He had been abandoned again.
The blond-haired man's eyes closed in an attempt to control himself and not snap at the nearest passerby. Of course Sherlock had run off without him! His limp had been slowing him down, and Sherlock refused to believe that the limp actually did hurt.
It might all be in his mind, but his mind could bloody well hurt some times.
He glanced around himself morosely, wondering what to do next. Either Sherlock would remember him and turn back, or he would forge ahead.
His eyes fell on a small pub, and his eyes considered it closely for a few moments. He was a bit on the hungry side, and could go for some chips. There was a warm, inviting air to the pub, and distantly he could hear the sound of a piano.
The old tune brought a smile to his lips, and he walked towards the pub, pushing open the door.
It was unsurprisingly empty; not many came around this hour. The piano was tucked away, slightly out of sight, but next to the bar.
He limped forward, feeling curious as to who the mysterious piano player could possibly be.
He rounded the corner, and stopped dead.
There was a dog. Playing the piano. Paws tickled the ivories, as long brown ears swung to the jaunty tune. "Hello stranger." The rough, gravely voice was surprisingly calming, and he took a step forward. "You look like you could use a sit down."
"I- certainly." The fact that he was talking to a dog faded, no longer important. He pulled himself up onto a stool, leaning against the gleaming surface. He couldn't see the bartender, but he didn't feel quite as hungry.
"You're not from around here, are you?" John murmured, as the tune switched to an old American show tune.
"Hmmm? Oh, I spent a few years here, but I heard a friend needed my help so I came here." John smiled in delight- so the dog wasn't around here.
Silence fell, blessed, peaceful silence, only filled with good music. John relaxed in the silence, feeling his eyes grow heavy. It was nice to be able to simply sit and enjoy- Sherlock had his moments, true, but not like this, when there wasn't any motion of frenzy, but only a calmness that soothed the soul.
The dog's head cocked towards him. "You seem troubled my friend."
"It's been a hard week." John admitted, and surprised himself with admitting. He was a private man, kept his thoughts to himself.
"Tell this old dog your troubles; I'm willing to listen. Shouldn't talk too much, I'm told I have dog breath." The dog laughed quietly at his own joke, John smiling at the sound.
He ought to be ashamed about the outpouring of emotions that poured out, heaping themselves on the dogs' shoulders, but it was cleansing. The dog only offered jokes and bad puns in response, not advice or nagging, or even emotions.
He finished up with a last rant about, "And he left me behind, again." He brandished a chip he didn't remember buying at the dog.
The dog simply shook his head, picking up on his cue for a pun again, "Left you like a landed fish, hmm?"
John nodded, delighted at finding someone to talk too. His therapist was all good, but there was some points when all he wanted to do was rant and rave, and not be told about feelings.
The dog swayed in time to the music, and for the first time that John had came to sit down, pulled the music to a close. "I'm afraid I've got to go- there's a montage coming up I have to get ready for. It was good talking too you."
A paw extended towards him, John shook it firmly. "By the way, I'm John Watson. If you ever come to London again just ring me up; we can talk again."
"That'd sure be fine my friend." The rough, rumbling voice grew slightly conspiratorial, "By the way my friend; I have a suggestion- if you ever need to get somewhere fast again, travel by map."
The dog winked at him, before jumping down from the piano bench. He was short enough that he disappeared from John's sight, and when he leaned over the side, there was no sign of the dog.
He clambered to his feet, circling around. There was no sign of the dog.
"Nuts. I've gone absolutely nuts." Fingers firmly wrapped around the cane, but there wasn't any pain from his leg. For now. He had no doubt that by the time he got to Baker Street it would hurt again.
Travel by Map. How did one do that?
He stepped out into the fading light, and closed his eyes. In his mind, he could see a map, and, bemusedly, he drew a line between his current location and Baker Street.
When he opened his eyes again, he was standing before Baker Street.
He stared at it for a moment, before utterly chucking in all attempts to organize his mind and make sense of the day. If a dog could play the piano, he had a crazy roommate who actually had an archenemy, why couldn't he travel by map?
He stepped into the hallway, and came to face to face with Sherlock. Sherlock looked surprised to see him. Sharp eyes scanned him, a puzzled look growing on his face. "How? What did you do?"
"Hmmm?"
"Everything says that you were still on the street where I left you at, and then suddenly appeared at Baker Street. How?"
A smile curved John's lips. "I traveled by map of course." Laughing, he mounted the stairs to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock to puzzle over the strangeness of his answer.
a/n: Well, a series of drabbles, of each Sherlock Holmes character meeting one of the muppets. If you have any ideas/preferences on who should meet who, just drop a line!