Gladstone as man's best friend. Enjoy.
"Holmes! What's wrong with the dog?" The disgruntled doctor shouts somewhat ruefully as he kneels beside the out cold canine and checks for a pulse for what seems like the millionth time since he brought Gladstone home.
"What do you mean old chap?" Comes the genuinely stunned reply and Watson frowns as he checks the pulse. It's there… but ruddy weak. What is going on here? Sherlock Holmes, the infamous detective, appears from who knows where doing who knows what and his expression soon matches that of his friends as he checks the pulse for himself.
"Holmes… did you do anything to Gladstone?" The doctor opposite him asks seriously and Sherlock gives him a flat look.
"No… I only test anaesthetics, nothing too dangerous," He returns, disgruntled at the accusation.
"Well it's usually you! Whatever this is it might finish him if we're sat here arguing. Bring him downstairs," Watson instructs, his tone suggesting that Holmes shouldn't argue if he knows what's good for him and he removes his hat and places it aside along with his coat and cane before he rolls up his shirt sleeves to his elbows. Sherlock huffs lightly but does as asked and carries Gladstone down the stairs into the dining room that is never used, laying the creature on the table and the detective spends a moment giving his dog a worried look before checking his vitals again. Watson appears with a variety of equipment and a book tucked under his arm and he lays it out beside the softly panting dog.
"He was fine this morning for his walk. I don't know what's got into him… He was fine," Sherlock tells his most trusted friend and having known the man most of his life Watson is quick to detect the real anxiety and worry as well as the frustration that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know something.
"I suspect I know what it is," Watson allows and he opens a closed eye of the animal in front of him and checks the light adjustment of its pupil.
"And that would be?" Holmes prompts with an impatient edge to his voice and theres a pause before his companion straightens up out his crouch by Gladstone and sighs lightly in resignation.
"He's old Holmes… Sixteen years… He's just dying. There isn't anything you can do to stop that…" He explains honestly and Sherlock looks back to his dog laid on the table.
"Right…" He murmurs simply.
"I'll check that, that is what it is first… but I believe our friend has reached his life's end," Watson replies understandingly and the detective nods once because Watson is hardly ever wrong and he knows that he won't be now.
"Of course…" Holmes coughs out somewhat emotionally and he watches his brother in bond as he checks over Gladstone, taking his temperature, working out his heart rate and twenty minutes later after a thorough examination he merely looks to Sherlock and shakes his head. The dog is all Sherlock Holmes has left now that Watson has moved in with his wife, the canine has been his constant companion in that year and he's grown to appreciate Gladstone far more.
"To be expected I suppose," He mutters, gazing at the wrinkled face and dark brown eyes open lazily and meet those looking at him and his short, stumpy tail wags momentarily. Sherlock smiles slightly and sits down in a chair before removing his coat and resting it over the back of the beast laid before him.
"I've got an appointment but I'll be back as soon as I can," Watson promises.
"Thank you Watson," Holmes returns sincerely.
"My pleasure Holmes," The doctor assures him and he strokes the dogs head briefly. "Be good Gladstone." He leaves quietly, the door clicking shut behind him and once he's gone Sherlock props his feet on another chair and takes over stroking the dog, slowly, idly in a way that he has done so much more in recent times.
"Now my friend. Let me recall to you a story of the dark arts, revolutionary technology and a case that almost beat me…" He begins and Gladstone listens intently to his words as he tells the story of Lord Blackwood, Irene Adler, Lord Coward, Lestrade and many more. A fine tale indeed for an even finer dog…
...
Watson sighs sadly at the sight before him and hangs his coat and hat up before joining Sherlock who is deep in sleep, having not moved from his spot and is slumped across the table with Gladstone's head perched on his arm. The old animal isn't breathing, Watson doesn't need to check for a pulse. He slowly moves Holmes' arm out from under the head then carefully covers Gladstone's form in the coat over him.
"Come on Holmes. Up you get," Watson urges softly and he hauls his friend to his feet and puts an arm around his shoulders and helps the bleary man up the stairs to his room where he promptly lays down and is soon fast asleep again. In his hand though is Gladstone's lead, wrapped in his fist gently, the grip not relenting even in sleep and Watson shakes his head lightly with another sigh. What'll Holmes do now?...
...
He didn't cope well. He didn't so much allow himself to shrivel up, he didn't want too disappoint his lost friend, but it hurt, it was clear to Watson at least that Gladstone had been somewhat of a lifeline for his friend, company, loyalty, constant friendship… and now he was gone and the man was somewhat lifeless, drained... and alone. So Watson took matters into his own hands, he went to every pet shop in London, looking for the particular breed and upon coming across a puppy had paid a substantial amount for the yipping bundle of fur. The collar wasn't anything much special but when the puppy had been pushed into the arms of Sherlock Holmes after Watson firmly declared that he had found it in a box somewhere and couldn't deal with an unruly puppy what with a baby on the way, the doctor had left and when Holmes checked the shiny collar he couldn't help smile. Watson really was quite a good liar, finding it in a box...
'Gladstone Jr.' the collar said and he took the puppy into his home and produced it a bowl of milk which it lapped up hungrily where upon the detective opened his newspaper, sat back in his chair and watched the energetic animal racing around the room haphazardly, tripping over it's own paws. He laughed, his first real laugh in many weeks and since Watson wasn't there to watch him humiliate himself, he got down on his knees and tussled with Gladstone Jr. until the puppy dropped from exhaustion, panting tiredly. Sherlock settled the puppy on his lap, retaining his more dignified and adult manner and went back to reading his newspaper and drinking his tea feeling far more content and at peace than even Watson could bring him. Watson was his brother, Gladstone and now Gladstone Jr. however were mans best friend and Holmes could look forward to a good many years with his new companion.
Dog's don't last forever but their effect on their humans does. Anywho, hoped you liked it and leave a review. It's appreciated.