This short story deals with the sensitive issue of losing a beloved pet. Therefore, it may be triggering to some, so please proceed with caution.

*These events takes place within the AU series that I have created for the Holmes family that starts with 'A Small Price to Pay for Her', goes through 'The Beginnings of Us' and up to my current WIP, 'Origins'.*

It's Hard to Say Goodbye

If there was one part about life that Sherlock perfectly understood and accepted, it was that things aged. In the scientific sense of the word, age was a perfectly simple concept to understand. Everything got older with time; people, places, things. It wasn't something that could be avoided; in fact, most would call age a 'natural process'; a logical means to an end.

But when it came to Redbeard…Sherlock couldn't make his mind wrap around the fact that his beloved pet was indeed getting old.

The signs as to Redbeard's condition were loud and clear: he was moving slower, and getting tired at a much faster rate. He ate less and slept more. He took longer to come inside after being let out. And most disturbing of all, he was rather keen to hide away from everyone for hours at a time. It was, from what Sherlock could piece together, the textbook description of an animal that was coping with coming up to the end of its life...but Redbeard was different from other dogs. He wasn't just some common, everyday ordinary creature; he was Sherlock Holmes's dog. No, he wasn't immune to age, but surely he would act differently about this than normal dogs - at least, that's what Sherlock tried to reason within himself.

As he followed the faint paw print outlines in the brittle grass one cold November day, Sherlock looked into the dried up bushes by the very corner of the backyard and found who was he looking for.

"There you are, boy," he breathed as he got to his knees to get a better look. Redbeard was curled up in a tight ball of red fur, his face hidden away. "Come, Redbeard. Come on, boy." But no matter how much Sherlock tried to get him to move, Redbeard seemed to be content to stay in place. "Please come out of there…please," he said softly, his heart slightly sinking as Redbeard curled tighter into himself and continued to ignore his coaxing.

"Sherlock!" Mummy called from the back door. "Lunch is ready!" She waited a few seconds. "Sweetheart, come inside; it's cold out here."

"I'm not leaving Redbeard," Sherlock called back without taking his eyes off the dog. After a few minutes –in which he continued to try to talk Redbeard out of his hiding spot-, he heard footsteps next to him and Daddy grunted with effort as he got down on his knees.

"Sherlock," he said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Redbeard will be all right. He just needs some time alone right now."

"But-"

"You don't want to catch a chill, now do you? Come."

Sherlock sighed and got up, Daddy getting up to follow him back to the house. Mummy stood at the door with a cloth in her hand, watching them come up.

"Where's Redbeard?" she asked.

"He…he's on an adventure," Sherlock answered distantly, walking past Mummy and into the warm house. He looked toward the bowl of soup that waited for him at the table, but sighed and turned to walk away; suddenly, his appetite was gone. What he didn't see as he disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom was the look of sympathy that was exchanged between his parents.

The thump by the staircase almost made Linda's heart stop, but as quickly as it startled her, she sighed in exasperation.

"That dog," she muttered as she straightened up from her crouched position on the kitchen floor. With a wince, she got to her feet and slipped her hands out of the yellow rubber gloves. "Redbeard," she called as she rounded the corner. "I thought I told you to stop-" The gloves dropped from her hands and immediately, she was back on her knees next to Redbeard, who was sprawled out by the bottom stair in an awkward position.

"Oh dear, did you take a tumble? It's okay, now, you're okay," she whispered as she gingerly felt his sides to make sure nothing was broken. As she felt down his right hind leg, her fingers touched a mass, and at Redbeard's shrill bark of protest, she felt her breath catch in her throat. That mass…she didn't know much about dogs nor about their health, but she did know that what she felt wasn't normal…at all. It couldn't be...could it?

Getting to her feet, she went for the phone by the kitchen wall, taking a deep breath as she slowly dialed the number that was one on the list of emergency numbers. It's just to be sure that he's all right, that's all...

"Yes, hello," she said when the voice on the other end of the line answered. "I was just wondering if you have any open appointments today." She paused. "No, I'm sorry, but this really can't wait until tomorrow. Our dog just fell down the stairs, and he's in pain. I would like for us to be seen today, if at all possible." Thankfully the secretary had managed to find an opening for later in the afternoon and Linda immediately took it, muttering a quick 'thank you' before hanging up the phone.

She looked to Redbeard, who was already back up on his feet, his leg with the mass hovering off the ground as he limped toward his bed. Oh, how I hope this is just my imagination, she thought to herself as she went to clean up.

You're doing this for Redbeard; you're doing this for Sherlock. You're doing this for Redbeard…

Linda suspiciously eyed the English bulldog that was more or less happily drooling as he sat by her. It has been at least an hour since she and Redbeard had arrived at the vet clinic, and each passing second in the waiting room was a grating torture on her nerves. The bulldog slobbered and snorted loudly, a large milky white pearl of drool dropping down from his lip and onto her shoe.

"Isn't he just a dear?" the elderly woman that was apparently his owner asked sweetly. Linda pursed her lips and willed herself not to have a sudden violent leg twitch to let the woman know just how much of a 'dear' she thought him to be.

"Holmes," a man called from the doorway of one of the exam rooms. Linda jumped up so quick that the bulldog started and took to shelter under the elderly woman's chair. Redbeard got to his feet as well and slowly followed Linda's lead down the hall.

After a brief exam, an x-ray to check from broken bones, a round of blood work and a biopsy of the lump on Redbeard's leg, the doctor assured Linda that he would call within a few days with the results, and they left the clinic with instructions on how to care for Redbeard if he showed any further signs of pain. After Linda helped him climb into the passenger's seat, she shut the door and sighed. As much as she wanted to believe that everything was fine and well, something told her that belief that she clung to was about to be shattered.

Luckily at home later that evening, Sherlock and Chris didn't seem to notice that anything had happened -to which Linda was immensely relieved-, and life continued on normally. It was only behind closed doors in their bedroom as they lay cuddling together later that night that she had mentioned the clinic visit to Chris.

"Do you think it's serious?" he asked as his fingers played with some locks of her curly blonde hair.

"Honestly, I don't know. If it is, we're going to have to really think about which course of action would be best for Redbeard." A beat of a pause passed.

"You know, I always thought that he would die of grand old age," Chris finally said. "It never once crossed my mind that we would actually have to think about this-" he trailed off and Linda hugged him tighter, leaning up to kiss his cheek.

"Neither did I," she murmured as she laid her head back down on his chest.

"You're rather quiet this evening."

Chris's gentle probe broke through Linda's concentration and she closed the book that she was mindlessly scanning to look up at him. If it wasn't for the seriousness of what she was about to say, she would've found some humor in watching Chris struggle with removing his favorite red bowtie from around his neck.

"The vet called today."

"That doesn't sound good," he said slowly, sitting down. Her fingers worried at the threads in the quilt on their bed and she took a deep breath to steady herself.

"Redbeard has osteosarcoma."

Chris stared at her. "What?"

"It's cancer, Chris- bone cancer." Linda put her head in her hands. "And it's aggressive. Apparently, by the time that most cases of it are caught, it's already micrometastasized to the lungs and other bones. There are different treatment options: radiation, drugs, amputation, but no ultimate cure. The vet estimates that even if Redbeard tries to battle it, he would have only a few months left to live." She rubbed her temples as the room became engulfed in a shocked silence. She could hear Chris occasionally take a deep breath and open his mouth to speak, but pause and sigh. Finally, he took her hand and kissed her fingers.

"We'll tell him together," he said. "Tomorrow, first thing. He needs to know, Lin."

Linda nodded curtly. A part of her was already cringing as her mind pictured different scenarios and reactions to the news - and none of those pictures ended well. Being fifteen years old was already hard enough on Sherlock; being told that he was going to lose his one and only friend wasn't going to make things any easier for him.

"He loves that dog, Chris," she whispered, her nose and back of her throat burning as though she had inhaled a handful of pepper. "…I love him." Her voice broke and a tear rolled down her cheek. Her mind raced with so many questions, but only one seemed to matter: why Redbeard? Why did fate have to bestow such a terrible fate on such a good dog? It just wasn't fair - it just wasn't right.

Chris's arms encircled her and he tenderly kissed her forehead. "I love him, too, Lin; I love him, too."

"The vet you took him to is an idiot."

Linda and Chris briefly looked at each other; of course they should've known that Sherlock would readily chalk up the news to the vet's supposed idiocy.

"Redbeard is just fine," Sherlock continued as his eyes drifted to the dog, who was snoring softly in his bed by the back door. "There's nothing wrong with him; absolutely nothing wrong," he stressed.

"Sherlock, the cancer's spreading-"

"Don't tell me that you actually believe what they told you," he snapped in response to Linda's quiet words. "Vets tell people all sorts of rubbish; all they want is money-"

"Sweetheart-"

"And you're stupid enough to actually go along with what he said!" Sherlock shot to his feet, the chair he was sitting in falling back on its back with a loud crack. "I can't believe you! You, the so-called 'prodigy', falling for such a simple hare-brained scheme-"

"All right, stop it, now." Chris got to his feet. "Sherlock, we understand that this is hard for you to hear-"

"You just want to kill him off!" Sherlock pointed an accusing finger to Linda. "That's what this is all about, isn't it?! You and your stupid house and furniture and whatever else! Well, you're not laying one damn finger on him to take him anywhere! He's my dog, and I say that he's just fine!" Sherlock whirled around, almost tripping over himself as he ripped open the back door, startling Redbeard awake.

"Redbeard, come," he said tightly. With a soft grunt, Redbeard got to his feet and very gingerly walked to his master's side. At the echoing slam of the door, Chris and Linda looked at each other again.

"Well, the worst is over with," he said with a sad smile. "He'll come to, Lin; he just needs some time."

Linda nodded simply and looked out the window to Sherlock and Redbeard walking across the backyard to the lab. Time…all Sherlock needed was time, Chris said. Time that, if the vet's prediction was of any indication, he mostly likely didn't have.

Trips back to the family home were a rare occurrence for Mycroft. The work that came with his newly acquired position in the government kept him so busy that he barely remembered that there was life outside of it. But Mummy's phone call that morning put a pause in his usual busy day, and within hours of talking to her, he found himself face-to-face with his quiet, but happy parents. As he tucked away the last of the delicious lunch that Mummy had prepared to welcome him, he cleared his throat and put his fork down.

"This is about Redbeard, isn't it?" No use in dancing around the issue, he thought to himself dryly. Mummy and Daddy nodded on either side of him, and he distinctly noted that the mood of pleasantry between them all immediately darkened.

"Osteosarcoma, is it? The outline of the tumor on his leg is painfully obvious," he clarified as his parents stared at him. Everyone's eyes fell to Redbeard, who was slowly limping to his food dish, once again favouring the leg with the tumor.

"Sherlock isn't taking the news very well," Mummy whispered, her spoon gently clacking on the sides of her teacup.

"I expected as much," Mycroft replied. "You know, As much as he would like to believe it, Redbeard can't live forever. It wouldn't be fair or financially practical to try to and treat him at his age. He'll have more bad days than good at this point." He stood up and walked to Redbeard's side, reaching down to stroke his head gently. That one touch would probably be the last physical contact that he would have with the family dog, and distantly, a pang stung within him at the knowledge.

"If you'll excuse me." Without waiting for an answer, he strolled away and to the back door. He needed to have a talk with his little brother before he talked himself into a complete state of irreversible denial. Mycroft noticed as he walked across the backyard that the weather seemed rather fit for a discussion of such a dark nature; gloomy, bleak and cold - not a hint of sunshine to be seen. Despite the very plain 'DO NOT ENTER' sign on the door of Sherlock's small makeshift lab, Mycroft walked in and found his little brother tending to a boiling flask full of vibrant violet smoke. At the sound of the door opening, Sherlock turned around.

"Goggles," he said, pointing to a spare pair sitting on the table. Mycroft obediently donned them and walked to stand and watch the smoke billow and roll within the flask.

"And what, pray tell, would be the reason for this little experiment?" he asked as he watched smoke disappear through the open window. Sherlock shrugged.

"No real reason, really. Just wanted to see how many different colors of smoke I could make."

Mycroft rolled his eyes internally. In other words, Sherlock would rather do something where he had control over the outcome versus facing something that was out his of his hands.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked a few seconds.

"I had some spare time; thought I would drop by and see you all."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're not a very good liar."

"Well, you're clever; deduce why I'm here, then." A pause.

"You needn't worry about Redbeard. He's just fine; Mummy took him to a quack vet and she's under the impression that he's…" Sherlock pursed his lips. "You can see that he's fine, can't you?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "What I see is a dog who's health is quickly failing."

"Of course you would side with her," Sherlock muttered. "You never liked Redbeard, either," he said louder.

"It's not that I didn't like him; he was just never my pet to begin with-"

Sherlock slammed his hand down. "Oh, sod it. Just admit that you wish that we never had a dumb animal to take care of; that you wish Mummy just left him to die in the road that day she found him. Go on, just say it; I know you want to."

Mycroft blinked to try to recover from the short instance of shock at Sherlock's out lash. "No, I don't wish that. I'll admit that a dog was the last thing I thought Mummy would ever allow into the house. She can barely stand to touch faux fur, much less fur on a real animal and yet, she was just fine with letting a little puppy run throughout her house. It wasn't logical to me. But I don't regret Redbeard coming into our lives. He made –makes- you happy." And that's all I ever wanted for you. They watched the smoke in silence for a few minutes.

"Do you remember when Mummy came home from hospital and we were sitting at the window in the kitchen?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock nodded. "What did I tell you while we were sitting there?"

"Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock repeated softly.

"And that's the truth, Sherlock. If you really, truly care for Redbeard's well-being, you'll do the right thing toward him, even though it will hurt you. Because that's what good, selfless pet owners do. I surely hope that you won't let your emotions about the situation interfere with your overall judgment - because that wouldn't be fair to Redbeard, now would it?" With those last words, Mycroft turned and walked away, hoping that the slam of the door behind him sealed the words within his little brother's conscious.

Later that night, Linda passed by Sherlock's bedroom and saw that he wasn't in there. It didn't exactly surprise her -he was quite the serious night owl- but something told her that it wasn't because he was running another experiment of some kind. Going down the stairs, she saw him and Redbeard huddled together in front of the roaring fireplace on a makeshift bed of sheets and quilts, Sherlock's face buried in the fur on the back of the dog's neck. She swallowed and walked up behind them, getting to her knees.

"Redbeard won't come up the stairs," Sherlock said softly as he stroked Redbeard's stomach. Linda sighed; every night for the past ten years, the two of them slept side by side no matter what and apparently Sherlock wasn't about to break the tradition. Trying her best to control her shaking hands, she gently tucked the quilt tighter around them and kissed Sherlock's head. She reached to pet Redbeard's head, a tear running down her cheek as he sighed deeply and further relaxed in Sherlock's hold.

The little puppy that had brought such a light to the family, to Sherlock's life -to her life- was on the cusp of fading away. And she didn't know how in the world she was supposed to handle it.

Linda got to her feet and turned around to see that Chris was watching them, a look of such utter heartache on his face that she felt her chest lurch. He nodded toward the couch and she followed his lead, sitting down next to him as he tucked the spare quilt around their shoulders. As they held each other, they watched as Sherlock and Redbeard fell asleep, the fire in the fireplace slowly dying to a pile of glowing embers.

NOTE: This one-shot is for the 'Huddling for Warmth' trope for the Let's Write Sherlock Trope Bingo Challenge on tumblr (though the huddling came toward the end…first time writing something like this and all…)

(If you're curious as to what moment Mycroft was referring to in his conversation with Sherlock, see Chapter Five of 'Eclipse' from 'The Beginnings of Us'.)

I dedicate this particular one-shot to two cats that meant the world to me. Kato and Jasmine were my childhood pets, and died within two months of each other last year. I am so grateful that I was chosen out of all the kids in the world to receive those two precious souls to love and care for over fifteen wonderful years. Though I struggled and fought with the concept of letting them go, much like Sherlock did here, I think he and I can agree that under our unique circumstances, it was the best thing that we could've ever done for our best friends.

GeorgyannWayson