrs Turner's poodle for her when she goes away. She would love this little chap and if we were ever completely stuck there's always Harry."
"Harry?" Sherlock was scathing. "You mean, as in your totally irresponsible alcoholic sister, Harry? The next thing I know you'll be advocating Mycroft as a reliable pet sitter on the grounds that he's got some sort of high level security clearance or other."
"Alright then, I'm sure I could find some sort of dog sitting service."
"At £10 an hour?" Sherlock queried. "Not to mention, all the other extra expense. Over its lifetime a recent survey estimated that an average dog would cost £50,000."
"You don't know that the earth goes around the sun, but that you know?" John challenged. "I don't think I even want to know why. Still, it's not like I would be buying him diamond collars and Burberry dog coats."
"And then there are all the extra household costs, when you discover that your little bundle of joy has chewed on the furniture or left its mess on the carpet." Sherlock pointed out.
"After living with you, I think training this little fellow is going to be a piece of cake," John pointed out. "At least, he won't be shooting bullet holes in the wall or exploding eye balls in the microwave."
"John," Sherlock realised his flatmate had gone from talking about the practicalities of having a dog to speaking as if they were actually keeping the thing. "We can't possibly have a dog. The whole idea is preposterous."
"Lot's of people seem to manage." John pointed out calmly. "Didn't you have a dog growing up?"
Despite the slightly odd nature of the Holmes family a dog seemed to be the kind of thing that went with the kind of household John imagined his flatmate growing up in. Right up there with the country estate, a town house in London and being sent to boarding school, the pile of dogs sitting by the Aga.
"Yes," Sherlock's tone was clipped. "Which is why I don't care to have one again. It's not an experience I'm anxious to repeat."
"Did you get bitten?" John straightened up a little.
"No."
"Okay," John considered that. "Chased then maybe?"
"Really, John you do have a tendency towards the dramatic," Sherlock observed.
"And you still haven't told me why you don't want a dog."
"Because there's no point in it," Sherlock protested. "You spend all that time and money but sooner or later the dog will simply die and you'll be left with nothing to show for any of it."
"You were upset because your dog died." John realised.
"Why would something that was utterly inevitable possibly upset me?" Sherlock asked.
John studied his friend closely. The question didn't quite carry the usual ring of arrogance. Sherlock might be a difficult person to get close to and John had plenty of his own theories as to why that might be, most of which related more to being a stunningly intelligent child, who had little in common with his peers, or even most adults, leaving him confused about how to interact with the world around him and determined to live down to expectations, even as he was driven to prove his brilliance, than being a sociopath high functioning or otherwise. But the other man was perfectly capable of forming attachments to people he liked and most telling of all, people who liked him.
"You're wrong you know." John scratched the dog's ears. "You're not left with nothing. You also have a lot of good memories."
Sherlock looked away, but his expression was thoughtful rather than dismissive. John waited patiently. He knew that if Sherlock was adamant about not having the dog then Mike Stamford had been talking about getting a puppy for his children. He wasn't going to tell Sherlock that though, much as he wanted to keep the puppy, he also thought it would be good for his friend.
"I'm not looking after it." Sherlock announced suddenly.
"That's fine by me." John hid his smile as he remembered his mother once making exactly the same declaration. Yet once the dog had become part of the household, she had spoiled it shamelessly whenever she didn't think anyone else was watching. He could see Sherlock being just like that.
"Then I suggest that we get out of here," Sherlock advised. "The waitress has been staring at us for the last two minutes."
"Too late." John realised.
"Is that a dog?" Her shrill voice sounded out across the room. "You can't bring a dog in here. I'm calling the police on you."
"Shall we?" Sherlock grinned tightly.
"Ready when you are." John assured him, ensuring Gladstone was tucked safely against his chest.
They ran.