Sherlock Holmes was not a man who believed in sentiment. He's never been shy about his self-declared sociopathic nature, and that meant no silly ideas about feelings like love or grief or jealousy. Certainly he wasn't one to feel pity for people. And especially not for smallish, pudgy, wrinkly puppies. No, that was not something he did. So why was he here right now, in this situation?

The bull dog pup whined again, and did its best to look as pathetic and helpless as possible. He glared at it, unimpressed by this playacting. Its tongue lolled out and it grinned at him- and since when do animals grin at people? He'd never seen it- but anyways, it grinned at him, its mouth open wide and its tongue drooling. On his carpet. This was unacceptable (obviously) and Sherlock quickly put a stop to the nonsense by crouching down next to it, snatching it up, and placing it precariously atop the kitchen counter, casually brushing aside a couple of unwashed, chemical-stained dishes in the process.

He passed a cursory look over the quivering dog, noticing how it was well-fed, but not perfectly groomed and how its nails hadn't been clipped properly in months, probably causing it an undue amount of pain. He growled, he was NOT feeling bad for it. Not at all.

"You," he spat, pointing accusingly at the poor puppy, "You stay right there." With a dramatic turn and a flapping of his robe, he stomped out of the room shouting, "MRS. HUDSON!" and generally being un-ignorable.

So that is how, three hours and several terrifying (for those who encountered him, not for Sherlock himself) shopping trips later he ended up with a lapful of bull dog puppy and a much cleaner, puppy-proofed flat that now contained several new additions in the form of a water and food bowl and some stupid dog toys that Mrs. Hudson had squealed over in aisle three of the market. He stared balefully at the puppy, which decided to respond by slobbering all over his face with wet, smelly licks. Disgusted, he shoved the dog off.

"Go away! I should've dumped you as soon as you managed to get in here," he yelled, but he was aggravated with himself more than anything. He was confused- why had he allowed this thing to stay? Why hadn't he simply tossed the pup back on the street where it'd undoubtedly come from? Then he glanced back at the dog, which hadn't moved from where he'd shoved it off, and stopped wondering. With a mournful snuffling and puppy eyes that could convince a serial killer not to pull the trigger, the thing was practically more dangerous than a nuclear bomb.

"GAHHHH!" Why must it be so adorable?! He knew he claimed not to have a heart but he had eyes, and they functioned perfectly well, thank you very much. And his eyes could see that if he kicked this small helpless bundle of wrinkles out right now, all the good in the world would probably implode and then, for good measure, explode, and then implode again. It just wasn't an option. So, he guessed he had a new flat mate, for now anyways. Until he figured out where the puppy came from, and to whom it belonged.

Sherlock knew it wouldn't be easy, to find the owner of one stray dog in the middle of London. But he wouldn't be him if he didn't love a good challenge.

"No fear, you'll be gone by tomorrow, you slimy canine," he smirked as he began cataloguing everything he could from the dogs appearance, and recalling every bit he hadn't deleted from their original encounter. This would be boring, he knew, but at least it was something to do. Everything was so terribly dull without a case.

***AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Thanks for all the reads, reviews, and follows:)

This will be continued by popular demand only (meaning only if i get people who ask for it to be continued and a ongoing stream of readers)

I hope you enjoyed chapter one. Please see the additional note at the bottom of chapter two if you want to get the chance to name the puppy.