"What else do we need?"

John had convinced Sherlock to come to the pet store for Atalanta, ignoring Sherlock's adamant protests that they already had everything they needed to look after a dog. They'd spent fifteen minutes arguing over the idea of homemade dog food - John only got Sherlock to concede when he said Sherlock would be the only one making said dog food.

"Dog bed and treats," Sherlock answered. While John was stick pushing the cart, Sherlock was holding the make-shift leash with Atalanta.

The two had been practically inseparable since John brought the dog home. Mrs. Hudson was slightly hesitant to let the dog stay, at first, but quickly came around - explaining that a dog wouldn't be able to do anything worse than what Sherlock had already done to the flat. She hadn't even been theirs for twenty-four hours, but John was certain they were going to keep Atalanta.

"What do you think about this one?" John asked, pointing to a fluffy red one. Sherlock merely shrugged. "Alright, then." He lifted the bed into the cart. "Treats, and then we can go."

It was quite amazing how many different types of dog treats there were. John figured Atalanta wouldn't particularly care which ones they got for her, but for the first time in their whole shopping trip, Sherlock was heavily involved in the process.

"We don't want a diabetic dog," John pointed out as yet another treat came off the shelf and into their cart.

"Nonsense. She's underfed and will need extra food to catch up to where she needs to be."

The logic was lacking, but Atalanta hardly seemed to care as she wagged her tail, thrilled by Sherlock's selection of goodies for her. John was positive his partner new how ridiculous the assertion was and was just trying to avoid admitting he wanted to spoil their new dog.

"I think that's plenty, Sherlock."

"Do you think she has enough play things?" Sherlock asked as he eyed the aisle of dog toys across the store. "We don't want her making a mess of the flat while we're gone, and we will be out quite often."

"We could always just bring her with us to the crime scenes," John jested. He never thought Sherlock would take him seriously, but the way the consulting detective's face lit up caused him to immediately regret having said it. "No, I wasn't being serious. Lestrade won't let us bring a dog to investigate."

Sherlock would have none of it. "Police bring dogs all the time to investigations."

"Yes, but those dogs are trained. Atalanta may be a sweet dog, but I don't think she has any experience sniffing drugs or tracking."

"Then we'll have to train her."

Sherlock was staring directly at him with that determined look in his eyes. "Are you being serious?"

"Of course."

"No, Sherlock."

"She could provide valuable assistance in—"

John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I don't think there's a single thing a dog could pick up that you can't. We are not training Atalanta to be a police dog. Besides, I highly doubt she'd be able to. Those dogs are trained from puppyhood and she's at least three years old."

The dog was looking up at them, confused by her owner's bickering. She whined slightly to remind them that she was there, and Sherlock knelt down next to her to pet her. "Please, John," he said, using his pseudo-innocent voice, "We can at least bring her with us sometimes."

John sighed. He should have known this was going to happen. "Fine," he muttered. "But you're explaining it to the Scotland Yard. And we aren't training her. That'd just be a waste of time."

He swore he could see Sherlock smile, but he turned around in a huff, wheeling the cart towards check out. John definitely didn't notice Sherlock grabbing one more bone off of the shelf, or Atalanta's tail-wag of approval.