"No." Sherlock stood in the doorway, his arms crossed.
"Come on, Sherlock," John implored. He stood outside the flat, looking up at Sherlock pleadingly. His arms gently supported a small, puppy.
"Please," John continued. "It's so sweet, and she was just sitting on the street. I couldn't leave her alone! She just a baby! Besides, we won't even have to keep her long. Just until I find her a home." Sherlock stared down at the small animal in John's arms. He grudgingly moved slightly aside to let John pass. He trailed the pair into the living room, his arms stilled crossed. John bustled around, grabbing blankets and arranging them on the couch. "John, no. It is not touching the couch. Dogs carry a variety of germs, bacteria, viruses, and parasites. Do not put it on the couch." Sherlock stood and glared at John. John shot back an irritated look, but moved the blankets onto the floor.
"Did you know that approximately 4.7 million dog bites occur in the United States each year? Half of those are attacks on children."
"Well," replied John, setting the now sleeping puppy gently down. "We don't live in the United States, and we don't have children."
"Twelve to fifteen people die from dog bites each year."
"Sherlock, it's a puppy! It's not going to murder us in our sleep!" John threw up his hands exasperatedly. Sherlock didn't reply, and continued to look at the sleeping creature. "I don't like it," He frowned. John sighed and stood up to face him.
"It's just a dog. What was I supposed to do? Leave it to freeze to death?"
"Yes"
"She won't be here long," John continued on, ignoring Sherlock. "I will find her a home, and then we can get back to your homicides. You don't even have a case right now, anyways!" John glanced back down at the dog, and smiled adoringly. Satisfied that she was comfortably sleeping, he turned and strode to the kitchen. Dishes clattered as he made tea. "I wonder what breed she is." He wondered aloud from the kitchen. "A mutt, most likely."
"Its body structure is long, with short legs, indicating Dachshund. Its muzzle also shows characteristics of Dachshund. The color, however, is not a generic trait possessed by that breed. The golden with white undertones is the most common fur color found in Golden Retrievers. The longer length of the coat is also suggests Retriever. You cannot be sure without DNA testing, of course, but I would argue that it is a Golden Retriever and Dachshund mixture. Possibly a bit of some type of terrier, as well, judging by the texture of the coat." Sherlock rattled off his deduction, and paused to face John. Usually, John was used to Sherlock's intelligence and deductions, but once in a while, they caught him off guard.
"I didn't know you knew so much about dogs," John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock shrugged as he disappeared into his bedroom. John sipped his tea, and set it down on the side table. He knelt down onto the floor, groaning in the way that old or sore people do as they bend, though he was neither. "Well," He smiled. "Aren't you just the sweetest?" He stroked the puppy's wiry coat. "I can't see what Sherlock is going on about! You aren't dangerous or germ-ridden! Although…" John paused. "I suppose you could use a bath. Perhaps Sherlock will take more kindly to you then." John scooped up the warm bundle and began to carry her to the bath. "Of course, you will have to have a name," John continued. "What shall it be?" Sherlock's voice rang out from behind his closed door. "Don't you dare name that thing, John! You name it, and you get attached to it! You are not keeping it!" John rolled his eyes and ignored him. "How about Macy?"
"That is an idiotic name!" Sherlock called out loudly.
"How can you even hear me?" John yelled back. Sherlock's door clicked open, and he strode out into the hall. "Don't name it that. That is a dumb name."
"Macy? It's not dumb! I had a friend named Macy in high school!"
"You had friends?"
"God, Sherlock! Yes, yes I had friends! And besides, I thought you didn't want me to name her at all!"
"Don't name it."
"How about Maddie? She looks like a Maddie, don't you think?"
"No, John, you can't name it."
"Well, let's say that if I were to name her, which I'm not, do you think that Maddie is a good name?"
"Well, it doesn't sound like the name that an exotic dancer would possess."
"I will take that as a yes. Do you her that?" John gazed down at the dog. "Maddie. I like it, don't you?"
"You're talking to a dog. You should get help." Sherlock turned and strode back into his bedroom.
"She is going to grow on you, Sherlock," John called after him. "Just you wait!"
"No she won't!'