"It isn't that I dislike cats," Sherlock insisted as Molly shifted Toby's massive cat tree to the corner of the living room opposite Sherlock's usual window.
"What is it then?" she asked, somewhat out of breath from moving the heavy thing.
"It doesn't matter," he shrugged. "I have no objections to Toby coming with you, he's important to you, and you are important to me."
Molly smiled, kissing him gently. "I think there was an 'I love you' somewhere in there,"
"Hmm," he gazed at her through half-lidded eyes. "Perhaps there was…"
"Still," she stepped back. "I want you to be happy, and Toby clearly isn't your idea of a house pet."
"But I don't mind him," Sherlock added.
"No, I know, and I'm glad," Molly agreed.
"He likes useful animals," John called from the kitchen, tugging his phone from his pocket, the newspaper spread out before him.
"Well Toby is useful, he catches mice," Molly replied, looking from the doctor to her husband.
"John means useful on a case," Mary added with a grin. She stepped nearer to Molly, lowering her voice. "I rather think when you said you were bringing Toby, Sherlock thought you meant the canine bearer of that name."
"Oh!" Of course! How could Molly forget? Sherlock had a great affection for dogs. He even employed the use of a bloodhound at times. Molly recalled a time he'd brought the dog into the morgue to smell a dead man's body for traces of perfume (thank goodness they'd gotten to the hospital before Molly had a chance to clean up the body). She'd never seen Sherlock interact with an animal, and it was very amusing to watch him praise the dog's skill, scrub the dog's floppy ears and be generally, well, adorable.
"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Mary asked with a grin, bouncing Rosie on her hip. Passing Rosie to her godmother, she and Molly exchanged knowing grins.
"What?" Sherlock called.
"Never you mind!" Both women called.
Sherlock, passing by John in the kitchen, suddenly snatched up a scrap of paper from the doctor's hands. "This important? Doesn't look it, mind if I bin it?" Sherlock crumpled up the scrap of paper and tossed it into the fire.
"Uh…no, actually, I meant to throw it out the other day," John said with a look of confusion, but also looking as if someone had just grabbed him by the collar before he stumbled off a curb.
Mary and Molly exchanged curious looks, not quite sure what had happened. Sherlock's phone pinged with a new text, and the moment was forgotten. As it happens, the scrap of paper was trash, and was soon forgotten among the ash and soot in the fireplace.
The Following Week
Sherlock trudged up the stairs, followed close behind by Mary and John.
"That. Was a terrible case, Sherlock," John groaned. He paused on the stairway to stretch, feeling his back crack.
"It wasn't all bad, you've been complaining that you and Mary never get out of London."
"Yeah, no, the two of us, not us and you sitting on the wet ground for two days straight in the highlands, waiting for a possible murderer."
"I have to agree with John, Sherlock," Mary added, rubbing the spot above her tailbone with a grunt. "That was pretty bad."
"We did find the murderer," Sherlock tried.
"Yeees," John agreed and Mary chuckled.
"Not one of your more thrilling cases, even if it was a tricky one."
Sherlock paused at the door to 221b, sighing. "I know. Shame."
"Cheer up," Mary smiled, patting him on the back as she stepped past him through the front door. "Maybe next time it'll be a nice gory twelve."
John grinned as Sherlock sighed, glancing upward.
"If only."
He stepped into Baker Street, and stopped.
Something was different, and it was not Rosie's playpen, nor her highchair (both of which had been moved to Baker Street so Molly and Mrs. Hudson could take turns watching Rosie while Sherlock, Mary and John were off in Scotland on a case).
"Molly, there are dog dishes in the kitchen," Sherlock called.
"Nice to see you too," she called, coming around the table, Rosie on her hip, passing the baby to John and Mary's waiting arms, she turned to her husband, smiling. She kissed him, successfully distracting him from the pet dishes for a moment.
"Pet dishes," he said, once they'd parted.
"Oh you're no fun!" she pouted, but crossed the kitchen once more, pushing open the bathroom door. "Come on you," Molly bent, tugging something out.
Heavy paws padded across the floor, tail wagging.
Sherlock stared.
He blinked, then he stared again.
"A dog," he said.
"I'd have thought you deduced that by now, seeing as those dishes in the kitchen are too big for Toby," Molly laughed.
The dog went right up to Sherlock, nosing his trousers, so he bent, scrubbing the dog. "A bloodhound, Molly?"
"I did my research," she answered. "Best scent-hound in the world, one hundred and twenty five to two million olfactory receptors, it can follow a week old trail,"
"Yes," Sherlock murmured, he was trying his best not to smile that particular smile, the one that quirked his mouth just so, when he was truly pleased. The dog nosed him over, tongue lapping at his ears, tail wagging. Sherlock caught sight of the tags jingling and turned one over. "'Frederick'?" he read aloud.
"Yes," Molly answered. "From the 'Pirates of Penzance'. Frederick was the lad, a slave to duty, trained to be a pirate,"
"Didn't that turn out to be a fluke?" Sherlock asked. "Nurse misheard the master, 'pirate' instead of 'pilot' or something like that."
"Yes," Molly answered with a laugh. "But in the end he helped the pirates anyway, a slave to duty. So he's a pirate…but…not."
"Hmm," Sherlock scrubbed the dog's ears, studying him a moment longer. "Yes I expect you'll do." He stood then, giving his wife a proper thank you while John and Mary called the dog over.
"Was Freddie here while Rosie was?" John asked.
"Course he was," Molly answered. "They've been getting on thick as thieves. Mycroft found him, he's only a year or so. He completed the Three Mile Bloodhound Working Trial a few months ago."
"Really?" Sherlock lifted his eyebrows, surprised, then bent again to pat the dog. To Molly's surprise, her husband divested himself of his coat and sat directly on the floor, and Frederick followed, rolling over to show him his belly.
Mary and John laughed, the latter quite astonished at Sherlock's behavior.
"Thank you, Molly, and thank Mrs. H. for everything, I'm so sorry it was last minute," Mary kissed Molly's cheek.
"Don't worry about it, that's what Godparents are for we had a marvelous time! I took nights and she took days, it worked out really well."
"Thanks just the same," John said and pressed her other cheek. "We'll uh, leave you to your own baby," they laughed, looking back at Sherlock who was quite happily scrubbing Frederick's belly.
Sherlock glanced up when the door shut after John and Mary and Rosie.
"They're gone then?" he called.
"Yes, only just," Molly leaned against the doorway to the living room. "I did all right then? Getting Frederick?"
Sherlock, still propped up on his elbow, Frederick stretched out beside him, smiled up at his wife. "He is marvelous, Molly," he jumped to his feet. "And so are you!" He scooped her up without another thought, rushing them down the hall and booted open their bedroom door, Molly shrieking with laughter the whole way.
A week later
John and Mary came by, sans Rosie (who was happily spending the day with Granny Hudson). They were a little surprised to see Sherlock stretched out on the couch, Frederick the dog sprawled on top of him, the dog's heavy head resting on Sherlock's chest. Both appeared deep in thought.
"What goes on?" John asked with a chuckle.
"Oh," Molly glanced over her shoulder. "One is napping, the other is in his mind palace."
"I never took Sherlock to nap," Mary said with a wink at Molly. "Dog's working out then?"
"Tremendously. No case yet for him-"
"As always, spoken too soon," Sherlock called from the sofa, holding up his phone. "Lestrade has a case," he sat up and Frederick moved as well, thumping down off the couch, tail wagging now that Sherlock was up. "It's a missing person!"
"How long gone?' Molly asked,
"Two days, man, middle aged."
"Two days, in the winter?" John objected.
"Honestly," Sherlock gave him a look. "Frederick completed the working trials in record time, I should think a trek across The Downs would be as easy as the proverbial pie."
"Pie isn't easy, Sherlock," Mary objected.
"Figure of speech," Sherlock waved his hand. "Molly where are you going?" He asked, noting she was pulling on her lined raincoat and warm winter boots.
"With you, of course. Two days on The Downs, in this weather? He's either going to need a doctor," she nodded to John and Mary. "Or a pathologist."
Grinning, Sherlock cupped her face in his hands, kissing her. "You are a very brilliant woman, Molly Hooper Holmes."
She grinned at him. "I know. Come on, the trail will run cold if we take much longer."
"Come along John, Mary," Sherlock grasped his wife with one hand, Frederick's leash in the other. "The game is afoot!"