*** A.N. Hi again everyone! I'm really churning out the oneshots today, aren't I? Anyway, I haven't read over this one, but the idea ( I thought at least) was adorable, and needed to be written down. Reviews would be amazing! And do you think I should do fan art for this? I'm not sure… I think I might… you can find me on deviantart under the name L-archaeologue. Thankyou for reading my story! Enjoy!***
Why did he have to get a dog? A DOG, of all creatures. A slobbery, high maintenance being that permanently wanted love, attention, food, companionship…. Sherlock could not understand it, so chose to sulk and fume instead. The dog was to stay. John had insisted upon it. Sherlock hardly wanted to push the subject, either. After faking one's own death and coming back to tell the tale, most people were feeling betrayed enough to want to kill him in earnest. John happened to be on the top of Sherlock's "Don't Get on the Bad Side Of" list, shortly followed by Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, although the trepidation with Mrs. Hudson was more to do with the fact that she could refuse to do his laundry at any time. And that would be bad. He would not be able to live with the thought of his silky purple shirt lying crumpled and smelly under the labyrinthine piles of mess that made up his bedroom. He would have to actually do something USEFUL, for crying out loud. That could not happen. Not ever. Not unless it involved a corpse.
Sherlock lifted his bare feet up from the ground and clutched his knees to his chest as the bulldog puppy approached his chair. It put its filthy, pudgy little paws up on the edge and panted at him, an innocent doggy smile spread across the most adorable set of puppy jowls. Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have swatted the dog away with his Persian slipper, but he heard the crinkle of a newspaper and a soft clearing of a throat. Sherlock looked at John, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea raised to his lips and eyes fixed on Sherlock. There was to be no swatting of the mongrel, unless he was willing to deal with a fall onto the dustbins a storey below. Sherlock suddenly recoiled at the feel of warm, blunt claws on his foot and his eyes instantly shot a look of hatred towards the dog. He hissed quietly at it, but it just continued staring at him, happy-go-lucky eyes beaming up at him and tongue lolling about. The movement of its tongue mesmerized Sherlock, the constant flapping of it against the tiny teeth, like a cat to a beam of light on a wall.
The sound of a newspaper crumpling and a chair being drawn back snapped Sherlock out of his reverie again. John stood up and took his coat from the hook.
"I'm going out. Getting some milk. We're out again, thanks to you." He put his hand on the doorknob and paused when he saw Sherlock reaching slowly for the Persian slipper. His eyes darted almost imperceptibly between the dog and Sherlock. He let go of the door and paced over, sweeping the Persian slipper away from Sherlock, throwing it into his backpack.
"Play nicely whilst I'm gone, alright? I'll back in a little while. NO Persian slipper." He closed the door solidly behind him.
"I WILL IF HE DOES!" Sherlock called after him, but received no reply. Sherlock looked down at the dog yet again. It isn't an entirely horrid creature, Sherlock thought to himself. And it could be useful for experiments which Sherlock didn't wish to perform upon himself or John (and there had been many of those, although he would never admit it to John). He gingerly picked up the rolly little dog, and raised it up to eye level. It stared into his eyes. Sherlock stared back, a little frown setting in on his face.
"Well, Gladstone, what do you have to say for yourself? Trying to steal all the attention from my John? I had him first, you know. I didn't forfeit him just because I was supposedly dead. No sir, I most certainly did not. Death won't stop me as far as John is concerned, I assure you, little Gladstone. Nothing will keep me from my John. Not that he can ever know that…"
Sherlock crossed his long legs and lowered the dog onto his lap, and was pleased to find it was warm against his skin. He had never had a pet before; his mother had never allowed it. Mycroft was allergic to everything under the sun, so a rock was the closest to a companion he had ever received. It was for this reason that Sherlock found himself surprisingly pleased when the dog snuggled up closer to him, and by instinct he began patting the wee thing. It's warm, damp breath felt funny upon his foot, and Sherlock felt all of his prejudice slowly slipping away.
…
John climbed the stairs up to their flat slowly, his feet heavy upon each step as his grocery laden arms attempted to balance several cartons of milk, packets of two minute noodles, and enough toilet paper to last a typhoid epidemic. He used his elbow to nudge the doorknob down and pushed it open with the slightest of creaks. He smiled at what he found. Sherlock was asleep, one hand upon the dog curled up lazily in his lap. Sherlock's head was tilted to one side, a lock of his dark hair falling across his eyes. John tiptoed into the kitchen, gently placing the groceries down on the table, and returned to the living room. He crept over silently to the sleeping genius with his dog, and with the care only shown when the other wasn't looking, swept the lock of hair from Sherlock's face. Then John pulled the rug from the couch, laid it across the sleeping pair, and let them be. For everything will always work out in the end.