Author note: This is based on characters from the BBC Sherlock series, after "The Reichenbach Fall".
Disclaimers: SHERLOCK belongs to Hartswood Films. Great credit goes to Steven Moffatt and Mark Gatiss, creators of this inventive new version. Of course, the original inspiration belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I claim no ownership of these characters. I just adore them.
This is my first, multi-chapter fic. All suggestions, given with positive intent, are most welcome!
Warnings: Spilt milk.
CHAPTER 1
Gladstone growled.
"What's up chap?"
John stumbled up the last stair to the flat, juggling the leash, two Tesco bags and a package of dog food. The squat English Bulldog made another low rumble, as he stood stock still, staring at the closed upper door of 221B.
Rain still dripping from his hair, John fumbled with his keys, clumsily inserting one into the keyhole. Mrs. Hudson had insisted he lock up, ever since the rash of recent break-ins in the neighbourhood.
He nudged the door sharply with his shoulder, faltering, as Gladstone let out a single gruff bark and pushed past into the flat, his solid, stocky body roughly knocking John's calf in the process.
"Oi! Gladstone! What's your rush, boy?" John grumbled, as he lurched forward to drop the heavy bag of kibble and tried to retrieve the keys from the lock.
"Hello, John."
An icy cold flew up his spine, locking him in place, unable to move. The keys slipped to the floor with a clatter.
No, was John's only thought, as he remained frozen, hunched, staring at the empty keyhole.
His lungs weren't working. His breath caught in his throat. He could feel his heart rate increasing, jaggedly building to pound in his ears.
"John?"
No.
In slow motion, John straightened and rotated on his heels. It was like someone was turning a marionette. His back and neck seemed fused and his limbs were shaky.
Ratty sneakers. Torn jeans. No.
Baggy, stained, grey hoody. No.
Long, white fingers holding the scull. No.
A blue scarf. Oh.
Eyes. His eyes. God.
A long, messy mop of ginger hair?
"Sher...?", barely a whisper.
Sherlock watched as John's eyes fluttered, his head tilted back and his whole torso seemed to collapse. Someone had cut the marionette strings and the form crumpled to the floor.
"Damn!"
Sherlock lunged forward, releasing the scull into a chair, but he was too late. The bags hit the floor at the same time as John. Gladstone bared his teeth with a snarl which stopped Sherlock up short.
Not at all as planned. Did I really even think I had a plan? 2 years, 21 days, 8 hours and 12 minutes worth of thinking about this moment, and it definitely wasn't my finest.
He sank down slowly to sit cross-legged, staring at the protective bulldog.
"I've conquered criminals with tougher bites than yours."
Gladstone didn't make another sound, but kept his lip curled up with teeth bared.
"Fine. But, I'm warning you, John won't be happy about the milk."
The dog looked down, as white liquid started to trickle around his paw. He lowered his big head and began lapping it up.