AN: Here we go again! By the way, if you haven't already guessed, John's dog form is loosely based on my own dog, Reilly, who was a third of the inspiration for this story. If you'd like to see a cute little picture of him, please drop by my Tumblr blog: An Awkward Outburst (user: thebibliophilicdraconic). Anywho, on with the story! Thank you for reading, and favoriting, and bring on the reviews, baby!
Disclaimer: Please see Chapter 1.
Chapter 3 - Disturbing the Peace
As promised, the belongings of one Sherlock Holmes arrived at quarter-past eleven the following morning, sans their owner. There was, however, a note, written in dangerously sprawling handwriting, which explained that Mr. Holmes was pre-occupied at the moment with very important business of the scientific variety. The man himself would not be able to arrive until later on in the month. It went on to politely inquire whether or not Mrs. Hudson would be very kind and direct the moving men in the placement of his things. A hand-drawn blueprint of the upstairs flat, haphazardly labeled, made up the last half of the paper.
"Well, how do you like that, old John?" Mrs. Hudson tutted, showing the letter to the little dog at her side, "I suppose I can oblige him, since he was kind enough to doodle us a diagram."
It took a few hours to get everything set in place, and Mrs. Hudson tipped the movers generously for their time. Each man paused to give the dog that leaned against the door a friendly pat on the head as they left, which he seemed to tolerate well enough. As the last man slipped out the door, the dog stood up and nudged the door shut with his nose.
"Well, John!" Martha gave the little dog a cursory scratch behind the ears, "I've got to run down to the shops for a bit. When I get back I have to get ready to go to dinner with Mrs. Turner." She pulled down the olive leash and attached it to his collar. "Let's get you dropped off at the groomers and I'll pick you up after I'm done with the shopping."
A baleful look appeared on John's face at the word 'groomer'. He let out a loud huff of sound as they quit the house, shaking his fur until it fluffed up all around. Mrs. Hudson chuckled at the condescending air he put on, as if he were only agreeing to such an indignity as a particular favor.
"If you can think of a better way for you to get cleaned up, then please don't hesitate to tell me. In the meantime, you'll just have to suffer. Don't worry, though, I'll make sure they know not to put any of those silly ribbons or what-not on you."
John let out another exasperated sigh and tucked his ears back against his head, trying to control his temper. It was a lot shorter now that he was an animal, and he didn't want to risk throwing a tantrum. People didn't take kindly to dogs that snapped and snarled freely at anything and everything. Keeping a cool head wasn't hard, really, but certain things just rubbed him the wrong way.
The groomer, a Mr. Jean Jameson, being so flamboyant it was a wonder a rainbow didn't shoot out of his bum, did not help matters. His fake French accent was so horrendous it actually hurt John's teeth. Martha answered John's look of sad horror with an apologetic pat to the back. All John wanted to do was lay in front of the gas fire at the flat and sleep, but here he was getting manhandled and fondled by Jean the Groom Fairy. Life was not fair.
Not that Jean was a mean man or anything, just annoying. He chatted incessantly while he worked, until John wanted nothing better than to scratch his own ears off. Even when the dryer was on the man never shut up, not that John was even still listening at that point. To add insult to injury, Jean ignored Mrs. Hudson's instruction not to tie a ribbon into his fur. The last straw was when the man related, in an almost conspiratorial whisper, that he was going to suggest Mrs. Hudson get him neutered.
Scrabbling for purchase on the metal table he'd been flopped on, John leapt to the floor and growled, backing up until he was in the lobby again. Lucky for him, Mrs. Hudson had just arrived to collect him. She tugged the ribbon out of his fur, not even bothering to admonish the groomer for disobeying her instruction, and reattached the leash. By the time she finished paying, John was much calmer and more in control of himself again.
"Had quite a time, did you, John?" Martha asked as they made their way back to the flat. A few soft growls were her only answer. "Well, when we get home I have a surprise for you that should make it all better."
Make no mistake about it, John was surprised when they returned and she led him up to the attic bedroom. A large, comfortable dog bed rested in the far corner, with a pair of blankets folded neatly on top of it. Small, low bookshelves full of medical texts and journals lined one wall, and a squat desk had been placed beneath the round window to the outside. If he was careful, he could use the window as an escape hatch to the roof. It would be nice to see the stars again.
"What do you think, Dr. Watson?"
Wagging his tail a mile a minute, John pranced over with his tongue lolling out his mouth and a shimmer of laughter in his eyes. Martha leaned down to give him a warm hug around the neck, laughing happily. Without thinking, John gave the side of her face a few long licks.
Mrs. Hudson pushed him gently away, shaking her finger at his nose with a smile on her face, "Now John, I will tolerate many things, but the last thing I need is dog kisses. At least your breath isn't horrendous. Come along and I'll whip up something for your supper before I go out to meet Amelia."
Chastised, John followed her back down the stairs. It would be nice to have his own space again. He could even brush up on his medical knowledge, if he could figure out some way to turn the pages. For the first time since he'd been cursed, John was thankful that he'd retained his human intelligence.
The days took on a pattern after that. Every morning John would clamber his way downstairs and into the bathroom. Even he was proud of his own ingenuity in figuring out how to use the toilet. Thank heavens he was small, or he wasn't sure how he'd ever have managed it. Once finished, he would trot his way downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat and start the process of making tea.
It took him four whole days to figure out how to plug in the kettle, how to carefully lift the top off the sugar bowl, and how to add the sugar into a cup. It only took him two more to figure out how to open a teabag and sling it into a cup. He was thankful that he wasn't the sort of dog that shed, or things would have been infinitely more complicated.
Once the tea was made, Mrs. Hudson would wander out from her bedroom and begin making breakfast. John would make his way to the front door, and meander down to the corner newsstand. Martha had a long-standing arrangement with the stand owner, Randolph, and since the first time she'd brought John along with her, the heavy-set older man was sure to have a paper ready. With the journalistic prize clamped in his jaws, John rushed back to the flat.
Mornings were spent reading the paper and slurping down a delicious breakfast, and were followed by Mrs. Hudson heading out for the day. Those lonely hours when John had complete run of the house were something to revel in. It wasn't that Martha was unfriendly or anything, but John had always liked his solitude. He spent that time perfecting his ability to do things with his limited body.
Things like reading. After tea, reading was one of John's favorite pastimes of his old life. It took him a full week to discover that if he was very careful he could turn the pages with an old, metal-edged ruler. Elated by the discovery, he spent every hour not in the presence of Mrs. Hudson pouring over every medical journal and text that he could find.
Martha returned in time for supper, sometimes bringing with her new books for John to add to his collection. After eating they would laze about the living room, reading or watching telly together, until it was time for them to go to bed. It was quite sedate a life for someone who had been used to their days being interrupted by firefights and the occasional psychotic break. John found it rather peaceful actually, and managed to acclimate rather well to the routine. He was content.
Or at least he thought he was content, until Sherlock Holmes arrived. In a whirl of dark, billowing cloth and cigarette smoke, the man himself arrived. It didn't really help that it was the middle of the night when he stormed in and pounded up the stairs, startling John out of a restful sleep. As quietly as possible, John made his way down to the landing and peered at the newcomer.
If there was one thing good about being a dog, it was the heightened senses. John could tell the man was Sherlock Holmes, even without having seen him before, because he smelled the same as his belongings. Thankfully John recognized that, otherwise he might have attacked the bastard out of hand. Not that he wasn't still thinking about it.
Mr. Holmes was a frighteningly tall man with skin so pale it was nearly luminous and a head full of dark curls. Willowy and graceful, the man flitted about the flat as if testing its limitations. While John watched quietly from the landing, Mr. Holmes began bustling about, setting up beakers and tossing papers out of boxes until the flat looked like chaos incarnate.
With a shake of his furry head, John retired back up to his own room, trying to ignore the sounds from below. According to the small clock Mrs. Hudson had scrounged up for him, it was nearly four in the morning. How was the man downstairs making such a ruckus? Pulling his blanket up over his head, and placing his paws over his nose, John tried to get back to sleep.
It was a nearly impossible feat. Downstairs, Mr. Holmes was making such a racket that John's sensitive ears were practically vibrating. How was Mrs. Hudson coping? Her sleeping pills were prescription strength, but even they had their limits. Speaking of limits, John reached his an hour later, when a particular someone started murdering a violin.
Leaping out of bed, all of his fur bristling up until he resembled a very small lion, John stomped his way downstairs to the second floor. His eyes found Sherlock standing in the window, dragging a bow back and forth across the strings of a violin he held perpendicular to the ground. Why in hell someone would own such a lovely instrument and not bother to know how to play it properly, John couldn't guess. All he really wanted to do was rush in, snatch the bow out of the man's hands, and hide it somewhere it would never be found.
Mindful of the wooden floors, John approached the new tenant at a controlled pace. Mr. Holmes took no notice of him, even when John managed to cough loudly. This close to the cacophony, John had no patience to continue being polite, so he let out a spectacularly loud snarl of disapproval. Startled, the man jumped to the side, dropping his bow on the floor.
Sherlock's ice blue gaze fell upon the little indignant ball of fluff and stared at it impassively. With a single tug on the curtain pull, the silvery light of dawn partially flooded the room. Seeing that it was just a dog, a small one at that (its odd head would barely even reach his knee), put Sherlock at ease again. He reached down to pick up his bow again, deleting the little beast from his train of thought.
Before he even realized the animal had moved his bow was trapped beneath one surprisingly heavy paw. In a deep baritone Sherlock rumbled, "If you know what's good for you, you insignificant little fuzz ball, you'll give me back that bow without any further trouble."
Reaching out again, Sherlock had to pull his hand back swiftly as the creature snapped viciously at it. Matching the dog's growl with one of his own, Sherlock tried twice more to retrieve his fallen bow, only to be met each time with the click of teeth and a short snarl. Something from his school days popped into his head, and he turned his eyes to stare into those of the dog.
If he was expecting John to quit the stare-down, then Mr. Holmes had another thing coming. Glaring right back into those pale blue orbs, John's navy and steel gaze was as heavy as any predator's. Not even the sound of Mrs. Hudson beginning the morning routine downstairs could move him. Even when she called up the stairs the only thing of him that moved was his ears.
"John? I'm starting breakfast!" Martha's voice carried up from her flat, and Sherlock couldn't help but glance at the stairwell.
Taking the opportunity, John snatched up the bow in his teeth and disappeared back up the stairs. He kicked the door shut with his back legs, hearing it lock as the old bolt dropped. It rattled when Sherlock bodily slammed into the door. Smiling in his mind, John bolted out his window to the roof, depositing the bow in a safe niche. Perhaps now Mr. Holmes would think twice before making a nuisance of himself.
Inside the house, John could hear Mr. Holmes shouting for Mrs. Hudson, and a small worm of worry dug its way into his brain. Using the fire escape stairs, John made his way to the back door of the house and let himself back inside. Martha was no where to be seen in the kitchen, but he could hear the deep tones of Mr. Holmes shouting from the floor above. Bristling up again, John bounded up the staircase to Martha's aid.
"What are you talking about, Sherlock, what bow?"
"My bow, Mrs. Hudson, and my skull, by the way, don't think I haven't noticed that was missing also!"
"Now why would I touch your things, dear?" Mrs. Hudson was puttering about, straightening things here and there, while Mr. Holmes waved his arms about like a spoilt child who had lost his favorite toy.
"I didn't say you did it, Mrs. Hudson! I'm talking about that filthy excuse for a Canis lupus familiaris you've got hiding upstairs!"
"You mean little old John? You think John took your bow and your skull?"
"Who names a bloody dog 'John'?"
Mrs. Hudson was first to notice John sitting calmly in the doorway of the living room. She walked over to him and leaned her hands on her knees. "What's this Sherlock's been telling me, old John? Did you take his bow?"
Behind her, Mr. Holmes murmured, "You can't be serious."
John cocked his head to the side and Martha smiled. "Rather rude of you, John. You're usually so polite. Be a dear and bring Sherlock back his bow from wherever you hid it, please?"
For a few moments, John stubbornly refused to budge. Finally, after a small argument with himself, he relented and slipped back down to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. He would have to undo the lock upstairs later anyway, so he might as well kill two squirrels with one arrow. He trudged his way back up the fire escape, gently took up the bow again, and wiggled back through his bedroom window.
It took a bit of serious manipulation to get the attic door unlocked and open again, but John managed to figure it out without getting flustered. He trotted his way back down to Sherlock's flat, and approached the tall man. Sitting down, John curled his tail around his legs and waited.
Cautiously, Sherlock reached out and took hold of his precious bow. Once he had a good grip on it, the dog released its hold, and Sherlock whipped the second half of his prized possession to inspect it for teeth marks. To his surprise, there were none.
"What about my skull?"
"Now that, dear, you aren't getting back. Come along, John, breakfast is getting cold." Mrs. Hudson turned her back on Sherlock and started meandering back down to her kitchen.
Sherlock stared down at the little dog, confusion in his eyes but not in his expression. He was used to people treating their pets like people, but the way Mrs. Hudson spoke to her funny colored beastie was making him question the sanity of his landlady. Deciding to delete his discomfort from his mind, Sherlock moved to resettle himself in the window and get back to thinking.
With a little huff, John called the man's attention back to him. He wasn't entirely sure why he was bothering to be nice, considering Mr. Holmes obviously had no use for canines, but when it came down to brass tacks, John was a friendly sort. Walking to the sofa, John bent his front end to the floor and stretched his neck beneath it. He'd seen Mrs. Hudson hide the skull down there weeks ago, claiming that she didn't like the way it leered at her.
Surprise was evident on Mr. Holmes's face when John tugged the skull out. It was replaced by suspicion a few seconds later as he swiped it up from the floor and planted it squarely on the corner of the mantle. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw the animal lower and shake its head, then get up and make its way back downstairs.
Dogs were not really his area of expertise, but he did know intelligence, and Sherlock had never seen a dog behave like Mrs. Hudson's. Momentarily intrigued, he tiptoed his way down to his landlady's living room and stared at the scene before him. If he was a different sort of man, the sight would probably have dislocated his jaw, as it would have hit the floor.
Mrs. Hudson's dog was lapping tea out of a mug, and it had a full plate of eggs, blood sausage, and beans on toast beside it. With her own mug and plate, Mrs. Hudson was reading the newspaper out loud to her pet, as if she was discussing the latest political issues with it. Neat as you please, the dog licked up slices of sausage and bits of egg, and glanced up at his mistress as she spoke.
Letting out little puffs of sound, and the occasional growl, it almost seemed like the dog was answering her. Then, when they were finished eating, it collected the mugs and slipped into the kitchen. Returning empty-jawed, it continued cleaning by picking up the plates one by one and carrying them into the kitchen also. Mr. Holmes had heard of dogs being trained to perform certain tasks, but he'd never actually seen one take initiative. Mrs. Hudson had neither spoken a command or made any sort of hand signal that he had seen. Nor did she command the beast to bring her a throw blanket before it curled up in front of the fire.
Suddenly, the dog lifted its head and stared right through Sherlock, its floppy ears perked forwards. "Is someone at the door, John?"
A knock at the front door of the house startled Sherlock nearly as much as being growled at had. Without further thought, he pulled open the portal and glared at the man standing on the front step. Allowing himself a cursory glance over the man's person, just to see if anything had changed since they had last spoken in person, Sherlock grabbed the man's arm and dragged him inside.
"Lestrade, how nice of you to stop by."
"Yeah, spare me please, Holmes. There's been a fourth." Detective Inspector Lestrade straightened out his jacket, casting a quick glance over the old woman who stood behind Britain's only Consulting Detective.
"Another one, eh?" Sherlock looked positively giddy. "Wonderful. I'll follow along presently. Text me the address."
"Yeah, thanks."
Once the door was shut on Lestrade's heels, Sherlock turned to his landlady and smiled handsomely, "Christmas has come early, Mrs. Hudson! Four serial murders in seven days, all without a speck of physical evidence besides the bodies. Finally, the game is on!"
Mrs. Hudson shook her head at him fondly and patted his back, "Look at you beaming away. Indecent, that's what it is. Run along then, off you go to make the city a safer place."
After rushing up the stairs for his scarf and coat, Sherlock nearly flew back out the door, shouting over his shoulder that he would require something cold for dinner. Martha simply sighed loudly that she was a landlady, not a housekeeper, and retired back to her sofa. She knew he hadn't heard a word she'd said, but that didn't stop her from saying it for her own benefit.
"Dogs are considered," Mrs. Hudson squeaked in surprise as Sherlock reappeared in the doorway, "to have senses of smell and hearing quite beyond those of a human." Mr. Holmes made his way over to the end of the sofa, looking down at the animal in question where he was laying beside the fire. "The hound breeds especially, I understand, have some of the most sensitive noses and ears. And the shepherd breeds are known for their intelligence. Your dog shows several characteristics in common with both of those categories."
Mrs. Hudson smiled at the dog before her fire. "How would you like to help Sherlock catch his quarry, old John?"
Very slowly John rose onto his haunches and cocked his head to the side, staring into the fire in thought. A ghost of his former self, somewhere buried deep in his thoughts, sang of battle and usefulness and lit the old fire of adrenaline in his veins. How he missed that song, that searing jolt of excitement. Staring up into Sherlock Holmes's pale blue orbs, John felt a sense of rightness settle in his gut.
Trotting to the foyer, John whipped his leash from its hook on the coat rack and presented it to the detective. A funny little lift of the corners of Sherlock's lips was the only sign of approval he received as the man fastened it to his collar. Without further delay, Sherlock looped the other end of the leash around his slim wrist and both of them bounded out the door.
Alone in her house once more, Martha Hudson smiled widely into the fire.