[Author's Note: Things that I just remembered I should have mentioned- 1. This is my first attempt at the Sherlock series, so, if you have any advice, let me at it. 2. If you find any mistakes, please let me know and I will update. 3. Let me know what you think (review boxes are lovely things) so that I may consider continuing or concentrating elsewhere. 4. I am not the BBC, or its affiliated partners, writers, etc. I own nothing but the OCs and the dream to someday kidnap the whole Sherlock crew. Sigh. One can dream.]
"'First do no harm'! Honestly, John, I would think you took your oaths a little more seriously. You were a soldier!" The figure coming out of the shadowed entrance to 221B Baker street yelled, as well as they could, through a tissue.
Their head was tilted back trying to staunch the flow of blood pouring from their lip, nose, left eyebrow and hairline. The figure pulled the kerchief, sodden in spots with deep crimson blood, away from their face to try to asses the damage. Deeming the flow to have considerably slowed, they inelegantly plopped onto the front step of the flat and tugged their long, dark coat closer to brace against the November chill. In the light offered by the nearby streetlight at this particular location, the person could be seen working their jaw, a grimace stuck to their face along with the remnants of blood. It was quite noticeably a male, tall, wiry and with elegant features hidden under adopted commonplace and vulgar expressions, stark contrast of fair skin against unnaturally dark hair, and sharp angles that led to soft shadows in his countenance. The man? The newly brought-back-to-life Sherlock Holmes. A bruised, bloody and aching version of himself, to tell the least of his troubles.
Why was he sitting alone on a step, in a dark street, nursing his bloody wounds? Because his friend and colleague, Dr. John Hamish Watson had just beaten him to a pulp in the living room. Apparently all was not forgiven after the incident in the train carriage, and now Sherlock knew it was not exactly nice to trick your best mate into thinking they were going to die a fiery death (the second in two days) just so that you could inflate your ego and have a laugh at their expense. Honestly, all the niceties and social protocols were starting to grind on his nerves. Wasn't it enough that he apologized? Anyway, promptly after the interview held just a few steps ahead from where he was sitting now, John had told him he had a surprise. Having the smaller man fly at him, fist first, for fifteen minutes before Lestrade had determined that John had had enough and wrenched them apart was not Sherlock's idea of a surprise. Very far from it, actually.
In true Holmes manner, he had made a witty comment about John's stature and the force of his blows, and the good doctor broke his nose before Lestrade had even reacted. Quickly slipping away before he could infuriate Watson further, Sherlock took to the first step to sulk. Surely the army man should have been happier that he had returned, even if he made a remark or two about the ridiculous facial hair he had acquired. Maybe John was sensitive to that sort of thing? Mary had plainly pointed out he knew nothing of human nature. Surely John knew that jests were his manner of showing his appreciation. And what's funnier than almost dyin-
"Bloody fuck!" The cry of surprise that came out of the deducing genius was halfway pitiful and comical, arms waving madly in an effort to regain balance before he was toppled over and savagely attacked by a halitosis-ridden mouth. The bloodhound, who Sherlock had never seen before in his life insisted in showing an unwarranted amount of affection towards the wounded stranger. Sherlock pushed the dog off, scrambling to his feet quickly while the dog bounded around him with glee just in time to hear a distant, very angry voice.
"Oi! If you lay one violent finger on him, I will have your head. He only got off his leash, he's just a pup!" The voice came accompanied by a young woman just barely catching her breath.
Rolling his eyes with exasperation, Sherlock glanced at the young woman just as she fastened the obviously broken leash around his neck with a small knot. Twenty nine. Dyed brown hair. Natural blond. Single. Lives on her own. Youngest of three siblings. Allergic to strawberries. Near sighted. Scientist. Foreign. Night owl. The list went on and on, but Sherlock was uninterested. His face ached, his best mate was cross with him, Molly had a fiancee that looked disturbingly like himself, and -wait, did she think he was going to hit her dog?
"Only incredibly anxious, phobic people, psychopaths and future serial killers hit dogs, madam, and I am none of the above, thank you very much!" Sherlock cut into the ongoing rant he had managed to block out while he deduced her, face twisted into a frown. "Oh, no, I can see you're a regular bloke-next-door from the bloody hanky. Not a psychopath at all."
Feeling the slightest tinge of embarrassment (really, what had these two years done to him?), he tucked the garment into his pocket and cleared his throat and mumbling something about being a high-functioning sociopath and smiled slightly at the offending canine. The dog, who he noticed was named Sir Bartholomew Barkington from the tag on his collar, took this action as open invitation to knock him over again and continue his onslaught of kisses. The girl reeled in her instinct to continue saying a few choice words to this person only because her companion seemed taken to him, and sighed before gently coaxing the dog off of Sherlock, gaining her first, full view of his face. His jaw and left eye were turning a dusky shade of purple and there was crusted blood everywhere. She groaned. She knew that face and as unfriendly as she was feeling, she had to let up on him. He hadn't exactly warranted the full force of her irritation. Yet.
"Look, I'm sorry. Most people see him bounding up and label him dangerous, unwanted and only think to hurt him as a control method." She grinned wickedly, her eyes sparkling in the relative darkness. "Kind of like you, Mr. Holmes. Then again, people usually warm up to the dog."
Sherlock remained unsurprised. His face had been plastered everywhere it would fit, his reputation and people skills were known to the world. Of course she would know who he was. It was only fitting, really. A pleased smile crept onto his broken lips before he spoke. "It's hard to find people who don't sugarcoat facts." Taking a knee, he allowed the dog to sniff him and generally nuzzle into his hand while he patted him with an expression akin to affection. "Oh, you're a good boy, aren't you Bart? Even if you do get off your leash and cause your mum to run apparently halfway across town for you. I mean, she's practically hyperventilating and now having to go all the way back home."
She scoffed quietly, flicking her hair away from her face. "Funny. Really funny. Tell me the lottery numbers next, will you?"
Smirking, Sherlock shrugged. "Well, I've been doing this for a while," he started in a very show-off tone. The rest of his argument, however, was lost when Bartholomew licked feverishly at his face once more."Oh, you wouldn't care if I left without telling you, would you? Yes, you'd still love me. Oh, good boy," his voice increasingly raised in octaves as he spoke to happy beast.
Curious and pleased that someone was getting along with her Barty, she dug her hands into the pockets of her coat. She smirked knowing that this very smart man was being very stupid. "Aren't you supposed to be a fantastic genius of deduction?" Rolling his eyes at the obvious fact, Sherlock haughtily responded with a nod. Her saccharine smile belied her intentions, she leaned towards him and whispered, "Then, I would have thought you, of all people, could identify a dog that was in the habit of eating his own and other's 'businesses'"
The words sunk in a few seconds before the consulting detective got to his feet and rubbed at his face with his hands and coat. "Why the hell didn't you say anything!? I could get infections?!"
"I assumed you'd be like the 'Dog Whisperer' and he'd tell you," she managed to respond between giggles and gasps of air. "Come on, Bart, Mr. Holmes has to go wash his face and rescue the little shreds of dignity and self-respect he has left before apologizing to his friend," she cooed to the dog before leading him to the door of 219 Baker Street, not before turning to the door of 221B and waving at Dr. Watson who had apparently cooled down enough to let Sherlock in and happened on the happy situation.
"Good night, Addie!" John called from the stoop, grinning from ear to ear, watching her disappear into the frame of her door.
Sherlock looked flabbergasted at the turn of events. "You know that woman?" He asked, spitting out the words.
"Of course I do. She's lived there since we moved in. She brought us banana bread. You said it was particularly good."
Sherlock let his head fall to his hands with a groan as he climbed into the flat. "This isn't happening." He considered how much of an idiot he looked like now. John had really battered his brains with that last punch.
"That teaches you not be a tool, Sherlock. Take it in stride," John assured, patting him on the back and leading his friend into the flat, relishing in his momentary misery.