A New Flatmate
"No, John, I'm not going to get a dog," Sherlock said shortly, peering out the window of the flat, his sharp eyes watching the trail of a water droplet sliding down the window pane. He looked exhausted, as if he hadn't been getting enough sleep. For all I knew, he'd been smoking again.
"It could keep you company, Sherlock," I said, shrugging. "You could train to sniff out drugs and dead bodies and things. You do know, don't you, that-"
"A dog's sense of smell is about a thousand times better than a human's, yes, I know," my friend said dismissively. "My own nose is good enough, John, and I don't need to waste valuable time walking a dog and making sure it's trained and fed. I had a dog once and it didn't work out, so why should I want one now?"
I sighed and nodded. "So you have a case?"
"Yes. A thief, and an interesting one at that. He likes stealing books, and not valuable ones either. He has amassed a most eccentric collection by now."
"But he's stealing them, not buying them?"
"Yes, that's what thieves do." Sherlock sighed and picked his coat up and slid it on over his suit. "I told the client that I'd go have a look around. It seems a simple enough case, but there are some noticeably intriguing points about it."
After a long day of following up various threads, we returned to Baker Street and the old armchairs. Sherlock was distinctly pleased with himself, pleased enough to spend about half an hour explaining why Stradivarius violins were commonly described as the best violins in the world. Finally he smiled and said, "I suppose you'd like to know whether I know who the thief is."
"Yes, that would be nice" I admitted, laughing a little.
"I have recovered the books. Only An Index of African Insects is still missing."
"Where did you find them? What have we been investigating?"
"We're trying to find the person who has the book about African insects, of course. I found the other books in the lake."
"In the lake?"
"Yes. While you were talking to Mrs. Burland, I was searching the lake. All the missing books were in the bag except the one I mentioned previously. The thief only wanted one book, but didn't want us to know that, so she stole the others and threw them into the lake. That is simple enough."
"She?"
"Yes. The thief is a woman with long black hair. She is strong, weighs only about one hundred pounds, and is about five feet two inches tall. She was in the house for only ten minutes, which means that she is fairly familiar with the organization of Mrs. Burland's library and didn't have to waste much time finding the book. She's evidently rather clever, too; she avoided leaves many traces behind, even for a trained eye such as my own. Still, I believe I'll have her yet, John."
Sherlock's blue-green eyes were feverishly bright with the excitement of the chase, and I was once again filled with admiration for this brilliant man who I was fortunate enough to know.
"I've asked our book thief to come and talk," Sherlock said. "As a matter of fact, that might be her now."
"I knew it was not, however, because the cab that pulled up in front of our flat carried two creatures who I had invited myself. So when Inspector Lestrade stepped out of the cab, followed by a gangly-legged young German Shepherd on a blue leash, Sherlock stared in some surprise while I went down to let them in.
"We found him wandering around without a collar about a week or so ago," Lestrade explained. "We've been trying to locate his owner, but with no luck. I thought you might want him."
"Why on earth would you think that?" Sherlock said, glancing thoughtfully at me. "I have no use for a dog, Lestrade, and your presence is most unwelcome right now; I'm expecting a visitor who would not talk as freely if they found Scotland Yard's detective inspector standing in my flat."
"I'll be leaving, Sherlock. I simply thought a dog could be extra protection for you, and I can't keep him with me anymore. The wife won't have it."
"You're a terrible liar, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed, taking the leash from the inspector. "I know a pedigreed dog when I see one, and you certainly haven't been keeping this energetic young animal at your house." Still, he reached down to scratch the young dog's ears and jaw.
"Well, hang on to him for now, won't you? I should go now, and I can't take him back home anyway. If you really don't want him, I'm sure you can find someone to sell him to."
I tried not to smile too broadly as Lestrade walked out the door and left Sherlock with the dog, apparently at a loss.
"I suppose you know all about this, don't you, John?" he said ruefully. He led the dog to his bedroom and closed the door on it, leaving it alone inside. Then he returned to stand next to me at the window. "Well, it seems that Lestrade has left just in time. Here's our burglar after all."
The woman proved to be very unwilling to talk, even though Sherlock gave every reason in the world why she should; apparently she had only decided to come because she wanted to try to convince Sherlock that her crimes weren't as monstrous as he described them to be: multiple murders (and now petty theft). Lestrade was only too happy to snap a pair of handcuffs on her slender wrists. After Lestrade left again, this time with a prisoner, Sherlock returned to his room and let the German Shepherd out, unsnapping its leash so it could explore. I had to quickly move Sherlock's malodorous chemical experiments off of the kitchen table so that the animal couldn't reach them. My friend turned to me. "Who paid for the dog?"
I shrugged. "Me and Mrs. Hudson. Mary helped a little too. Now, if you'll excuse me, Mary wants me home."
Before Sherlock could say another word, I left.
I half expected him to sell the dog and pretend it had never existed, but when he called me back to Baker Street again two weeks later, it was lying at his feet, a blue collar around his black neck, tongue lolling out of its mouth.
"Here, William old boy, say hello to John."
The German Shepherd leapt to his feet and trotted over to me, sitting down on his haunches and nudging my hand with his nose.
"He's really very intelligent," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "He can sniff out a murder faster than I can. Speaking of which, sit down and I'll tell you about this case…"
William rarely went on cases with Sherlock, as it turned out, and when he did, my friend always pretended not to care twopence for him. I believe he hoped that no one would target the dog in case things went badly, as they often did. The slightest word or gesture from my friend meant something to William, and on a crime scene he was as focused and determined as Sherlock himself. Back at Baker Street, however, he would jump up on the detective and try to knock him to the floor, barking and chewing on his forearm. Nothing could distract Sherlock from his cravings for cigarettes like William could, and nothing could make Sherlock happy like William could. I don't think anything better has happened to Sherlock than that dog, for which he can thank myself, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson.
A/N: I just wanted Sherlock to have a dog. I'm not happy with those last few lines; sorry. I'm not beta'ed, all mistakes are mine. Sherlock and Watson are not mine. Usual disclaimer crap. Yayyy!
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