This chapter is a little longer than the average but there was a lot of stuff I wanted to include so I apologize in advance. That dog tho.

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Enjoy the next chapter.

Nightmares came violent and merciless. Blood and war flashed in spurts across my eyes, then vanished. Friends I had lost in Afghanistan. Soldiers whose sceams I endured as they were tormented by the blade, by my needle. The cold, twisted faces of the men and women we couldn't save. Howls of pain, hysteric shrieks, hands grabbing for a missing limb. Men driven insane by the pain.

Then there were visions of you knitted in-between, behind me, beside me. You, running for water, running for bandages. You, ducking below bombs, dodging bullets.

You, laying submerged in our bath, you head crooked to the side.

Maggots. Maggots were everywhere. Corpses were piled on top of each other, riddled with disease, drowned in smoke and fire. Screams echoed from within, hopeless cries buried beneath sweat, caged within sheets of bone.

You turned toward me, your dark curls dripping. As you parted your lips, maggots sprouted, and your skin pulled away like parchment over an open flame.

I woke in a cold sweat, my head and my heart pounding as I bolted upright. The dark room shoved its way behind my eyes again. I a small wimper slip out as I caught my breath, curling my legs against my chest.

"Breathe, John..." I whispered softly. "They're just dreams. They're just dreams."

You turned over a little, but didn't stir. The trembling began to fade, and I checked the time. Three A.M., too early to wake. I cursed under my breath and took a sip of water from the glass on my bed-table. Might as well try to get back to sleep, I figured.

I laid down beside you, on my side, facing the clock, but not feeling secure enough to close my eyes just yet. I just watched as the little blue numbers flickered on the table.

Then, something creaked.

Our flat might've been well-aged, but I had learned to recognize the difference between a weather-sound and a person-sound. That was not a weather-sound. Mrs. Hudson was on holiday. You were still in bed. I searched under the blanket for your arm just to be sure, but as my fingers brushed across your skin, I felt even more unsettled.

For a moment I froze, straining my ears for another sound. Maybe I had just imagined it. Maybe I wasn't as good at determining weather-creaks as I thought I was.

Another creak.

My mind snapped into focus. Careful not to upset the bed, I slipped open the bed-side drawer and reached for my pistol. I didn't know which part of the floor would creak and which part wouldn't, but as I set my feet down it was as silent as I'd wanted. The gun held close to my jaw, I waited, straining my ears to hear any rustle of movement in the other room.

After hearing only silence, I stepped into the hall, moving quickly through the doorway to avoid the swing of the door. The only light in the room came from the streetlights of the street out front, and it didn't reach far. I adjusted my grip on the pistol, blood pounding in my ears as I headed toward the kitchen. I couldn't see anyone, but all my senses were spewing out red flags, and goosebumps climbed up my arms.

But I realized that the goosebumps weren't only from fear. A cold breeze had entered the house through the kitchen window, left ajar with curtains fluttering. I kept the gun at my ear as I turned into the main room, still listening closely for any other creaks or groans.

The sharp sound of a car door slamming made me jump. I hurried to the window, to look, careful not to make the gun visible throught the glass. A black car sped off, spewing snow and sleet behind it. I couldn't tell where exactly it had stopped, but I peered at it carefully as it turned the corner, my eyes still too clouded with sleep for me to read the liscence plate.

Suddenly, a rustle came from behind and I turned, gun raised, heart leaping.

"What the bloody hell are you doing up?"

You grappled at the wall and flipped the lightswitch, the light nearly blinding me at first. You were quite a sight, with your unruly bed-hair and bathrobe only halfway on. There was a jar of knuckle bones clenched in your hand which you might have been considering to use as a weapon. I lowered the pistol.

"I heard someone," I said, my shoulders still shaking a little. "Someone was in the flat."

"A burglar? Was anything taken?" You set the jar down.

"Well, the tele's still there. I might've interrupted him." I jogged over to the window, investigating the sill and the locks. "Did you leave this open?"

"Obviously not." You looked over our desks. "All our electronics are still here. Are you sure you heard someone?"

"I'm sure. He must've come through the window. See, there's snow on the sill." I hugged my arms around myself, and you came over to see. "There was a car that just sped past, too. A black one. I know I heard it."

You knelt over and sniffed the window, then pushed it closed. "Strange. Very strange."

I ran my hand through my hair. "Why would someone be in our flat, Sherlock?"

"Are you sure there was someone here? You have been under quite a bit of-"

"I heard him, Sherlock. In our flat. In our kitchen. I swear I did."

"You've been having a lot of nightmares recently. Haven't been sleeping well."

"I wasn't imagining it!"

"Let's just get back to sleep, John. We'll figure this out in the morning." You yawned. "I don't have the patience for this."

My eyes fell. I knew I had heard something, and it wasn't me who opened that window. Nonetheless, it was late, you were tired, and you were right; I needed sleep. I followed you back into the hall, and as I passed, you gently slipped the pistol from my hand.

As soon as it was light, I was up, dressed, and examining the kitchen window. I was no Sherlock Holmes, but if I tried I was an acceptable form of investigator myself. I mostly just looked at the lock and the interior grooves. "Y'know, for a detective, your house is really under par in terms of security," I mentioned, glancing back at you.

You shrugged, busy with one of your experiments. "I figured my senses were security enough."

"That might not be true anymore." I grunted and stood up, stretching out my leg. "We should look into an alarm system. Even if it's just a simple one. We don't want another break-in."

"It was hardly a break-in," You countered. "Nothing was taken. I never heard anything out of the ordinary, besides you trotting around with that pistol of yours. Tea or coffee?"

"I know someone was here, Sherlock. Who else would've opened the window!"

"I could have deleted it. It's coincidence, not evidence. Tea or coffee?"

"But I was sure!"

"Tea or coffee?"

"Tea!"

You nodded, and filled the kettle with water from the tap. "I'll talk to Lestrade about security. But don't make a big deal about last night. You were having nightmares, you were sleep-deprived. It's understandable."

I huffed, falling into a chair. "Whatever, Sherlock. As long as you-" I glanced up, my eye catching the corner of the cabinet farthest to the right. "Did you forget to close the latch again?"

"Hmm?" You glanced at the cabinet. "Oh, I must have."

The cabinet in question was the one which held both Mrs. Hudson's more valuable glass and china and our in-home medical supplies. In all the years we'd lived with Mrs. Hudson, we'd used the china three times. Twice for holiday dinners, and once when you dined with one of your "clients" (who turned out to be a sociopathic serial killer some time later). The upper shelf had the med bag. A few months earlier, you had broken the hinges of the shelf so that it wouldn't stay shut, so I made a make-shift latch on the inside that kept it closed. You and I knew how to set the latch. But a burglar would not realize his mistake.

While I pondered this, your thoughts were somewhere else entirely. "What is this, John?" You squinted your eyes, looking carefully at a sheet of paper you had found on the counter beside you. "A letter from your therapist?"

I looked up. "Oh, no, that's a list she gave me. Stuff to help relax and whatnot."

"Hn." You turned the page around. "Why is this part underlined. 'If symptoms are prolonged, an option to look into would be to purchase a small animal, such as a cat or small dog. They're great for companionship and will give you something to focus on, or talk to if necessary.' "

"That pretty much sums it up, yeah."

"You want a cat?"

"I didn't think it was an awful idea."

"I can't stand cats. A dog would be much more reasonable." You hummed.

"...Alright, a dog, then."

You stared at the page for another few seconds, then slapped it down with a force that made me jump.

"Yes, I like that idea. Why hadn't I thought of that. A dog. That would solve both our problems."

"Both?"

"Increased health and relaxation for you, along with an extra layer of security for the house."

I nodded. "Well, when you put it that way, yeah, that sounds like a great idea."

"Good. Then we'll go as soon as this pot is finished."

"That fast?"

"Of course. Why waste time when we don't have to." You winked and disappeared into the bedroom to change.

The nearest dog pound was a small, damp thing that smelled like coffee and urine. The employees were all overweight and looked at us with narrow eyes, angrily demanding ID and that I leave my gun behind the desk. Evidently you knew the overhead; as you explained in the car, you had helped him settle a problem he was having with some French delegates. Why French delegates would have problems with a balding pound manager, you left that to the imagination.

But the man was kind, and let us go in to see the dogs without any question. He even offered to half the price, just for us, throwing in a bag of dog food for free for whichever breed we chose. You mostly zoned him out, but I tried to be as receptive as possible, even though I could hardly understand him through his heavy Middle Eastern accent.

We walked in to see the dogs, and were immediately greeted by all of them. The cages held large dogs on the left and small dogs on the right. Obviously our flat wouldn't accomodate a fully-grown Marmaduke or German Shepherd, as friendly as they appeared, so I gravitated closer to the cage with the smaller dogs.

"It has to be hypoallergenic," I mentioned, nearly shouting so that I was heard above the noise. "I'd rather not be vacuuming every day. Short-haired or non-shedding, maybe?"

"There are plenty of those," You answered. "Terriers, Shih Tsus, Bichon Frise, a toy poodle, maybe."

"I don't want some girly dog. We need a..." I waved my hand through the air. "Handsome dog."

"Handsome, eh?" The manager laughed, his belly lurching. He walked up to the wall of cages and unlocked one of them. "Sounds like you boys are looking for a Basenji. Luckily I've got a young one right here for you. Red coat, two years. Pretty good shape, too."

A brown dog nipped at his fingers, and he picked him up.

"These little are smart for their size," He said, petting the dog's coat. "Great hunters, if you train 'em. Don't bark, either, only yowl. They'd be great for a flat."

"Sounds perfect. Hey there, boy." I smiled at the dog and it wagged its tail, sniffing my hand.

"Is this one vaccinated?" You asked, stepping toward it.

"Not sure. Didn't have any tags on him. You'd have to get them renewed, at least." The manager smiled, looking between us. "You said you wanted a guard dog, did you?"

"Well, sort of," I answered. "We had a bit of a...eh..."

"Incident." You said, sharly. "There was an incident on our block. Thought we'd use the excuse to take extra precautions. But it's also just a pet. Not only a guard dog, also a companion. Thing. Pet."

"Excellent." He laughed. "I'll let you boys know, if you get a pup, you can have it trained real easy to identify threats and such. I know you've got some dangerous business around, Sherlock, and a Basenji can do you a lot of good on your cases, too. Younger they are, easier it'll be, and more handy it'll make them."

"So we should look for a breeder?" I asked.

"That's what I'd prefer." He put the dog back in its cage. "I know a guy over in Greenwich, just got himself a pretty little litter. If you boys want, I can give you his information, and you can take a look?"

"Yes, thank you." You nodded, and the man sauntered off with a wide grin on his face.

I sighed, covering my nose with my sleeve. "Damn awful stench in here. It's giving me a headache."

You nodded absentmindedly, wrapping your coat close against yourself. I watched you for a few seconds, then shuffled on my feet.

"It was a burglary, by the way." I said. "Not an incident."

"Burglary implies that items were stolen or tampered with," You argued. "Nothing was. It was an incident. A peculiar set of coincidences."

"Burglary." I replied. "There was someone in our flat, Sherlock. Don't you understand that?" You didn't say anything, so I continued. "It's getting really annoying, this whole thing when I say something and you completely disregard it."

"I'm not disregarding it."

I snorted. "Maybe ignoring it is the right way to put it. What would you call this, then, Sherlock?"

"I'd call it a deliberate reorganization of interest."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock."

"No, John." You turned to look at me very seriously. "You've been too stressed lately. Your nightmares are escalating; I've noticed it too. Your medication hasn't yet had any positive influence, and you're still suffering the side-effects, which in some cases may include paranoia and moderate to severe hallucinations, along with memory problems and trouble focusing. The last thing you need is another thing to get upset about. Don't worry about it, I'll handle it. You slow down. You relax. Just, don't get worked up over this."

I blinked, surprised with your sudden burst of honesty. You quickly turned away to follow the hall, and I didn't stop you.

Our next stop was in Greenwich. The breeder we were referred to, named Brent, had a history training scent-dogs for various sports, including hunting. He specialized in Basenjis, and had a litter of purebred puppies ready for adoption. He had been updated by the pound manager on our interest, and had a plethora of things to tell us about from the moment we walked through the door. You stood by to take everything in, while I bent down to see the dogs.

There were seven of them in all, with pretty red coats and almond brown eyes. They whimpered and pounced on my legs as I sat down, licking playfully at my arms. After a few minutes of trampling paws, they dissipated as if I had turned invisible. One curled up beside my knee and took a nap, and another was busy chewing my shoelace.

I sighed and set my arms on my knees. I felt somewhat like a boy, sitting with all the little dogs. You watched from the edge of the room with lazy interest.

The puppy at my foot yanked and pulled at the lace with all its might. I picked it up and held it out, looking over it. Its curly tail trembled as it whimpered at me, sticking out its tongue to lick my hand.

"Hey, boy." I smiled at him, then put him in my lap.

"Did you decide?" You asked, squatting down beside me.

"This one's playful." I set the dog back on his feet, and he trotted over to you, sniffing your shoes and the hem of your trousers.

"That's good. I won't have for an indolent mutt." You picked him up to take a look, and he promptly pissed all over your shirt, brushing a shout out of you.

I grinned, taking him before you could throw him. "Looks like he's already proven himself."

"What about Gladstone. Like the park."

I kept the dog in my lap as we rode the cab back to Baker Street. You made a face, turning to me with a mock kind of annoyance.

"What kind of name is that? Gladstone?"

"My cat's name was Gladstone, when I was small. Birthday present. Little tabby cat." I petted the dog's head, and he panted at me. "He looks like a tabby kind of dog, with his red coat. I like the name Gladstone."

"Please, at least try to pick something reasonably common."

"Oh, alright, Sherlock."

You frowned.

"We got him for me, so I should get to name him whatever I choose. I like the name Gladstone." The dog nipped my hand, and I smiled at him. "Gladdie. That'll be his name. Short for Gladstone."

"Gladdie. Ironic."

"What?"

"I can settle for Gladdie."

"Good. He'll be Gladdie." I scratched his ears. "Tomorrow I'll go out and buy him a bed, and a collar. Thankfully we've already got food, we don't have to worry about that. Mrs. Hudson will love him, I'm sure. She's always telling me how much sh-"

"Do you see the black car turning the corner." You interrupted, staring ahead. I furrowed my eyebrows and turned to look.

"Yes, I see it. What about it?"

"Is that the same car you recall seeing drive away from our house?"

"...No. Different model." I glanced at you. "Why?"

"The car has been following us the last several streets." You leaned foward, toward the cabbie. "Take a right here, use the longer route instead."

You settled back as the cabbie changed directions. The car you had pointed out turned with us.

Gonna take her for a review on a big jet plane.

Next part up Sunday.