The Gray Cairn Terrier Named Greg
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock!
BB/: This is a sort-of sequel to Tea, but you don't necessarily have to read that in order to understand this (but it might be better if you do!).
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" John Watson asked warily as he watched his friend wrap his trademark blue scarf around his neck and put on his coat. "The man just finalized his divorce hours ago. I don't think this—"
"Don't be stupid, John." John could practically hear Sherlock's eyes rolling in his head. "I have thought about this extensively." With that, Sherlock picked up everything he needed and turned towards the door. "Don't wait up, I will be back late." Before exiting, he turned and smiled at the woman sitting beside his flatmate. "Goodnight, Miss Morstan."
And with that, he left 221B Baker Street.
Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stared at Sherlock Holmes who stood on the front steps of his flat, a carrying case for a small animal clutched in his hands. Neither man said a word to each other as Lestrade wrenched open his door a little wider. Sherlock was waiting for Lestrade to greet him, and Lestrade was trying to figure out why the world's only Consulting Detective was standing in front of him at almost midnight.
Sherlock clucked his tongue disapprovingly and said, "Aren't you going to invite me in? You're being incredibly rude."
Lestrade blinked at him and stared at him for a few more seconds before he huffed, rolled his eyes and stepped away from the door. "It's a pleasure, Sherlock. Come in, come in. And wipe off your feet, will you? The carpet is still new!" He ignored the fact that he had only been living in this house for six months, and in the five months Sherlock has been back, he had never visited him or inquired about his new living arrangements. He rolled his eyes at the thought. The Consulting Detective probably deduced it from him weeks ago by the coffee and donut he had for breakfast at the Yard.
He shuffled his feet as he made his way into the kitchen. If Sherlock was here for a case about some kind of animal, he was going to need coffee.
"Black, two sugars," he grumbled, placing the cup in front of Sherlock before taking a seat across from him and taking a sip from his own mug. "So what is this then? A case?" He peered into the carrier and saw two black eyes staring back at him. Whatever animal it was, it was huddled in the back.
"Of course not. If I had a case, I would have texted. This is a gift." Sherlock pointed at the carrier and tried not to smirk as Lestrade's brows shut up high.
"A gift? For what? Is this some kind of joke? It's too bloody late to be taking the mickey out of me, Sherlock Holmes." Already, Lestrade was reaching for the case, dragging it across the table. The animal, after the moving stopped, stepped forward from the dark and yelped at him. It was a dog.
"You got me a dog? Why on Earth would you give a gift like this?"
"It is man's best friend, is it not?" Sherlock said, sipping his coffee.
Lestrade's eyes narrowed at Sherlock. "You guessed my divorce was final and you thought I needed a friend? I need a beer and a month's rest." He pushed the dog away from him and stood up from the table. He was annoyed and tired, and he was thanking the Lord that he was not supposed to work for the first time in what felt like weeks in the morning. "You can show yourself out. I'm going to bed."
Before Lestrade could exit the kitchen, Sherlock burst out, "She reminds me of you!"
He stopped and spun on his heel. "This dog reminds you of me?"
"Well, not this puppy in particular." He rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if he was bored. "Prior to my resurrection, I spent a great deal of time living with the homeless in Ireland. There was a stray Cairn Terrier that was very loyal and followed me around for almost two weeks. I didn't have anyone to talk to, so he was a substitute skull or whatever sentimental trifle you can come up with—a friend—if you must. He was there for me when no one else was." During Sherlock's retelling of his two weeks in Ireland, Lestrade moved back to the table and sat down slowly. "Before I left to come back to London, I dropped him off at an animal shelter, and he was adopted almost immediately."
Sherlock refused to look at Lestrade as he lurched forward and took a gulp of his quickly cooling coffee.
"You have been very loyal to me, Lestrade. Before John…even before Molly…" he sighed, glanced at the Detective Inspector who was staring at him with his jaw slackened and his eyes wide, and then staring back at the ceiling. "…you stuck with me through the drugs more than my own brother. I just wanted to let you know…" He trailed off for a moment, before clearing his throat. He pointed at the carrier. "And she is probably the most inadequate gift I could give, but it's sentimental." He scrunched his nose, straightened up, and then finally looked at the Inspector. "Don't tell Molly I've been speaking ill of sentiment. I'm still not used to professing it."
"Of course," Lestrade croaked, blinking slowly as if he were in a daze. After a few more seconds, he tore his gaze away from Sherlock and looked at the carrier. He reached over and unlatched the door. It took a few moments of coaxing before Lestrade was able to get the small, gray Cairn Terrier to step out onto the table.
Almost immediately, Lestrade gathered her in his arms and held her lightly. She was small enough that she could fit in the palm of his hand. He lifted her so they were eye level, and he smiled at her soft brown eyes. Her tail was wagging and she leaned up to lick his nose. "How old is she? Does she have a name? And tags? I've got to get food for her, and a proper bed so I don't roll over on her…"
"So you'll take her?"
"I'm not going to turn down a gift from you! It's a once in a life time opportunity!" he said, glancing at Sherlock before looking back at the puppy who was now licking his hand enthusiastically.
"According to the breeder, she is nine weeks old. As for food, bowls, a collar, and tags, it will all be delivered sometime tomorrow afternoon." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bag. "This should hold her off until her food arrives." He placed it on the table. "As for a name, I took the liberty of naming her since I was filling out her adoption paperwork."
Lestrade braced himself for a scientific name that the poor girl would have to be called for the rest of her life.
"Her name is Greg."
When the coffee was finished, Sherlock prepared to leave. He took the empty cups, even though Lestrade protested, and washed them, placing them in the small drying rack when he was finished. "Goodnight, Lestrade."
Lestrade followed Sherlock to the door. "Thank you for the visit. And for Greg—God! How bloody crazy do I sound with a little puppy named after myself? People are going to think I've lost my mind." Despite the irritation in his voice, he was grinning. "See you later, Sherlock." He waited until Sherlock hailed a taxi, keeping watch from his doorway, and then he made his way back to the kitchen. He stared at the clean mugs in the drying rack, trying to wrap his mind around what exactly happened that evening.
With a grin and a feeling of happiness that he hadn't felt since he filed for divorce, Lestrade turned off the lights and made his way to his bedroom, little Greg, the gray Cairn Terrior, nestled in his arms, fast asleep.
Fin.