CHAPTER TWO

The next week was an interesting one, to say the least. John made signs with descriptions of the puppy and their contact information, and called a newspaper to put an advertisement in about having found her. He posted the signs where ever he could, and even wrote about the puppy in his blog. Surely someone in London would know of her and contact them, he reckoned.

All the while, John made Sherlock take care of their furry guest, including clean up her messes, as she was not housebroken yet. To make matters even more interesting, she was also terrified of just about everything, from the leash and collar Sherlock had bought her to both John and Sherlock themselves. The only person she would go to without any hesitation at all was Mrs. Hudson. John was amused, however, at her continued reticence to approach Sherlock, mainly because of the consulting detective's badly-disguised chagrin about it.

In the middle of the seventh day of the puppy's stay, Sherlock suddenly emerged from the loo, cursing and chasing a wet ball of fur. John looked up in surprise then started to laugh. Sherlock seemed to have been trying to give their guest a bath, but it also seemed that there was more soap on Sherlock than on the puppy. John watched in amusement while Sherlock dived under the sofa after her and dragged her as gently as he could out from under it. She emerged, yapping and growling indignantly, and smacked her paws against Sherlock's leg in irritation, trying to scratch at him with her small claws. He picked her up and held her close, and despite his angry - and sudsy - expression, kept his touch gentle.

He looked over at John beseechingly. "For once, can you do this? She keeps playing in the mud when I take her outside. This is the third bath I've had to give her, and you know I could be doing much better things with my time."

"Like getting the dog shampoo out of your hair?" John snickered. "You're the one 'she followed home,' remember? So she's your responsibility, not mine. Besides, she hates me. At least she sometimes lets you touch her."

Sherlock groaned in frustration and turned on his heel to try to continue bathing the stubborn pup. John watched with a smirk until his flatmate disappeared into the loo again, then turned back to his laptop. He hadn't checked all day; maybe someone had commented on the blog about her.

However, no one had, and John sighed in relief. He actually liked having the puppy around (who wouldn't?) and truly didn't want to send her back home. Besides, having something to occupy Sherlock that didn't involve a murder or body parts was a nice break in their often-dangerous lives.

Yet while he was entertained by Sherlock's frantic antics to care for her, at the same time John wondered why his flatmate had been so attached to this dog, right from the beginning. It seemed rather out of character, and he pondered at the story behind Sherlock's unexpected affection for the pup.

His phone rang suddenly, so he picked it up and frowned. It wasn't a number he recognized, so maybe, just maybe...

"Hello?"

"Hello. Is this John Watson, from the newspaper advertisement?" A deep voice, rather like Sherlock's only more whispery, replied.

"Yes it is, who is this?"

"I'm Vincent. I believe you found my dog."

"Yeah? You're the owner?"

"I think it's the same dog. She's a small beagle, with a bit of white on the end of her tail? And her name is Maggie."

"Sounds like her. Just a minute, I want to make sure."

He stood, still clutching the phone, and headed to the loo. He opened the door and found Sherlock, halfway sitting in the tub, struggling with a wriggly, wet puppy, both of them still covered in bubbles in equal amount.

"Maggie," John called gently, and the dog's ears perked up, her head tilting to look up at John quizzically. He smiled at her, then looked at his flatmate. "Sherlock, we found the owner."

He said into the phone, "Well Vincent, seems like we've got her. Would you like us to bring her to you, or-?"

"No, I live a bit out of your way, but I can come get her on my way home from work. You put your address in that newspaper ad."

"Right, okay great. We'll be here."

"Goodbye then, Watson."

"Bye," John hung up, rather relieved to not have the man's deep voice in his ear any longer. It was just a bit unnerving.

"So the owner is coming later?" If John didn't know better, he'd have thought Sherlock sounded disappointed. But of course that couldn't be, since Sherlock obviously didn't care about this puppy...

"Yeah, his name is Vincent. Said he'd stop by after work. So please try to make sure she's dry before he gets here."

Sherlock glared at him through a layer of suds. "I'm trying to make sure she's clean first. Don't make me think too far ahead."

John smirked and left just as Maggie started to shake water and bubbles off herself. He heard Sherlock cry out in exasperation, and John bit back a laugh. Oh, he would miss little Maggie... She was such great entertainment.


The doorbell rang at about half five, and John hurried downstairs to answer. He opened the door and was faintly startled to see a dark-haired man. He was taller, and much more muscular, than Sherlock. John was slightly intimidated by his size, but Vincent smiled disarmingly and held out his hand.

"Watson," he greeted. "Good to meet you."

"Yeah you too, Vincent," John smiled and shook his hand. The guy seemed friendly enough, despite having a crushing grip. "Well, Maggie's upstairs with my flatmate. Come on up."

Vincent followed John up the stairs, his footfalls surprisingly light. "So," John said cheerfully. "It looks to me like Maggie had her leg broken a while back."

"You a doctor or something?" Vincent asked in his odd whispery voice. "Thought the wife got that fixed up pretty well."

"Well yeah, but I guess not well enough that we couldn't tell," John smiled. "How'd she do it?"

"Fell," Vincent said gruffly. "You know how young dogs are, clumsy."

John nodded, reaching the landing and opening the door. Maggie lay on the sofa, and her eyes flew open wide when she noticed Vincent. The man approached her and scooped her up, ignoring her yelp.

"Hey girl," he greeted, laying a hand firmly on her back. He smiled again at John. "Thanks Watson. Don't know what the wife would have done if you hadn't found her. She's been distraught. What do I owe you for taking care of her?"

John shrugged. "No, it's fine. You don't have to pay anything. It was our pleasure." He thought privately it was worth it just to see the normally-immaculate Sherlock soaked and covered in suds.

Vincent nodded. "Well, thanks then, mate."

John caught movement out of the corner of his eye. "Hey, Sherlock, this is Vincent-"

But Sherlock (now clean and dry again) was standing in the kitchen, doing that thing of his where it looked like he was literally x-raying someone with his eyes. He took in everything about Vincent, gaze lingering on Maggie's unusually quiet and still form in his arms. And it was not a kind or gentle expression Sherlock wore.

John cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked back at Vincent. "Well, I'm glad she found her home," he smiled.

Vincent nodded, raising an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Thanks, Watson, Sherlock. Have a nice day. I'll see myself out mate," he added to John as he turned to leave.

"Alright." John waited for Vincent's light footfalls to fade and for the front door to open and shut again before he turned to Sherlock. "Okay, what is it?"

Sherlock ignored him and raced to the window, throwing back the curtain and looking down at the street below. His eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock," John frowned. "What's your problem?"

But Sherlock continued to ignore him, so after a moment John shrugged and turned to the cardboard box where they kept Maggie's toys and food. "Well, I guess we should find something to do with all these. We can't exactly return them, as they're used. And Vincent didn't seem to want them. Maybe we could donate them to a kennel, or..."

"We need to talk to Lestrade," Sherlock abruptly declared. John looked over at him sharply.

"Why?" He raised an eyebrow as Sherlock rounded on him, with a look in his eyes that John only ever saw when they were talking about someone despicable, like Moriarty. His expression was dark and hard, and honestly rather alarming. John took an involuntary step back. "What's wrong?"

"What's wrong, John," Sherlock growled. "Is that we just handed Maggie over to a murderer."


Plot twist!

Just FYI: Even before series 3, I had the idea that Sherlock was a dog person (mainly because it's a hella cute idea). And then His Last Vow confirmed my suspicions, so needless to say I was delighted. Though I had this story idea before the episode, I adapted a later part of it to fit what we learn. Huzzah!

Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you wish.