Puppy Not-Love
Sherlock fruitlessly tried to pull his collar closer to his face, hunkering down against the cold and the rain that was battering London. Weather forecasts. He never really had any inclination to check them before he went out, but it was always a habit that he said he'd try... mostly on days like this, when he was caught in the torrential downpour.
Why did all the cabbies always seems to be too preoccupied when it was pissing down? The only time Sherlock ever had trouble with cabs was when the weather took a turn for the worse.
Soaked and shivering, his coat heavy against his skin, he rounded another corner and stayed close to the buildings, hoping for an awning or, at the very least, an overhang to block the rain.
He took a shortcut through an alley - a path he was familiarised with frequently- shivering harder as the rain picked up intensity fractionally.
He was about to exit the alley when a soft noise drew his attention. He was always on alert, high-alert in shady places, even. The homeless on the streets of London mostly were under his command, but there were a few strays that tried to be 'singular' in the scheme of things. Sherlock didn't trust those people. He did, however, trust his own baritsu. Anyone who confronted him would end up out cold in ten seconds flat. Sherlock was hardly in the mood.
However, as it turned, there wasn't a person at all.
There was another rustle. It seemed to be coming from a dripping cardboard box.
Rats were possible, but size differentiation and the sound... More than likely a cat, straying for food. No meowing, however, and no clawing of cardboard to shreds, either.
Curiosity would kill him, Sherlock knew, but something pulled him to the box and away from the safety and comfort of Baker Street. With a sigh, he back-tracked and grabbed at a corner of the sodden box.
Despite himself, he jumped when a little dog's head popped out of the opening. It stared up at him with big, brown eyes and barked, making him jump again.
"... Just a dog," he muttered, hand faltering.
It looked like a Labrador, chocolate in colour with large floppy ears and presumably large paws. It couldn't have been more than a month, a month and half old. No tags. Its fur and its shelter made the presumption that it had been abandoned. Recently, going by the state of the box the animal was in.
Something strangely close to nostalgia welled up in Sherlock's before he could squash it. He crushed it immediately when he could and put on his usual face, but it didn't stop him from reaching into the box and gently lifting the puppy out.
"Hey there, little one..." he murmured. He ran his fingers gently over the puppy's body, looking for anything that was out of order. All of its bones seemed in tact and it didn't even seem underweight, but it had been clearly abandoned.
Its tail was wagging ferociously, its whole body waggling with the motion.
A little smile tugged at Sherlock's lips. Further evidence that the dog had not been abused - it didn't flinch away from him, but tried to lick his face.
"Oh... come on, then," he muttered. He shifted the dog to one arm and unbuttoned his coat, gently positioning the animal against his chest before wrapping the coat around it. He buttoned it as far as he could without choking the puppy and gripped at the bundle so it wouldn't fall.
"It's much too cold and wet for this right now," he muttered, beginning his stride again.
It took less than ten minutes to get to his doorstep. He only paused slightly in the doorway - Mrs Hudson had a no-pets rule in Baker Street - but this was slightly different. He took the steps two at a time, shivering in time with the animal concealed under his coat.
"Sherlock? Oh, you're soaked." John had glanced up from his chair, frowning.
Sherlock sighed. "Funny enough, I noticed." He shifted uncomfortably, his clothes clinging to him and a puppy snuggled to his chest. "... John, do you have any allergies?"
John looked away from the telly again. "... Why? If you're doing another one of those pollen counts-"
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "Allergies to animals."
"Why?" John asked again. "Did you find a dog on a case?"
No more than had John said that, the bundle in Sherlock's coat yipped.
"Well, it was more on the walk home," Sherlock said, folding his coat back to reveal the puppy. "It was in a box, in an alley... no tags. Abandoned."
John's eyes had gotten progressively wider throughout Sherlock's explanation. He stared at the puppy and then looked at Sherlock. "Mrs Hudson is going to have a fit!"
Sherlock licked his lips, something close to nervousness crawling beneath his skin. "I couldn't leave it out there. It's cold and rainy and windy. We can always hand it over to a shelter, but I figured we could take care of it for now."
John's lips turned down at the corners. "I never pegged you as a dog lover."
Sherlock shivered hard, not from John's statement but from the cold. "Could you, maybe... watch it or something while I change and shower? It's freezing." It took all of his willpower to stop his teeth from chattering.
John sighed. "Take that coat off and get me a towel or a blanket. That dog's probably just as cold as you are."
Sherlock nodded. One-armed and awkward, he managed to shrug his coat off into a sopping pile on the floor. Abandoning his shoes, he squelched his way to the bathroom, found one of John's plushiest towels, and wrapped the puppy up in it.
"Is it a girl or boy?" John asked from the doorway.
"I don't know," Sherlock said, handing the puppy over to John. "I didn't check. I was a little preoccupied. I'm freezing."
"Hm." John cuddled the puppy up to his chest, a smile breaking out across his face for the first time since Sherlock got home. "Alright, buddy, let's see if you're a little girl or boy and then we'll get you some water and food."
John left the bathroom, leaving Sherlock rolling his eyes as he peeled his clothes away from his skin.
John was wrong.
Sherlock was a dog person. He was so a dog person. If anyone could melt his stone-cold heart, it was a dog. Big brown eyes, floppy ears, clumsy paws, baby growls and barks, puppy breath, and the loyalty of man's best friend. Sherlock's best friend had always been his old dog, a red Irish Setter, Redbeard... but that had been an age ago. Different times and different... lives, really. Well, he still didn't have friends, save for John, who followed him around like a dog...
There was a series of yips from the kitchen, followed by a peal of John's laughter.
Before Sherlock could stop it, the smile had jumped back to his lips and, this time, he was helpless to push it away.
Imagining having a dog around, for however a short of time, made Sherlock melt... just a tiny bit... on the inside... and out.
Been wanting to write this ever since Redbeard. :p There will be more chapters, with fluffy Sherlock being in ("not") puppy love with the cute little fuzz-ball. :p
I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!
