***AUTHOR'S NOTE!

Hi, yes, I'm the author of this work. I'll be updating as often as possible. I will promise to update everyday only if I get reviews and follows everyday- sorry, I'm not a good self-motivator. So please review, tell me what you want to happen next, what you like and dislike, what you think is realistic or not, spelling or grammar mistakes, brit-picking, or anything else you'd like to say. Please don't give hate mail, I'd appreciate that.

The plot of this story, since I didn't have room in the summary to fit it all, will be thus: (Warning: some SPOILERS) Sherlock lives, constantly bored and completely alone except for his not-a-housekeeper landlady, Mrs. Hudson. That is, until one day when a bull dog puppy somehow sneaks into his flat and startles him with its pure adorableness. Unable to simply toss it back onto the streets, and reasonably certain it must belong to someone, Sherlock begins searching for the puppy's owner. John is that owner, and when he left his new puppy in the hands of his sister Harry for the night while he went on a date, the puppy ran away. Now he is trying to find his little bull dog pup.

It will be told in alternating chapters (as in, John and Sherlock will attempt to make nice and share and wait their turns to tell their perspective of the story. I'm not sure how well-behaved they'll be about it though) All characters belong to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC, and the lovely ACD.

...

John Watson had never particularly had a problem with pets. He was rather indifferent about the whole thing, never having to deal with living with one before. He hadn't ever understood why and how people got so attached to the d*** things. Well, not until now.

When he'd returned from the war, invalided by a wounded shoulder and a bad leg (psychosomatic, yes, but it hurt anyways) he had been assigned a therapist and a bedsit. The bedsit was a total h***hole, and he moved out as soon as he could. The therapist, however, wasn't as easy to get rid of. Ella, she was, and stubborn as well.

She wouldn't leave him in peace (and sign off on his mental health certificate for work readiness to his new job at St. Bart's, courtesy of Mike Stamford) until he did two things for her. The first was to start a blog, talking about things that happened to him every day. Since nothing ever happened to him, it wasn't hard to start a blog and then proceed to leave it absolutely and truthfully empty. The second thing wasn't as easy to blow off though.

Ella wanted him to get a "companion" to live with him. (Those were her words, not his.)

"So you want me to get a flat mate? Why?"

"It will help you adjust to civilian life to live with a normal civilian. Not to mention, your trust issues need some serious help. Living with a stranger might help with that as well."

"Who would want me as a flat mate?" And that was the real problem. He really didn't mind getting a flat share with some other bloke, but he couldn't think of anyone who'd put up with his night-terrors and adrenaline addiction. It was honestly a bit lonely; coming back from being a part of a cohesive unit of brothers-in-arms to his current situation wasn't easy.

He told Ella he'd think about it. And he did. He went on walks and slacked off on his blog and though about how he could possibly do as she had asked. Then one day he got a call from Mike, asking him if he wanted to grab a drink together. He said yes (of course he did, he didn't have anything else to do) and met Mike at seven at their favorite pub. A rugby game was on the telly above the bar. They talked, mostly about their training days and what John's job would entail. Finally, around ten o'clock , by which time they were completely plastered, Mike brought it up.

"Johnny-boy," he giggled, clapping his hand on John's shoulder and trying not to unbalance and tip off the stool. Stamford was a laughing drunk.

"Yeah Mike, wassit?"

"You n' me, we're frien's, righ'?" His face contorted in an attempt at looking serious, an attempt that was thwarted by uncontrollable giggles.

John pretended not to notice his friend's break in composure, and carried on as if discussing a particularly serious operation, (albeit, he never did that while drunk, normally).

"Yea, 'course we are. Why, wassup?"

"I needa favor John, an' yer the only one left I kin think of ta ask. Whaddaya say, help an ole frien' out?"

"Well, wha' issit, Mike? I kin't say yes if I don' know what I'm sayin' it to, can I?"

"Y' see, there's this dog… well, it's more a puppy really, an'…"

FIN, for now. Will be continued only if requested via reviews.

...

***ADDITIONAL NOTE:

I'm holding a competition of sorts for the puppy's name. Whoever submits the best dog name (the judge is me) by the end of the day (midnight of 9/20/12) will name the puppy and also be allowed to make two suggestions to the plot which I will do my best to fit in.

UPDATE: The puppy's name(s) has been chosen. Thanks to everyone who submitted names!

Big thanks to all readers and reviewers! I love you all, here, have a bunny

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