In answer to a challenge from Mysterywriter221's Forum, Elementary, My Dear Reader.
The recent BBC Merrison-Williams broadcasts put forth a very entertaining theory about that mysterious bull-pup mentioned by Watson at the beginning of STUDY.
Script writer Bert Coules says that the reason we do not hear of the dog again (named Beecher, btw) is because it hated Holmes with a passion untold, constantly going for Holmes's ankles when they tried to first live together. In Coules's STUDY, Watson gave the dog to Stamford.
Challenge: Do a one-shot portraying the dog's mysterious disappearance.
Enjoy! KCS
EDIT: In response to a recent anonymous reviewer: yes, of course I am aware that the expression means to have a quick temper - what true Sherlockian isn't? In fact I do subscribe to that theory, but that's no reason why I can't have a bit of fun with a challenge like this.
In a tiger's house, there are no puppy dogs. Chinese Proverb
"Doctor! Get down here!"
In the nine days since I had begun to adjust to living with the extraordinary man named Sherlock Holmes, I had become slightly accustomed to his odd mood swings, but the odd fellow still had the power to fracture my already shattered nerves further with his unceremonious bellowing when he wanted something.
"Doctor! For heaven's sake!"
There was an odd note of panic in the strident voice that made me drop my writing tablet and slowly descend the stairs (slowly due to my recent injuries) from my upstairs bedroom to the sitting room – Holmes seemed to be such a cool fellow that I doubted many things would make him sound just quite that frantic.
"WATSON!"
I reached the hall just as this last vociferous cry was unloosed, and I heard another sound with it that made me close my eyes in exasperation. Oh, dear.
"Doctor! for the love of – oh, Watson. Would you be so kind?" Holmes's voice was sharp with a waspish buzzing, but that was not what engaged my attention.
This cool, competent fellow was standing on a chair by the table, half-heartedly shoving his foot toward the small bulldog puppy that was on its hind legs against the chair, growling in what was obviously meant to be a menacing snarl.
"Beecher! Down, boy!" I said, hastily crossing the room.
"Doctor, I have no desire to kick your precious pet, but if he does not lose his fascination for my ankles, I shall be forced to take extreme measures!" Sherlock Holmes challenged, shrinking away from the pup as its tiny growls increased and it jumped to worry at his leg.
"Beecher! Stop that!" I picked up the little bulldog and he stopped his growling, the hackles in his neck lying flat once more.
Sherlock Holmes hopped down off the chair, glaring at both of us and making me squirm uncomfortably, and then he walked over to pour himself a drink.
"I am sorry, Holmes – I don't see how he got loose from downstairs," I apologized, not wishing to create a breach between this newfound friend of mine in only the second week of our acquaintance.
Holmes downed the drink and warily walked over to me, freezing in his tracks when Beecher started to growl again.
"All I know is, Watson, I was arranging my chemicals when the little bugger came bouncing in here, probably looking for his master, and then decided he would direct his attention to me – we're both lucky I didn't drop a beaker full of acid all over us!"
"Why do you suppose he doesn't like you, Holmes?"
"I am sure I haven't the foggiest notion," he replied, backing carefully away as the pup in my arms started to snarl in earnest when he got too close, "perhaps he's jealous that you have a new roommate?"
I nearly laughed until I saw that the man was absolutely serious.
Suddenly Beecher leapt out of my startled arms with a growl and made a dash for Holmes. The detective gave a startled yelp and jumped over the couch as I dove for the dog, missing him and accomplishing nothing but jarring my bad shoulder painfully.
I scrambled to my feet as quickly as I could and nearly further injured myself with laughter, for the puppy was chasing Holmes all round the sitting room, over furniture and in circles round me.
"Bark! Bark bark! Grrrrrrr!"
"I am warning you, Doctor!" Holmes bellowed breathlessly as he jumped up on his armchair, trying feebly to shoo Beecher away from him.
"Rrrrrrr!"
"Beecher! Stop that!" I gasped, nearly doubled over with laughter.
My new companion was not amused, and I became the victim of a scathing glare as I wiped the smirk off my face and hastily picked up the poor dog, backing out of the room with him before he decided to pounce on Holmes once more.
My flatmate's grey eyes were fixed warningly upon us both as I shut the door behind us.
Three days later, I was sitting at my new desk in our new sitting room, absently scribbling a letter to a friend while Holmes tinkered away at his chemicals.
"Well, Doctor, I am glad to see your pet is under control at last," the man remarked, squinting into his microscope.
"Is that one of those deductions you have been telling me you indulge in so often, or just an educated guess?"
Holmes snorted and fixed me with a quirky smile.
"Well, seeing that I have gone for two and a half days without getting attacked every time I venture from this sanctuary, I would think I can safely deduce that the dog has calmed down at last?"
"If you did, you would deduce completely and absolutely wrong, my dear chap," I said absently, signing my name to the letter I was writing.
"What?"
His indignant tone penetrated my thoughts; I had already found out how vain he was about his pride and joy, namely that process of logic he held so dear, and I looked up to see him glaring at me testily.
"I said it is an incorrect deduction, Holmes," I repeated, letting my eyes twinkle at him as I sealed up the letter.
"How so?"
"Beecher still hates you with a passion untold, Holmes," I said, trying to repress a smile, "he even was growling at your hat and galoshes in the hall two days ago."
"Then why –"
"I got rid of the little pup, Holmes," I said, sticking a postage stamp on the envelope, "gave him to Stamford. Chap said he always wanted a dog, and Beecher took far more of a shine to him than he did you."
My new friend was staring at me, and his grey eyes softened a little.
"Watson, you didn't have to get rid of the little blighter –"
I laughed. "Yes, I did, Holmes. My recent injuries and fragile health leave no room for chasing an irate puppy around the room and keeping him from freezing onto my newest friend's ankles!"
Holmes gave me a peculiar look, and I wondered what I had said.
The man ran a hand through his hair uncertainly.
"I still wish you hadn't done it, Doctor," he said, eyeing me.
"If you are worried about my sentiment, Holmes, I am holding up pretty well as you can see," I replied, sitting down in my armchair by the fire.
Holmes came over and sat opposite me – we had somehow just each appropriated one of the chairs as our own upon moving in, mine on the left and his on the right of the fireplace.
The man looked puzzled as he lit his pipe and began to smoke heavily, his forehead wrinkling in obvious thought.
"What's troubling you, Holmes?"
"Did you really get rid of the dog just because of me?" he asked, turning a sharp gaze upon me.
"Yes, of course," I replied, not understanding his puzzlement – was it not the decent thing to do?
"Is something wrong?"
"No, no, Doctor. I just – well – I never had anyone make such a thoughtful gesture before, that's all," he looked extremely ill at ease, and his thin face flushed uncomfortably as he spoke.
It was my turn to be ill-at-ease under his words, and I realized anew just how right Stamford had been when he said the man was isolated and rather strange. He must have few friends indeed.
"Well we couldn't have the little chap terrorizing Mrs. Hudson's cat anyhow," I remarked, trying to lighten the mood somewhat from this uncomfortable tone.
Holmes gave a dry laugh, and I gathered the impression that he really would not have cared if Beecher had eaten the cat.
"Well, thank you anyhow, my friend," he said with another quirk of a half-smile, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.
The uncertainty had faded from his stoic face and that normal mask I had observed him wear over his emotions dropped carefully back into place, leaving me very curious as to what he really was like underneath that calm, aloof façade – for I now knew it was a façade.
And I had the rest of my life to spend my time trying to discover a chink in that extraordinary man's strange protective armor.
I always had loved a good mystery.
As I said, in answer to a challenge - hope someone enjoyed!