Title:Unconditional
Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Sherlock, Johnlock. You get the picture.
Summary: 'Dogsitting. Ridiculous, dull, completely unnecessary and distinctly unsavory. He won't have it.' In which the exasperated Dr Watson is called upon to look after a friend's dog and the world's only consulting detective endures slobbering and unwanted affections. From the dog, that is. It doesn't help that he's on a case. Slash, because I can: Johnlock.
Warnings: A certain consulting detective and a particular doctor in a relationship. Together. With each other.
Notes: Recently I've gotten completely trapped in Johnlock fandom (somebody, help me out! I can feel whatever semblance of a social life I had withering and dying!). And I simply couldn't get this idea out of my mind. This is just a short fic (for me, anyway) in which I attempt to get the feel of writing in this fandom before my longer fic. I would appreciate any reviews you choose to leave, even if you think they don't say much. I love receiving any comments at all. I don't think this fic will be particularly popular as even to me, the idea sounds ridiculous, I am not known in the Johnlock community and I'm unsure of the general reception of such readers. But I hope you, whoever you are, reading this, enjoy reading my story as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)
OOOOOOOO
Chapter 1: First Impressions
His finger slides easily along the thinnest string, towards the bridge and then back, up and back, up and back. Sherlock is well aware that this siren-like noise irritates John like no other, especially when he's playing on the E string and then finishes with vibrato on the highest note he can make. Which is considerably high. Especially at seven twenty-one on a Saturday morning.
And, of course, as he predicted, he hears John's feet thump on the floor above as he gives up on sleep and resignedly, angrily by the sounds of it, gets out of bed. Good. Sherlock is bored and if John gets up this early on a Saturday he will want to do something with the day, which means they will go out and maybe there will be something for a restless, bored genius to do. Unlikely but he is hopeful, regardless. It has been four days since his last case and already his experiments are starting to seem too minor, too insignificant and unsatisfying. He longs for puzzles, for something to latch onto and work on. He needs it.
He draws the bow across E violently, in an outward burst of energy and frustration, his finger still poised near the bridge. The screech results in a loud curse from upstairs. Judging from the pitch, tone and duration, including John's predictable morning routine, he has cut himself while shaving. Sherlock wonders if it's possible to coordinate someone's actions, and to what degree, by using his violin alone. Plausible, certainly. The stick and carrot analogy and the bell and salivating dog experiment come to mind, and he concludes that the experiment is not worth his time as he is already certain of the results.
His lip curls upwards but before he can do anything else, there is a knock at the front door.
Sherlock springs to his feet, violin and bow lying on the chair instantly at the prospect of something new, anything currently unknown. He races to the door, knowing it won't be Lestrade, but hoping that it's anything, absolutely anything.
He flings the door open and he knows his eyes are wild and eager and he will frighten away whoever it is, but he doesn't care.
A man stands on the doorstep. An unknown man, a stranger. A simple, rather uninteresting puzzle doubtless, as normal humans generally are, but beggars can't be choosers.
"Afghanistan, highly ranked, Brigadier perhaps, wounded in action two years ago, likely leg – no: hip – trauma judging by the commanding yet off balance posture. Shadows under eyes, tired overall demeanour indicates sleepless nights. Slight downturn of mouth, hollowness of eyes, bloodshot eyes makes it obvious that it is due to nightmares; predictably symptoms of post traumatic stress disorder, common to soldiers. But lack of sleep not wholly due to this: uneven shaving, slightly wrinkled clothing and deodorant only, no cologne, paired with the way you flex your ring finger when under stress, as if uncomfortable with the wedding ring there for purely psychological reasons, is indicative of an unhappy marriage. It could be due to the emotional distress of your military experience and resulting mental illness but more likely due to your increasing discomfort with being around your wife after a long period apart, hence why you bought a dog fifteen months ago to satisfy your need for silent, understanding companionship that you miss and need. Labrador, naturally, appealed to your sense of needing to be healed as they are often perceived and utilised as a healing breed with quiet temperaments and few needs. Your wife does not approve of the dog, judging by the lack of hair on clothing above mid-thigh, except for the cuff of your sleeves where you pat the dog but it is not allowed to jump up. In conclusion, you are an old army friend of John's and have hit a rough patch with your marriage and are here to ask John if he might look after your dog for a short period of time while you attempt to salvage your marriage. Which is highly unlikely, by the way; she's just trying to think of a way to tell you that she's going to leave you and wants your remaining time together to be a happy time. Also, his answer is no; John does not have time to look after a dog or time to attempt to offer comfort to you and I do not approve of live animals in my living space."
Sherlock finishes speaking and takes a refreshing inhale of cold air. The greying man before him gapes openly, speechless, but Sherlock is only mourning the fact that the man is no longer new and unknown to him and that he is bored again.
"Henry? What are you doing here?"
Sherlock huffs and folds his arms at the disbelieving voice coming from the stairs behind him. "I assume you didn't hear my more than adequate explanation, then."
John gives him an exasperated, annoyed look and Sherlock thinks he detects a hint of warning there too. Obviously he has heard his examination then and is only being sensitive to his old friend's current problems. How dull and bothersome.
"It's so great to see you. Come in!"
"I – err." The man named Henry looks away from John and back at Sherlock warily as if he's a conjuration from his imagination. Sherlock has seen the look countless times and is beyond bored with it.
"It's alright, don't worry about him. He's always like that." John explains and Sherlock glares at him. I'm right here, you know. "This is my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock, this is Henry Milford, my old mate... though I suppose you know that. Right, of course you do. But come on in, Henry, would you like some tea?"
"Uhh, yes, tea would be grand, thanks." Henry flashes John a brief smile but still watches Sherlock warily out of the corner of his eye and Sherlock notices that he edges around him when entering the flat. He wants to snort but knows that it might offend Henry, which in turn would offend John and John is already in a bad mood. This bad mood could pose a threat for finding anything not-boring to do today, so Sherlock turns and marches up the stairs. He knows the two men are following and can practically feel their silent conversation about the odd flat mate going on behind his back, and he huffs again. Perhaps, at least, if John and Henry get to talking, he will find out even more about this man who he suspects suffered childhood trauma, which is a little bit less dull than the rest of the man. He has nothing else to do, anyway.
Sherlock sits by the window as John makes tea and sits across from Henry, in his armchair. The consulting detective notices that there are three cups of tea but John has put them all on the coffee table instead of bringing Sherlock's directly to him over by the window, and that the handle is pointing away from him. Most likely subconscious but still childish. John is still in a bad mood then. He sniffs and turns back to the window.
Henry and John prattle on behind him and he's stopped listening. Of course, his subconscious is still receiving the stimulation and taking in every word, which is annoying and a waste of valuable mind space, but he can't be bothered to stop it. He watches people walking on the street below and observes them, deducing their lives until it all blurs into one great irritating ball of predictable humanity and he violently wrenches himself away from the window. Then he realises it's silent and he looks over to see that John has left for the kitchen to make more tea, Sherlock's still untouched on the table, and Henry is staring at him.
The look is not angry; it's uncomfortable, confused and curious, but there's no anger. Sherlock had half expected the man to turn away – few can handle his scrutiny, he's found – but the man resolutely continues to look. Understandable, Sherlock thinks absently, like many military men, his strength is in confrontation and directness.
"How did you know... about all that stuff?"
"I am a consulting detective. The world's only. I observe, I see what is there and make deductions. It's not difficult. Beyond normal people, certainly, but that's hardly saying much."
The man frowns, obviously aware that he was being insulted, although that was not necessarily Sherlock's intention, but then John is walking back into the room with two fresh cups of tea. He glances at Sherlock, silently telling him to be nice, and Sherlock turns away again, aware that he's assumed the stance of a petulant child but he doesn't care.
"So, Henry. Anything in particular you wanted to see me about?"
"I've already said that he wants you to look after his dog because his wife does not approve of the dog and he's trying to patch up a failed marriage – a completely futile attempt, as I mentioned. Tell him no and be done with it so we can go and find something to do."
"Sherlock." John says in a low warning. Sherlock can feel John's heated gaze on his back and he fights the urge to smile. Getting John riled up isn't difficult but it can sometimes produce amusing results.
"Ignore him. Go on." John says quickly to Henry, voice tight in frustration.
"...Well, yes, I was actually going to ask you to look after my dog for a week or two. My brother's children are allergic and I was hoping to... sort things out with Charlotte... But you probably can't take him and there are places I can pay to take him, I just thought a friend would be better."
"No, it's fine. I'll take him."
Simultaneously but with very different emotions behind it, Sherlock and Henry exclaim. "What?"
"I'll take the dog." John says smoothly. "I've always liked dogs and our landlady won't mind if it's only for a week or two."
As Henry gives his sincere, surprised thanks, Sherlock narrows his eyes at his blogger. The fair haired man was studiously not looking in his direction, lip curled up slightly at the corner, suggesting smug amusement and he was leaning forward in his chair. Oh, so that's what you're playing at, Doctor John Watson. He'd pushed him a tad too far and now John was trying to teach him a lesson. How trite.
"I'll go get him now and I'll bring his things up. He's waiting in the car." Henry clapped John on the back in what Sherlock assumed was silent gratitude and bounded out of the flat.
"You're trying to teach me a lesson." It's not a question and he allows some of his annoyance to creep into his voice, John smiling as he hears it.
"I'm doing a favour for a friend. You are being a rude, inconsiderate git, as usual." There is no heat in the words, in fact, Sherlock thinks he hears fond affection. Odd. But John has always struck him as odd, in his own way. Actually, John seems rather cheerful now that he knows Sherlock is going to be thrown out of his comfort zone in retaliation for being 'a rude, inconsiderate git'.
Sherlock eyes him carefully, eyes still narrowed. "You have not won anything. You may like dogs perfectly well when they are in the care of others but you're not thinking about the mess, the hair, the smell, the pathetic dependency, the barking, the dog's stupidity and the impracticality of looking after something with our unconventional lifestyle."
He can see he's made John doubt himself a little at that (oh, that's far too easy to do), but Henry is so obviously grateful and John Watson has his stubborn moments. They mostly happen when he thinks Sherlock is being a rude, inconsiderate git, so now must be the time for another of those moments.
"Maybe a dog would do you some good, Sherlock," John just grins at Sherlock's withering glare, "They're therapeutic."
"I don't need therapy." Sherlock hisses angrily but before John can give him more than an amused, incredulous look, Henry is back and Sherlock winces at the sound of dog nails scratching on the stairs. But it's alright, because if Sherlock has to put up with a disgusting dog, then John has to put up with more experiments involving body parts in the kitchen with less complaints. They have a bartering system. Sherlock thinks that John isn't aware of it but that doesn't mean it doesn't exist.
Henry enters, arms laden with dog food, a couple of garishly coloured dog toys and a soft dog bed. Behind him is the beast.
Sherlock wrinkles his nose pointedly as it rushes towards John, tailing wagging enthusiastically and mouth agape in an idiotic way that might have been a grin, but Sherlock knew that dogs didn't grin.
"This is Sam. He's eighteen months-"
Sherlock rolls his eyes in disgust and cuts Henry off loudly. "Ugh. Sam the Labrador. Dull, dull, dull!"
Henry gives him an annoyed, hurt look but apparently he's already getting used to him because he simply turns back to John as he puts the dog's things on the chair. "There's a list of instructions there but he's an easy going guy, you should be fine."
Sherlock was about to point out the incorrect use of the word fine, but he was too busy grimacing at the way that Sam was receiving John's petting with inexcusable amounts of slobber. Henry glances at Sherlock again, but this time his face is worrying and apologetic.
"It's alright, isn't it? You don't look like you like dogs, I mean, I don't want to put you out or anything."
"Oh, drop it. The dog's already here, the agreement is arranged. The politeness is just unnecessary and dull. Stop."
"Right." Henry says slowly, then looks back to John, his expression switching back to grateful and bright. "Well, I best be off. Thanks again... both of you, I guess."
John walks his friend to the door, smiling and chatting, leaving Sherlock with the animal. He watches with narrowed eyes as it follows Henry until Henry fondly says goodbye to it and walks out of the room. Then it turns back to the room, sniffing along the floor, following invisible scents. Sherlock watches it with undisguised disgust. It is an ideal specimen for its breed, granted; it is average height and weight for a Labrador, its coat different shades of cream, turning to tan and its tail seems to be unable to stop wagging. It is obviously treated well, judging by its confidence and contentedness, but Sherlock confirms that Henry's wife dislikes it because it doesn't try to jump up on the furniture, it's nails are obviously routinely clipped and it has been bathed more often than normal for a dog. But then, in the middle of Sherlock's reluctant observations, it looks up from its fascinated sniffing and spots the figure sitting in the chair by the window. Sherlock bristles at the look of excited adoration and leans back as far as possible as the idiot comes charging forwards, tail swishing and eyes twinkling. Before he's thought about it, he's calling out "John!" and winces at how the dog is getting hair and saliva on his knees and thighs as it dances around the chair trying to get to his face without jumping up. John appears moments later, while Sherlock is pushing the dog's face away and scowling at the way it licks his hands.
John's laughter wakes him up a bit and he quickly recalls the dynamics of pack animals. "Down." He says firmly and deeply and, finally, the dog sits before him, still wagging its tail and obviously desperate to leap up and attack Sherlock's face, but the obvious order has worked and he remains seated.
"Well, what do you know. He likes you." John grins. "Poor thing obviously doesn't have a clue."
John pats his leg and the dog scampers over to him, eager for attention. Sherlock watches as John bends down to roughly scratch the dogs neck, beneath the collar and then behind the ears. Then the dog rolls its head back to look directly at Sherlock and he swears it is grinning at him smugly, victoriously, even, basking in John's generous attention. He glares at it and then quickly looks away, furious with himself for even thinking such ridiculous things. A dog couldn't possibly look at him that way or imply such thoughts; he is simply applying human attributes to an animal, which is something he considers ridiculous and pointless, and most certainly beneath him.
Luckily his phone vibrates, distracting him and he has it out of his pocket in two seconds.
Lestrade: Arson, suspected murder. 9. Abbingdon Road. Be quick.
Sherlock immediately leaps out of his chair and in three bounds he's grabbed his coat and scarf of their respective hooks.
"A case, John. A case! Arson can be terribly predictable and boring but Lestrade claims it's a nine. Of course, that means little due to their incompetence and generally average intelligence, but it's something."
"That's... great, I suppose. For you, anyway." John straightens, frowning slightly. "What am I going to do with Sam?"
Sherlock, in the middle of pulling on his scarf, rolls his eyes and sneers. "I don't care what you do with the dog. Just hurry up."
"But I can't leave him here, he doesn't know the place and he'll destroy things."
"Bring him then, I don't care." Sherlock yells over his shoulder distractedly as he dashes out the door, mind already anticipating the prospect of a good puzzling murder. He's out the front door in seconds and waving down a taxi in another minute, brimming with energy and excitement. He barely notices as John appears behind him with the dog standing patiently at the end of a red lead. But then as he reaches for the door to the taxi, the driver holds out an arm to him.
"Oi, no dogs allowed in my taxi."
Sherlock bristles with annoyance. That damned dog! He makes a silent vow to unleash the most inconvenient and disgusting (well, John would think so) experiments on his flat mate in the coming weeks in retaliation for such an inconvenience. But there are more pressing matters and Sherlock immediately slips into a role, before John can say anything. He unfocuses his eyes and unblinkingly turns to John.
"Oh, I've forgotten his jacket again and we don't have time to go back and get it."
Through unfocused eyes, he can vaguely see John's bewildered expression, so he quickly turns to the driver to give John time to catch up. Really, he doesn't have time for this. Damn that dog.
He assumes a mask of bashful politeness, staring unblinkingly at the space above the confused driver's head. "He's my seeing eye dog and we're awfully late, so I forgot his identifying jacket. We are really very late and it's so important that we hurry, do you think you could overlook it?"
He doesn't need to hear John's low intake of breath and hiss of "Sherlock", to know that John will hate the idea of doing this, but really, this is all John's fault anyway for accepting the dog. He surreptitiously reaches behind his back and takes the red lead from John's hand, noting the initial resistance, because he needs to make the lie more believable. He hasn't had time to prepare for this – he knows that someone who requires a guide dog would have to be in very odd conditions to ever forget their guide's jacket and he knows that they would certainly realise their mistake when there was no harness to hold onto, but it's the best he can do at the moment and his impeccable acting skills should see the lie through.
In his slightly blurred vision with unfocused eyes, he can see the driver is suspicious but obviously too conscious of political awareness to refuse him.
"Alright then, but keep him on the floor."
Sherlock turns and slides his hand along the side of the taxi until he 'finds' the handle and pulls the door open. The dog clambers inside and Sherlock follows, hearing John mutter under his breath from behind him something about them going to hell. Of course, John is predictably suffering from a guilty consciousness, political correctness and other rather pointless things. But there is finally a new case and Sherlock ignores the world outside of his mind and simply stares unseeingly out of the window, his whole body thrumming with anticipation of work.
In fact, he is so consumed by the thrill of something to sink his mind into, he doesn't consciously note the furry head resting itself adoringly on his thigh. He also does not see the reluctant, fond smile on John Watson's face as the fair haired man looks away from the odd pair formed by the world's only consulting detective and the oblivious, absolutely smitten dog who has taken a shine to him.
OOOOOOOO
Notes: I hope none of you are offended by Sherlock pretending to be blind but really, he doesn't seem to ever mind offending people and I think it's reasonably in character for him to do this. Again, offense wasn't my intention and I apologize if anyone is offended.
But yes, please do tell me how I'm doing as I was so excited to write this and post it. I hope my characterisations are not too inaccurate but goddammit, trying to make deductions like Sherlock Holmes is so fun. Incomparable, of course, to the better writers, Moffat and Doyle himself, but incredibly fun, nonetheless.
Reviews are cherished and kept in jars of formaldehyde in my fridge, in true Sherlock style.
Thank you for reading and I will hopefully post more shortly!
OOOOOOOOO
Chapter 2:
