When Jack began speaking, it was in full sentences. John was in the kitchen, cleaning up after lunch while Mrs. Hudson watched Jack tear about the living room as he panted like a dog.
"John dear, you should get him a puppy, he'd love to have a dog," Mrs. Hudson called to John as she waved a stuffed dog in Jack's direction. "Plus it's too quiet up here without Sherlock stomping around, blowing things up and screeching on that violin at all hours. A dog would liven things up a bit, give Jack something to play with."
"Jack's enough to run after around the flat, I don't need a dog to worry about as well," John groaned, joining them in the living room. "And there's no telling what sort of experiments of Sherlock's a dog would drag out of hiding. You should get a dog, Mrs. H., it would give you some company and Jack could visit."
Mrs. Hudson nodded to herself. "It could be the family dog. Come and go between my flat and yours as it pleases," she said as she watched Jack collapse against John's legs, wrapping his little arms about John's knees. "Sherlock would have a field day experimenting with the dog."
Jack opened his mouth and the ear of the stuffed puppy fell out of his mouth. "Dog Daddy. Please?"
Mrs. Hudson pressed her hand over her mouth and her eyes misted over.
John laughed incredulously, kneeling down to pick up Jack. "You manipulative little bugger. You've just been listening, saving up words and biding your time, haven't you? You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"
Jack laughed as John tickled him gently. "Now how can we say no to that?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "I'll do some calling around, Mrs. Turner next door told me she knew of someone who had some pups for sale. I'm sure she could get us a deal."
John sighed, and Jack mimicked the sound. John raised an eyebrow at the boy, and Jack just smiled widely at him. "Sneaky bugger," John muttered, bouncing Jack in his arms a bit. "Don't buy a dog, we should adopt one. I'm pretty good at gathering strays."
"So am I," Mrs. Hudson said with a kind smile, standing up and patting John on the shoulder. "I'll do some looking, dear. Never fear, I'll find us the perfect dog."
When Mrs. Hudson returned from the pet adoption centre, she hadn't found the perfect dog. She had made it as far as the front desk and was promptly distracted by a long, thin black and white kitten with huge orange eyes and a screeching meow that sounded a bit like a tortured violin.
The kitten was perched on the shoulder of the receptionist, watching the cursor of the computer as she typed. His little plastic collar proclaimed his name was Black and White, and Mrs. Hudson had nodded, paid the adoption fee, and took the kitten home.
John had looked at the small cardboard carrier, sighed, and waved Jack over to Mrs. Hudson. "Puppy puppy puppy..." Jack squealed, and he reached for the kitten as soon as Mrs. Hudson had the box opened. "Puppy!"
"A cat?" John sighed, rolling his eyes as he sat on the couch. "At least this one has hair."
"I couldn't help myself, he reminded me too much of our Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said as Jack hefted the kitten up gracelessly. "And Puppy is as good of a name as any. Puppy the cat. Darling."
John looked at the cat, its orange eyes half-closed as Jack pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the top of the its head. The cat was limp and it looked bored. John grinned. "Puppy, I apologize in advance."
That night John could hear the cat meowing from Mrs. Hudson's flat, and it was close enough to the sound of a tortured violin that John fell asleep with wet eyes, Jack stretched out like a starfish next to him.
He woke up with the cat, renamed Puppy, sitting on his chest, staring at him intently. John knew that he had locked up the flat before going to bed and the cat had been in Mrs. Hudson's flat, so he had no idea how exactly Puppy had gotten in. The cat yawned and stretched languidly, and for just a second John missed Sherlock so much he forgot to breathe. The cat jumped down from the bed, slinking out of the room.
Mrs. Hudson brought up a package that had been left on the doorstep. When John opened it to find a dark blue collar with a tag that read 'If found, please return this feline to Jack Holmes of 221B Baker Street', he could only blame Mycroft.
"Remove this cat from my person," Mycroft said, his tone uneasy as he pressed his hands to his chest. "Anthea, the cat please."
Anthea rolled her eyes and suppressed her laugh as she reached out, lifting the cat from Mycroft's lap. Puppy stared at Mycroft, clearly unimpressed, and James rushed over to Anthea to take the cat from her. "Silly Puppy," he squealed, chasing after Puppy as he thundered off into the kitchen, screeching out a meow that Jack echoed.
John handed tea to Anthea then to Mycroft before sitting down on the arm of the couch, where he could still keep an eye on Jack. Mycroft brushed off his trouser legs before he crossed his legs. "A cat John? Really?" Mycroft chided, shaking his head a bit. "A rather pale imitation, don't you think?"
John sighed. "It's Mrs. Hudson's cat, he just breaks into the flat when he's bored, I suppose. She went in for a dog and came back with Puppy the cat. Take it up with her."
Mycroft frowned disapprovingly. "Puppy?"
Anthea set aside her tea and pulled out her mobile. "Oh hush Mycroft, obviously Jack named the cat. If Mrs. Hudson had he would have been named Sherlock, and John obviously would have rather had a dog."
"Stop attempting to deduce the events of the last few weeks Anthea, your abilities are woefully inadequate," Mycroft snapped, but Anthea chuckled to herself. "Even if you are right on all counts."
"Yes sir," she said with a smirk towards John.
Mycroft sighed deeply, sipping on his own tea with a wrinkled brow. "Doctor Watson, I do have to enquire about the moniker you have now saddled the child with. What exactly is wrong with the name Miss Adler bestowed on him? Is it purely the Moriarty connection that bothers you?"
John felt his cheeks burn. "It's silly. I mean...I suggested my middle name to Irene and Sherlock for a baby name, and James is the English version of it. It's strange to be yelling a variation of your own name around, so I wanted to come up with a nickname for him."
"Why Jack?" Mycroft asked as Jack wandered back into the living room, running on tiptoe. He threw himself against Mycroft's legs and the man patted his back gently. Anthea's smirk widened.
"I'm surprised you didn't figure it out," John admitted, scratching the back of his neck. "Sherlock wanted to be a pirate, and I rather got him obsessed with Pirates of the Caribbean after you told me that. He hated most of it, but he was amused by Captain Jack Sparrow. Said he was a fascinating character study. Pop culture references, Sherlock would be deeply ashamed of me."
Mycroft hefted Jack into his lap, smoothing his hand through the boy's dark, downy hair. "I highly doubt that. Sherlock always abhorred nicknames, mostly because I insisted on calling him Sherly for years, but I do think he would approve of this particular variation. Most likely because you were the instigator of said variation."
"Uncle Crofty, Puppy no like you," Jack piped in, pulling on Mycroft's tie gently to get his attention.
Mycroft sighed deeply, as if he had just learned of a pending war between England and France. "Well," Mycroft began, smoothing his tie back into place. "I can't say that I am particularly fond of Puppy either. I agree with John in that you should have gotten a dog. A nice, loyal, respectable dog."
"Puppy's nice, really nice, right Daddy?" Jack asked as he turned to John, who was currently trying to wrestle the toe of his sock out of Puppy's claws.
The look of triumph on Mycroft's face was unnerving, and John finally succeeded in shooing the cat back down the stairs towards Mrs. Hudson's flat. "Puppy is nice sometimes, Jack. Sometimes Puppy is superbly annoying." It was then that Puppy's meows began echoing through the building.
"He's singing, 'Thea, he's singing! Listen! Puppy can sing!" Jack crowed, bouncing in Mycroft's lap as Anthea climbed to her feet, tucking her phone back into her breast pocket.
"Marvelous, isn't it?" she said with a kind smile. "Sir, we should be going. Your meeting."
"Right," Mycroft said, lifting Jack off his lap and putting him on the floor. He picked up his umbrella and followed Anthea to the door. "Do try to make sure young Jack doesn't endeavour to become a pirate when he gets older. We know what path that career choice ultimately leads to, don't we?"
John held out his arms for Jack with a small, sad smile. "There is a vacancy in the World's Only Consulting Detective position, isn't there? Maybe I have the right pirate for the job." Mycroft scoffed, and John pressed on. "Thank you for sending the collar, by the way. You really are occasionally a sentimental git."
Mycroft's look of confusion was genuine, and he glanced to Anthea, who shrugged, shaking her head. "I didn't send a collar for that...vermin."
"Someone did. A package was left overnight a few weeks ago." John pursed his lips, wrinkling his brow as he frowned.
Mycroft's face betrayed nothing, and he pulled his mobile from his pocket. "I see. Good afternoon, Doctor Watson."
John's arms tightened around Jack, who had taken to singing along with Puppy.