Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

A/N: I know, I know. But the idea is really cute. Not all fanfics have to be insightful. XD Feel free to squint, by the way. :D

It had been a peaceful day in 221B Baker Street, for once, and John was peacefully enjoying his peaceful tea and relishing the peacefulness of peace, when suddenly Sherlock's voice showed up and ruined everything.

"John..."

The doctor sighed. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"I have a request to make of you. I ask that you take this seriously."

He certainly sounded like he was going to say something important. Then again, Sherlock usually sounded like he was going to say something important, but a lot of the time it turned out to be a forty minute lecture about tobacco ash or the certification process of manicurists. Although, John supposed, that stuff was important for Sherlock.

So, "Okay," John agreed.

"I would like... for us to get a dog."

For a split second, John thought Sherlock was joking, despite what he said. He managed to stifle the laughter or note of surprise, thankfully, and instead said, "I don't have a problem with that. I have to say, though, you've always struck me as a cat person."

Sherlock crinkled his nose. "Cats, no. Too arrogant."

"Cat person," John replied pointedly.

Sherlock acknowledged this with a tilt of an eyebrow.

"So if not to have a miniature Sherlock stalking around the flat, why do you want a pet all of a sudden?"

"It's not sudden," Sherlock said, steepling long fingers in front of his lips, as usual. "And it can't just be any pet, it must be a dog."

"Oh?"

"I wanted one as a child," the detective explained distractedly, staring intently at the smiley face on the wall. "Mycroft, as much as we conflicted even as children, had been my only companion. When he left for boarding school, I was alone in an enormous manor with just my mother and a half dozen servants that always switched out after less than a month because of her."

John had only gotten snippets of Holmes family life, but this seemed consistent. "And you were lonely, and she wouldn't let you have a dog?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"She probably surmised, correctly, that I would experiment on it and, incorrectly, that I would get bored with it and leave someone else to care for it."

"You won't get bored with it?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock's lip twitched upward and he looked at John out of the corner of his eye. "Among other things? Because Mycroft is exceedingly allergic to dogs."

John grinned.

John had agonized over this decision more than he'd like to admit.

After John had enthusiastically gotten on board with the dog plan (the idea of seeing Mycroft all itchy and uncomfortable when he chose to come by and harass them was simply too tempting), Sherlock had left it up to John to choose the breed. The logic he presented was that he was the one asking for the dog, so John should get to choose it. This was far too generous of him to be true, however, so John suspected it had something to do with forcing John to make the decision so that he couldn't complain later.

John didn't dislike dogs by any means, but he wasn't really a part of the dog culture, having never had one. He hadn't known there were so many breeds. After a solid week of research (and absolutely no comparative charts being made and definitely no pleas for help being posted on his blog), John had made a decision.

Research had shown that this particular breed was good for having in a flat and was gentle while miraculously also being very brave (which had convinced John because, seriously, not a good idea to put Sherlock with a mean, easily-startled dog). It also apparently only lived about eight years, which was ideal because they'd be lucky to make it that long, themselves.

John stood in front of the door to his flat and looked at the squirming puppy in his arms. He was nervous. Inexplicably nervous, really. Even if Sherlock hated it at first for whatever reason, he would get used to it— John had seen him do exactly this with many humans, eventually getting to the point where he was so used to them that even if he hated them, he was displeased when they weren't there. Anderson was a prime example. John had an image of Sherlock telling the dog to turn around because its face was putting him off and wondered if he had made the right choice after all.

Unfortunately, John knew he would do whatever Sherlock wanted, in the end, especially when he wanted something so sincerely. Something so simple and so... normal. It was actually so normal that it would result in even more people thinking they were a couple. And no, this fact had not escaped John, thankyouverymuch.

John took a fortifying breath and squared his shoulders, reminding himself of his military training. This was a big decision that had been left up to him but he had made significantly bigger, after all. He had done his job well, and he knew this meant a lot to Sherlock. Maybe being nervous made a little bit of sense, but he was sure of his choice, and anyway it was too late now. John bit the bullet and walked through the door.

"Sherlock, I'm-"

"He looks just like you."

Mouth snapping shut at the unexpected interruption, John looked from his flatmate to the wrinkly, stout, tan little thing in his arms and considered being offended, but the fondness in Sherlock's normally cold voice made the decision against it. Sherlock stood up and got a bit closer to them, a small smile (which was, for him, a grin) on his face.

"Does he?"

"You don't see it?"

"Not really."

"Look at his face, John. He's clearly worried. But calm, too."

"My face looks like an English Bulldog?"

"In expression, evidently."

John put the dog down on short legs and it sniffed his shoes for a second before making a sturdy-looking beeline for Sherlock to check him out. It didn't object when Sherlock reached down to scratch its ears, stump tail double-timing.

"He's perfect."

Pleased, John asked, "What do we call him?"

"Gladstone."

"Gladstone?"

"Yes."

John rolled his eyes. Someday he'd have to explain to Sherlock that echoing someone didn't always mean they wanted a confirmation of what had just been said. "Why, Sherlock?"

"Because the only other appropriate name would be John, and I believe that would cause some confusion, don't you?"

John had an image of Sherlock yelling "John, come!" and Mrs. Hudson getting ideas.

"Gladstone it is."

Sherlock scooped up Gladstone who, aside from looking confused, didn't seem to mind that he was suddenly in flight, and carried him back to the sofa, sitting down and placing the dog on his lap. He immediately tried to climb down and as Sherlock chuckled lowly John suddenly realized how domestic this all was.

Because it was. Really, really domestic. And he also realized with a flood of certainty that 221B and Sherlock Holmes were home and had been for a while, maybe, even though he'd only been there six months and hadn't known this man before then. Waking up and eating breakfast in his underwear here was normal. Bending over backwards to make his insane flatmate happy was almost second-nature. And, at almost any time of the day, John could look over and actually see, right beside him, the person who was the other half of his life. Heaven help him.

As content as he had ever felt, John joined Sherlock on the sofa to watch him play with the drool-covered Gladstone, who could only be described as the newest member of John's family.

This is the puppy I had in mind. Take out the stuff in parenthesis and put it in a URL bar. :D I hope it shows up... if not, just Google "English bulldog puppy" and it's this little tan one. XD Looks just like John, IMO.

http (colon) /funniespet (dot) com/english-bulldog-puppy (dot) html/english-bulldog-puppy-3