Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own Sherlock.

Always Room For Improvement

~1~

John Watson was aware that his friend and flatmate Sherlock Holmes had an intimate relationship with the city they were living in. Whereas Sherlock kept his distance to most people, London he loved with a passion. He had a plethora of literature about hidden pathways and long forgotten historical landmarks, and he knew the tube map by heart. Furthermore, he usually was rather well informed about what was happening even when he didn't leave the flat for days, something which had puzzled John before he knew the reason.

He had only been living with Sherlock for a few weeks when he had learned about the homeless network. At first he had thought his flatmate was exaggerating rather excessively when he told him that it was vast and spread out all through the city, but as time went by, John had to acknowledge it seemed true. He did not easily forget faces, and the amount of people from the street whose services Sherlock required from time to time, mostly in order to spy on someone, was admittedly impressive in the long run. He paid them well, something John approved of, and almost always got the desired results in return. Sometimes, something went wrong, though, which was why, on one such occasion, John found himself hurrying along with his friend as they strode down a narrow alley in search for an old man who had failed to come up with the information Sherlock had been waiting for.

It was bitterly cold, and John had zipped his coat up as fast as it would go, hunching into the collar. "How do you know he's here?" he asked.

"I don't," Sherlock answered curtly, "but he wasn't in his usual spot this morning, so I thought it's worth a try." They had reached what looked like a boarded up door, but on closer inspection, several of the wooden boards were loose and could be moved.

Of course, John thought as Sherlock pulled his flashlight out of his pocket and ducked into the darkness. Inside it was as cold as outside, and it smelled moist and rotting; the floor was wet.

"Nice," John muttered, but fell silent when Sherlock raised a hand in warning. Somewhere ahead of them, there was a sound- a dog was growling in a way which was an unmistakable warning.

"Jack," Sherlock called out. "It's Sherlock Holmes."

He did not get an answer, but the dog continued to growl.

"The dog is living with him," Sherlock said in an undertone, directing the beam of his flashlight towards the sound; a pair of eyes became visible as it reflected the light.

"Good boy," Sherlock then said aloud, "it's okay." He reached into his pocket once more, though John couldn't see what it was that he pulled out of it.

"Good boy," Sherlock repeated, crouching down and holding out his hand. "Come here, will you?"

The growling ceased, hesitantly, then the eyes slowly approached the detective. As the dog came closer, John could make out its shape: it was knee-high with short dark fur which only emphasized how skinny it was, probably a mongrel of sorts. Its ears were perked up attentively, its eyes on whatever it was that Sherlock had for it. Trying to keep as much as distance as possible, the dog stretched its neck as far as it would go and snatched the treat from Sherlock's fingers, immediately backing away, chewing hastily and never taking its eyes off the detective.

"There you go, good boy," Sherlock murmured in an unusually soft tone. He took another treat out of his pocket, which the dog eagerly accepted. After he had repeated this a few times, Sherlock got to his feet again. The dog growled once more, a short warning, but in the end it could be bribed with more treats.

Not surprising, John thought, poor thing's half starved from the looks of it. His attention was then drawn to the far left corner of the room; a shapeless lump on the ground turned out to be the old man Sherlock had been looking for.

While the detective distracted the dog, John knelt down next to the man and quickly checked him over, ignoring the smell of old, unwashed skin. He was very pale and seemed unconscious, breathing only shallowly.

"What's his name?" John asked.

"Peapod Jack," Sherlock replied without looking up; the dog was sitting in front of him now, ever so often turning its head to look over to where its master was lying.

Frowning, John tried to rouse the old man, but he didn't react when the doctor addressed him; his skin was entirely too cold. The dirty, frayed blanket he had wrapped himself into didn't seem to have helped to keep at least a little warmth.

"I'll call an ambulance." John reached into his pocket. "He doesn't look too good."

This was confirmed by the paramedics a little while later: "He's hypothermic and possibly dehydrated," one of them told John, who suspected that the old man might have suffered a stroke.

Silently, they watched as Jack was being loaded into the ambulance. The dog was agitated; it initially had growled at the paramedics too, but Sherlock had talked to it in a low, calm voice which seemed to appease it, even though not enough for it to accept any more treats; it seemed to sense that something was wrong. In the daylight, it had turned out that it seemed to have quite a bit of Labrador in its mix and that its fur was of a very dark brown. Sherlock knelt down next to the dog once more in order to read the name which was inscribed on the tag of a faded old collar around its neck: "Graeme," he said disapprovingly. "What kind of name is that?"

But the dog's ears had ever so minutely moved at the sound of the name; it seemed to respond to it.

"Graeme?" John said experimentally,and really, the dog briefly looked up at him, only to be redirecting his attention to the ambulance once more as soon as John sought eye contact with Sherlock: "There. It's his name."

Sherlock grumbled something, then got to his feet: "Give me your belt."

"My belt."

"Yes, are you deaf? Your belt!"

"Why do you need my belt?"

"In order to improvise, of course. We don't have a leash, do we?"

Of course. Sherlock wanted to take the dog home. John didn't know why, but he had been extraordinarily gentle with the animal, and had after all managed to calm it down to a certain extent.

"We're not going to take him home with us, Sherlock," John said.

"Why not?"

"We don't have the time to look after a dog."

"You may not have the time, but I do."

"Huh. Aren't you in the middle of a case?"

"Technically, yes. Not a very interesting one, though, and my main source of information is currently indisposed anyway."

John narrowed his eyes: "Since when are you so fond of dogs?"

Sherlock avoided his gaze: "Look at him," he said evasively, "he'd have to go to a shelter."

John shook his head: "I bet he's got worms, and fleas. I don't think Mrs Hudson would appreciate it."

The detective only rolled his eyes: "There's probably something you can do about that."

"No, Sherlock, I can't do anything about that, since I'm no vet."

"Fine, we'll take him to a vet first. Now give me your belt."

Nearly three hours later, John, Sherlock and Graeme climbed out of a cab in front of 221B. Sherlock was leading Graeme on a newly acquired leash while John was carrying several plastic bags. The dog walked hesitantly, cowering a little, but at least he was following Sherlock more or less willingly. The detective seemed to have an endless supply of treats in his pockets (John was secretly in awe that he had thought of that when he suspected something had happened to Jack) and had quietly talked to Graeme most of the time, even while they had been waiting at the vet's.

Who had thoroughly examined Graeme; the dog had been trembling visibly throughout.

The vet confirmed John's suspicions: "He's malnourished and probably hasn't had any of the standard vaccinations. He's also got fleas, and do you see this here in his ears? These are mites."

He gave Graeme a gentle pat: "We'll take care of you, don't you worry," he said before turning back to the men: "He's still young, probably three or four; his teeth and paws are looking good, and he seems healthy otherwise. He needs a few basic vaccinations in order to prevent the most common diseases like rabies, canine distemper and leptospirosis. I'll treat the mites with salve of which you'll also get some to take home. Apart from that, I'll give you something for the worms, which he'll have to take over the course of three days, and a shampoo which should help with the fleas."

John glanced at Sherlock, wondering whether his friend knew what he was doing.

Mrs Hudson didn't seem to be at home when they came back. Graeme, who had been palpably subdued ever since the ambulance had left without him, tentatively sniffed around the living room once Sherlock had taken off the leash, then quietly sat down, a picture of resignation and misery.

John set the bags down on the table and put the kettle on; in one of the cupboards he found two plastic bowls for Graeme. He filled one with water and the other one with the dry food they had bought, then, as advised by the vet, poured a spoon of olive oil over it, which was supposedly good for Graeme's fur.

He put the bowls down: "Graeme, lunch is served."

The dog, who had been so ravenous before, didn't move; he just sat there, hunched in on himself, and looked unhappy.

Sherlock went into the kitchen, took the bowl and went back into the living room. Sitting down in front of Graeme, he took a few of the pellets, not caring that they were coated in oil, and offered them to the dog: "Have a look at these," he said softly.

At first, the dog remained stock-still, only his brows moving ever so minutely as he alternately eyed Sherlock and his hand, but after a minute or so, Graeme lifted his head and tentatively sniffed at the food. He hesitated, then almost timidly touched one of the pellets with the tip of his tongue before taking it.

"Good boy," Sherlock said while Graeme chewed. The dog looked as though he was considering, but soon took another bit, as tentative as before. Slowly and steadily, he emptied Sherlock's hand, even licked over the palm afterwards. "There you go," Sherlock murmured, reaching into the bowl again. "That's not so bad, is it?"

John didn't know what to make of it. He didn't think he had seen Sherlock so patient before, especially not with another living being. And yet here he was, caring for the dog as though he had never done anything else.

When the bowl was empty, Sherlock stroked the dog's head with his clean hand: "Good boy," he said again, then got to his feet. John brought the water bowl into the living room in case Graeme didn't dare to come into the kitchen, which earned the doctor an approving look from his flatmate.

The kettle had boiled in the meantime, and John thought he could really use a cuppa now. He was rinsing the teapot when Sherlock joined him. He washed his hands, then began to unpack the bags until he had found the flea shampoo. "Best if we clean him first," he said.

John raised one eyebrow: "We?"

"He's already scared," Sherlock said, irritably, "someone needs to hold him, and try to calm him down."

"He looks like he's got a good deal of Labrador in him. Maybe he likes water."

Sherlock snorted:"Most dogs, even those who like water, don't like to be bathed."

"Fine. You're really concerned about him, aren't you?"

Sherlock chose not to answer.

Twenty minutes later, all three of them were soaking wet. Graeme had refused to jump into the tub and had subsequently struggled violently when they picked him up and set him down in it. He had tried to escape a few times, both while he had still been dry and after his coat had already been wet and soapy.

They settled on John holding him. By the time Sherlock had rinsed all of the shampoo out of his fur and the water was clear again, Graeme was shaking all over, despite their attempts to calm him down. Sherlock turned off the spray, grabbed the old towel he had put out and carefully wrapped it around the frightened animal, rubbing Graeme off gently but firmly. "Good boy," he said, appeasingly,"you're doing very well."

Gradually, the shaking began to cease, but nevertheless, Graeme didn't want to stay in the tub. Sherlock wasn't quite done yet when the dog apparently had had enough and, taking advantage of the fact that John had let go of him, jumped out of the tub rather abruptly and in one big leap. Sherlock nearly lost his balance and flailed his arms almost comically in order not to fall. John couldn't help himself, he laughed so hard that he had tears in his eyes, but quickly did his best to try and sober up when he saw how the dog was crouching again, huddling into the corner between the doors, both of which were closed and therefore barring him from escaping.

"It's okay," John and Sherlock said simultaneously. The detective glanced at the other, then crouched down as well: "It's okay," he repeated in a lower voice. "We're almost done now, there's no need to be afraid. I know you didn't like the bath, but it was necessary. We'll only have to put some more salve in your ears and then we'll leave you in peace." He took another towel (one of his good ones, but he didn't seem to care) and very slowly continued to rub Graeme dry. The dog was calmer now, and when Sherlock stopped and said "Okay," he even ever so briefly licked the detective's hand in acknowledgement.

"Of course," John muttered as he cleaned the tub and surrounding walls as well as the floor of the bathroom a few minutes later. He was complaining only half-heartedly though; he was still amazed by how Sherlock obviously knew how to care for a dog, and he was secretly glad that Graeme didn't have to go to a shelter. He was still surprised though, he hadn't expected his flatmate to even postpone or maybe give up entirely his current case. Well. There were a lot of things he didn't yet know about Sherlock, and he had to admit that he felt slightly guilty now: apparently, he was still far from the whole picture, therefore it was unfair to presume things. Just because Sherlock didn't seem to particularly like other people, it didn't necessarily have to mean he didn't like animals either. Or maybe he did; maybe Graeme was the exception.

"We can probably be proud, Graeme and me," John muttered, wringing out the cloth he had been using.

When he was done and had changed into dry clothes, he put the kettle on a second time; Sherlock had meanwhile lit a fire in the fireplace and spread a blanket in front of it. Graeme was curled up on it; his eyes were open and he watched them as the two men sat down in their armchairs with a cup of tea each, his gaze wandering from one to the other. After a while, when he seemed reassured that nothing else was going to happen to him for the time being, he tentatively turned most of his attention to his partially still moist fur and began to groom himself, grunting a few times.

John looked from him to Sherlock: "You're obviously not a beginner when it comes to dogs," he stated.

Sherlock huffed: "It's not that difficult."

"Perhaps it's not, and yet- a lot of people would disagree."

"Idiots."

John subdued a grin, as he had expected exactly that answer. "Did you ever have a dog?" he then asked.

"It's a long time ago." Sherlock didn't meet John's gaze. "I was still a child." Clearly, he didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay, well... Graeme's lucky then."

"Depends," Sherlock murmured. "On whether Jack is going to make a full recovery."

"Hm." Sadly enough, John knew exactly what Sherlock meant.

To Be Continued

Thank you for reading. I'm not a native English speaker, therefore I apologize for any mistakes.