Bring Me Back A Dog

"How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg" Abraham Lincoln

Chapter Two: The Blind Mutt
Part Three: Sherlock Holmes

Once again, Sherlock managed to drag him into a part of town that frowned upon having him in close proximity to their person or belongings. That, of course, included their restaurants. John tried his best to remain outside while Sherlock did his business indoors, but the man simply wouldn't allow him. He grabbed the dog by his tags and practically dragged him inside. John had no doubt he would have been dragged if he hadn't reluctantly went along.

"Sir," the hostess demand instantly. John pulled back a little more. "We don't allow pets," she insisted firmly. Sherlock ignored her and continued his way into the fancy little sushi cafe with his retriever in tow. The woman clearly had no idea what to do and John tried not to intimidate her. It wasn't like he was here to bite everyone and shed fur in their food. He had groomed himself perfectly, thank you very much, and wouldn't be shedding anywhere anytime soon.

"Sebastian," Sherlock caught his employer's attention at once as well as his collection of guests. John thought he was hiding well behind the man. "We need to talk."

"Can this wait?" The banker glanced up to them, giving John only the smallest of glances before focusing on his little worker for hire. Sherlock folded his hands behind his back casually.

"Van Coon is dead," he gladly put out in the open, causing all of Wilkes' little buddies to look to Sherlock in mild horror and disbelief. Wilkes stopped what he was doing, but his hesitation was clear and Sherlock gave him the quick shove so he could make up his mind. "No? He was an Infected, if that helps. What was it John? Raccoon?"

"Mhm. Raccoon," John gladly agreed, though he knew Sherlock hadn't really forgotten. Wilkes put his fork down quickly and ever so calmly wiped his face off. He stood, nodded his apologizes to his little group of healthy and hurried off. Sherlock followed and naturally John was on his owner's heels. Heaven forbid the man be caught outside in the dark, the empty loo was apparently perfectly fine for the healthy to talk in. John wasn't sure why he was surprised. Healthy were weird.

"Van Coon wasn't one of- him." Wilkes looked over John pointedly. John ignored him with a clench of his hand. There was no point in getting overly upset now. He would just have to get used to the idea that a lot of people wouldn't like him. He couldn't yell at them all, now could he? Sherlock glanced over his Golden Retriever curiously.

"Of course not. He was a raccoon. John's a canine," Sherlock corrected him almost teasingly. John was still getting use to the man's minute differences in expressions. Wilkes glared at him. Of course that wasn't what he meant, but they all knew he didn't have to verbalize that. The bitter man leaned against the sink, arms crossed over his chest in a way that wouldn't wrinkle his precious suit.

"We get all of our employees thoroughly checked out. He wasn't."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but your background checks are mediocre at best. A well trained smuggler could easily set up an entire web of lies without any problem and if they've been working it longer, it's easier. Neutralizers prevent them from being smelled, computer experts prevent them from being found, surgery keeps them from being seen, and forgeries get them in anywhere. Infected are very stubborn in situations like this. There's only one sure-fire way to prevent something like this from happening again," John assured him, catching the man's attention reluctantly, but easily. The healthy always wanted to listen when they thought the Infected would be useful. That wasn't anything new, unfortunately.

"And what would that be, dare I ask?"

"You don't," Sherlock answered smoothly. The only way to keep Infected out was to have another Infected sniff them out and not many of them were too fond of giving one another up. People still tried, but it was useless. Wilkes let out an irritated noise, one that showed how much he disagreed, and placed a few fingers over his eyes.

"This needs to stay between us. People can't know I hired one of those things," he demanded. Sherlock could clearly care less. John, on the other hand, wasn't nearly as satisfied. The dog stared him down firmly.

"I guess you wouldn't want people to know you donated to Infected Shelters, either."

"I don't."

"Too bad. I guess I'll just have to tell people you help out in different ways. I mean, at least the newspapers will talk to me," John murmured nonchalantly. Wilkes glowered at him. It was amusing to the Golden Retriever that the man thought that was a good idea.

"That's blackmail," Wilkes demanded, instantly looking towards Sherlock as if the taller man would do something about his unruly pet. Sure enough, the detective wasn't going to do anything near that. In fact, he appeared to be amused by the conversation; though John was probably the only one that could tell with Sherlock's signature 'bored' expression. However, if he really was bored, he would have already been long gone. John's well being certainly wasn't keeping him here.

"That's interesting. You're discriminant. And rude, by the way," the little blond man scoffed back, flagging his tail up. Wilkes ground his teeth, John could hear it, but made the wise decision and understood that John didn't bluff.

"Fine," the banker ground out reluctantly. John happily waved his tail behind him.

"It's getting late, Sherlock. I think we should go."

"Agreed, John."

o-o-o-o

John stayed up with Sherlock for as long as he could, but it was slow, dull work. Sherlock clearly knew what he was doing without the retriever's help, but even so, the older dog felt bad sleeping while he was working. Eventually, he fell asleep on the floor, stretched out on the cool wood on his belly with his face tucked into the nook of his arm. When he awoke, Sherlock was gone. John noticed almost instantly and scampered to his feet to the point of nearly knocking himself to the floor again.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson gasped suddenly, covering her heart with a firm hand. She chuckled softly, approaching him on the floor and gently patting his head. "You startled me dear."

"I'm sorry," he apologized, nuzzling his head against her hand. John didn't like to be petted, not because it was uncomfortable, but because he wasn't actually a pet. When Mrs. Hudson did it, though, he just couldn't say no. He supposed he was just a big softy in the end.

"Why were you on the floor, sweetie?"

"I- uh- Sherlock," John murmured through a muffled yawn that hid his teeth under his lips. He pushed himself up to his feet, flexing his back and shoulders minutely to shake off the soreness.

"Sherlock went out this morning. Something about a journalist I think," the little landlord assured him as she returned to the table to bring him a biscuit that John happily accepted. He glanced around the empty flat a little, obviously a little unsure of what to do with himself now. He supposed Sherlock didn't need his help with many things.

"Thank you," he said quietly, watching her leave the flat for her own downstairs. John showered and shaved if only to waste away some time. Once he was dressed, which was mostly just so he could follow Sherlock in case he came back needing the dog, John decided that he would go out for some air. The last time he'd gone shopping on his own, no one had bothered him, so he tugged his tags to the outside of his shirt, left a note for Sherlock where the man couldn't possibly miss it, and wandered out onto the street.

Fortunately, he was right. The people around here didn't bother him at all. John almost felt confident in such a setting. A few people might have spared him an extra glance but the vivid green rubber around his tags seemed to sooth their worries. They might not all know what it meant exactly, but it was clearly a good sign. Of course, that didn't solve his money problem. Hopefully he wouldn't have to sponge off of Sherlock for the rest of his life.

"Hello again." The familiar voice peeked out through the crowd and John turned curiously to it. It was the woman from the shopping mall; the one with the little girl. He approached her cautiously, smiling a greeting.

"Hello," John responded delicately with two shakes of the tail.

"I don't think I got your name the other day," she reminded him pointedly. The poor dog nearly missed the lead on, however. Sometimes it was hard to remember that the healthy didn't introduce themselves or demand introductions. She was right, though, she didn't know his name and he hadn't the least idea what her's was. The brunette woman nodded to him suggestively and John found himself fumbling to grab at his tags.

"Uh. John Watson." And then he forgot what breed he was. Fortunately, it didn't make much of a difference in normal life. She only smiled as if he hadn't done anything wrong and held out her hand.

"Sarah Sawyer." She greeted him and he shook her hand limply. He couldn't help it. She was pretty and she was being nice to him. John had no idea what to do. It hadn't occurred to him until this instant that he hadn't flirted with a female since he was an awkward teenager. He hadn't wanted to flirt with anyone since he was an awkward teenager.

"So what are you doing around here, John?"

"Oh." John looked around a little, not having come with an original intent. "Looking for a job, I guess," he admitted after a moment. "If I could find someone that would hire someone like me."

"Well, do you have any skills?" Sarah clearly had something to offer, otherwise she wouldn't be interested in his abilities. So far, however, he wasn't sure what that offer was. At the moment, it didn't matter too much. He would take whatever job that someone would offer him.

"I'm a doctor if you'd believe that. A surgeon." The dog sighed disappointedly. He'd worked so hard for it, too. It was discouraging to know his hard work attributed to very little in the real world. Perhaps the military hadn't been that bad after all? He had food, water, shelter, and meaning. So far, Sherlock was terrible at shopping, there was only water because Mrs. Hudson constantly badgered Sherlock for rent, and his meaning came and went with Sherlock. At least he had shelter?

"Are you?" She sounded surprised, not that John was surprised about that.

"Yeah," he reassured her needlessly.

"That's brilliant." Sarah 'complemented'. John knew he shouldn't feel offended, but like most times; he wasn't a bloody dog. He forced a small smile, knowing she meant well overall. She was being nice to him, what more could he ask for?

"Thank you."

"This is a huge coincident, but we're looking for a tempt at the clinic I work at. You should have a look," she offered. John knew his tail was wagging, but there wasn't a lot he could do about it. Was she serious? She looked pretty serious. Not that cruel healthys were unusual to anyone, but surely such a nice lady wasn't trying to tease him.

"Y-yeah," he agreed casually. "I'll do that, thank you." Hiring him was a whole other story, but if she was offering, maybe it was an Infected friendly clinic. That would be fantastic. John gave a gentle nod of the head, giving her a proper goodbye. However, as he began to depart, she stopped him again.

"Oh. John," Sarah said gently, catching his attention again. "Are you doing anything later?" John didn't understand. He tried to prep an answer, but he wasn't completely sure what she was asking. He'd most likely be helping Sherlock later, depending on what the man was busy doing at the moment, but that didn't seem like what she was asking.

"Sorry. I- keep forgetting you're kind of new at this. I'm asking you if you'd like to- go on a date- with me?" And now she was asking him on a date. John didn't respond right away. He was too busy trying to decide if he wanted to wake up now or later. The answer was pretty obvious, he thought.

"Oh. Yeah! I'd- Uh." He calmed himself down, quickly realizing he was getting just a little too excited. "I'd like that, Sarah." John smiled.

"Great! Here, I'll give you my number."

John wasn't completely clear on what happened after that. He assumed he had walked home in a happy daze with his tail swishing behind him. He had a date. He had a date and a very high possibility of getting a job he was actually trained for. It was all so very surreal. Maybe things really had changed since he'd been a pup. Sherlock brought him back to reality in a brutal snap.

"Sherlock?" He was clearly home now, though John was now very worried as to where he had been. There was a scent hovering around him that John didn't like at all. He approached the man wearily, and began to sniff at him with no reserve, sticking his nose in Sherlock's hair, neck, arms, and side antsily. It was faint on his person, but John could smell it clear as day.

"John?" Sherlock didn't move very much, but he wasn't exactly enjoying the treatment. John didn't care. He abandoned his owner and followed the smell right to his coat, nosing it where it hung on the rack with a wrinkle in the his bridge of his nose. He got a clear whiff of the scent and instantly placed it.

"You were with a rottweiler." John couldn't help but to sound accusing. A very affectionate rottweiler by the smell of things! Sherlock stared at him curiously. Of course he hadn't been with another dog on purpose, John told himself quickly. Sherlock probably wouldn't have even noticed.

"Lukis," Sherlock murmured, turning back to the bag he was handling.

"Who?" John tucked his tail between his legs. He was very confused, not that he expected that to be unusual around Sherlock, and assumed he had missed something while he was asleep. Sherlock unbagged the journal and John fled back several steps. That was terrible! What on earth was Sherlock doing with that!

"He's a journalist. Quite obviously an Infected as well," Sherlock stated, though it was entirely possible he wasn't speaking to John.

"Okay! I get it! Put that thing away!" John barked, clamping a hand over his nose. He didn't want to smell that!

"This?" Being as considerate as he ever was, Sherlock waved the journal before John's face and nose, causing the dog to get more of the whiff than he really wanted to. John skittered back further, his back hitting the coat rack and nearly tripping him.

"Yes that! That's disgusting!" As if Sherlock didn't already know that purely from John's reaction. Sherlock filed his thumb along the pages, fluttering them with one long stroke and John darted into the kitchen for cover. He shoved the window open and gladly stuck his nose out to breath fresh air. He sucked in breath before glancing back to his owner. Sherlock took a smell for himself, which John really wished he wouldn't do, but his healthy nose noticed nothing different.

"Just- please, put it down Sherlock. Put it back in the bag, actually," John insisted loudly, carefully skidding around him and retrieving the bag from the table. He didn't want to touch it! He held the bag out to Sherlock, standing as far away as he could without being out of reach. Much to his pleasure, Sherlock actually did as he was told and dropped the book back into its plastic case, sealing it up and allowing the dog a breath of relief.

"Why did you pick it up?" the dog whined, though his whole body language screamed out in relief. Sherlock examined him with cold, researching eyes, then the bagged book. He'd clearly made some sort of connection and John hoped no explanation would be necessary.

"It's important evidence. Why did you react like that?" Sherlock questioned with the tone that suggestion he already knew and simply wanted reassurance. John fidgeted slightly. Despite everything so far, it was still painfully awkward to explain stuff like this to a Healthy who would likely not understand at all. Sherlock of all people would probably understand, but not how he was supposed to.

"I- just- Please keep it in the bag, Sherlock," John begged. Oh god, he was going to have to explain wasn't he?

"It's an important piece of evidence, John," Sherlock said again, more irritated this time. John tucked his tail between his legs unhappily. Well he was just being unreasonable now.

"You can't smell what I smell," John snipped back.

"What do you smell?"

"It's not pleasant, I promise you," huffed the dog. "Just pure male scent, it's gross and unsanitary."

"Is it overwhelming?" Sherlock mused on. John had to assume he wasn't listening to a word he'd said.

"Only a little," John answered sarcastically, brave enough to remove his hand from over his face. The smell was still there, but fortunately it was fainter now. He'd never be able to get the smell completely out of the flat, or off Sherlock, now. He'd have to buy bleach and neutralizers and everything. Surely Sherlock wouldn't be doing stuff like this often.

"What else did you smell" It was like Sherlock wasn't listening to him at all!

"Do you know what scenting is, Sherlock?" John puffed himself out, tail suddenly stiff and ears flattened.

"I am aware, yes," Sherlock sniffed back surprisingly. John didn't believe that at all.

"Then know it is not pleasant whatsoever for me." Even though John was sure Sherlock would have realized that already.

"I also know you have one of the strongest noses among your species."

"It doesn't work like that."

"No. You don't want it to."

"What do you want me to tell you?" snapped John.

"What else did you smell on the book," Sherlock persisted on.

"Okay! Fine!" John flinched his eyes closed, trying to focus on the scent he had gotten more than his wanted amount of. He tried to think, unwilling to take it out of the bag again for any reason. "Ink. Paper. Um, binding glue. Things usually found in journals," he sighed in exasperation.

"And libraries."