Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock BBC or any of its characters.
Rating: T
Title: Teach A Dog New Tricks
Summary: Despite his initial hesitation, John decided to follow this strange man. Always-a-dog!John
Warnings: Potential disturbing imagery, violence and animal abuse
Author's Notes: This was inspired by an adorable prompt on sherlockbbc_fic livejournal where Always-a-dog!John is a faithful and loyal companion of Sherlock's who came along with him on his cases. The very idea got my mind on a roll and soon this story emerged from it. A few details and things would be changed to fit this story better, though I'll try to stick to the canon as best I can. Hope you enjoy!
John's master, who he had always known as Watson, had always praised John for being an intelligent dog. And he had to, juggling the duties of being a therapy dog as well as being a scout dog.
" The lad's going to run for prime minister one day," Watson laughed as he gave the Golden Retriever a well-deserved scratch behind the ears.
John had met Watson during his training days in the army when he was barely out of his pup years and they bonded instantly. It must have been meant to be, with Watson training to be an army doctor and handler and John training to be a therapy and scout dog. There was hardly a sight without John and Watson, even as they travelled to Afghanistan. They made a remarkable team, either on the field scouting for traps or hidden insurgents or in the medical tents tending to the injured. Watson was there to fix his patients and knit their bodies whole again and John was there to heal their shattered minds and hearts.
But fate would have them torn apart too soon. Half a year into Watson's tour of duty and only a few more months when he and John could return home to London for a reprieve, there was an ambush during a patrol and John went down with a bullet to his left shoulder while frantically howling Watson's name.
Half delirious with pain, he couldn't see Watson and the bullets flying past him and the harsh screams from both sides made him fear for his master's safety. He struggled and continued calling for his master, his whimpers growing defeated and weak from loss of blood. Soon, unfamiliar hands picked him up, murmuring assurances and a needle slid into him and John knew no more.
Days went by and by the time John was awake enough, another army dog told him the news. That Watson died in the ambush.
Grief overtook him and while his physical condition made a slow and steady recovery, John simply lost the passion to continue doing his job. The captain of Watson's team took pity on the dog and decided to send him back home where he could rest and recuperate. The other dogs gave him a mournful farewell and they brushed their noses against John's in comfort.
But John could not find any comfort and he allowed himself to be shuffled off to where the soldiers led him.
~.~.~
His eventual destination of Watson's sister's home brought back memories of faded grief and there would be days where he would simply curl up in Watson's old chair and not move for hours.
Clara made it her business to bring some life into the dog and it was her that brought him on many long walks in the London streets and parks. She fed him, bathed him, found him things to play with, chased him in the backyard and allowed him to sleep in her bed during the nights his left shoulder pained him the most. Clara was not Watson but John allowed himself to grow fond of her.
John remained ambivalent towards Harry, just as he had before he left for Afghanistan. She was friendly but not kind. Open to warmth yet closed to affection. She tolerated his presence and allowed a few moments where she would pat his head. However, the toll of losing her younger brother was hard and brutal. There were many nights that Harry stank of alcohol, a scent that reminded John of medicine and blood that never left the medical tents.
Harry's alcoholism, resulting mood swings and short temper for the past months did not bode well for Clara either. It led to many nights of bitter arguments and slammed doors. John did what he could for their sakes. For Clara, he made his presence known to her, leaning his head comfortingly against her leg and listened to her frustrated cries and savage rants as any good therapy dog would. Harry however would only chase him away with her harsh words.
Things eventually came to a head when Clara had had enough, packed her things and stormed away leaving only divorce papers behind. The only hesitation she showed was when she gave John one last pat on the head.
He whined, pawing her leg. Take me with you, he begged.
She sighed, as if she could understand him. " I'm sorry about all of this," she said and John could see the tears swimming in her eyes. " Look after Harry."
And just like that, she disappeared into the crowded London streets and John was left feeling confused, hurt and abandoned.
~.~.~
Things grew strained between John and Harry. John did his best to obey Clara's last command and tried to look after Harry in his own way. Brushing against her leg whenever she had a desolate look on her face. Dragging a blanket to cover her when she slept on the cold floor. Nudging her towards the door to escape the house for some fresh air. Whining for some food and water so she could get out of bed.
Not only were his attempts in vain, Harry responded coldly. She flinched at his touch. She kicked the blankets off. She refused to leave the house. She yelled at him if he came near.
Stubbornly, John didn't relent. He kept his promises and how disappointed Watson would have been if he didn't do a good job of looking after his sister in his absence?
But his repeated obstinate attempts did more harm than good as he would discover one night.
" You stupid dog. What good are you?" Harry venomously hissed, in a voice that was not her own. She clumsily threw a bottle at John, making him yelp in alarm as the bottle shattered in pieces at the wall behind him. " My brother wouldn't be dead because of you! You couldn't protect him! You should have died instead of him!"
Shock froze his mind and John could hardly breath. Never once did he doubted he could have prevented Watson's death. He had ran the situation several times over his head and no matter what he did, it was inevitable. The other soldiers and army dogs spoke to him and gently assured him that it wasn't his fault and that he did all he could. John accepted that to some extent. After all, he had taken the previous role to reassure many men whose mind betrayed them to guilt.
No, what haunted John more than Watson's death was that if Watson died, he should have died too with his master.
The accusation and harsh truth that Harry, the last reminder and piece of Watson that he could see and smell, shattered the last bit of strength that John had used to hold himself together for Harry's sake. The frightful glare on Harry's face tore at John's heart and madden with grief and despair, he fled. Fled past the tables and chairs and through the pet door without another look behind him.
If John had stayed another minute longer, he would have seen that the hateful expression on Harry's face was not directed towards but at herself, at her horror and realization at what she had just said. If he had slowed down a little bit, he would have seen her dashing madly after him, calling and crying for him to come back and she didn't mean what she said.
But he didn't and was putting as much distance as he could between him and the person who didn't want him anymore.
~.~.~
John shivered, curling around himself more to block the wind.
It was hard, living in the streets like this. For a dog like John, he was used to living and eating comfortably. Begging and stealing food was never something he had to do before but had to do now in order to survive.
His appearance had changed dramatically over these few weeks. His once fine golden coat had become shaggy, matted and dirtied. There were bruises and cuts over his body from his numerous fights and clashes with the restaurant owners, animal control workers and various territorial stray dogs. His left hind leg was bloody and mangled from a particular brutal fight the night before that left him the victor and yet defeated. Recalling the medical knowledge that Watson had graciously bestowed him, he knew that it would not be long before infection settled in and he was a dead dog.
There had been no human other than the pest control who wished to even come near him and John could hardly blame them. They thought of him as a flea-ridden and afflicted stray mutt and at the moment, that was all John was.
So desperate was he for some shelter, that in his exhaustion, he dragged himself to the nearest building and collapsed in a heap at the back entrance. Faint scents from inside alerted the dog that he had stumbled onto some medical facility. The familiar wafts of medicine, embalming chemicals and saline helped to lure John to an uneasy sleep.
~.~.~
Something awoke John and he was immediately on alert.
His head jerked up and he caught a whiff of cigarettes and a strange mixture of stale tea, crumpets and disinfectant. A pale man dressed in a dark trench coat and blue scarf stared down at him. His expression was an unfamiliar one, calculating and piercing.
John tensed, prepared to flee should he mean to harm. Who was this man?
Minutes lengthened and the gaze held between dog and man did not waver. Something flickered in the man's gaze as his eyes studied every square inch of John, picking out details and stories that were written out on his very skin. It made John uncomfortable and he held back a shudder.
Finally the man moved. He moved past John, the ends of his coat brushing past the dishevelled dog. He didn't break his unrelenting stare even as he unlocked the door and beckoned him in, to John's surprise. He said no word, only tilting his head slightly as a silent motionless gesture.
Come on in.
John remained rooted on the spot. What was the intention of this man? Should he leave? Run away now before the man could call the pound? A month ago, he would have unhesitatingly trusted the man as he had once did for any human being, but these past weeks changed him, hardened his heart and made him doubtful.
And yet, something about this man was different, familiar even. It was almost as if he was in the warm company of Watson again.
" Well? Are you coming or not?" the man's crisp voice asked, impatient.
Without further thinking, without considering the consequences, John followed him.