Prompt: Why did Watson not put the little dog out of its misery? Was it soft-heartedness, or something else?

A/N: This is largely taken from personal experience, me being the tree hugging, animal loving vegetarian that I am... What can I say, I have a soft spot for doggies. It's not as creative as I've been in the past, but I was drawing a huge blank for this prompt, and then this thing trickled into my brain, so I just went ahead and wrote it down. It's less IC than I'd like, too, now that I've read it over... #sigh...# I promise the next one will be better?

Holmes was still humming a theme from the concert when he returned--it had been a most magnificent performance, and would likely leave him in a pleasant mood for the rest of the day. That, combined with the probable response to the ad he'd placed in the evening paper, made for an excellent day all around. He stepped lightly up the seventeen steps and into the sitting room.

He was surprised to see the somewhat ancient little terrier that had been at death's door for so long sitting on their rug when he came in. The Doctor was sitting in his armchair with a syringe in his hand, staring down at the little thing with a sad expression.

"Are you going to finally put the poor thing out of it's pain, then?" Holmes asked.

Watson looked up at his entrance, and Holmes caught a fleeting embarassed expression cross the doctor's face. "Yes, yes, I am."

"Good." Holmes retreated to his room for a moment. When he returned, the Doctor and dog appeared not to have moved at all. "Are you going to do it, then?" he asked, glancing sidelong at his fellow lodger.

"Of course I am, I just--" Watson stared down at the dog, his eyes full of pity. "I just don't want to," he said finally, with a touch of defiance, as if daring him to argue.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Whyever not? The wretched thing is clearly suffering."

"I know it is, and I want to stop the suffering, but..." Watson shifted uncomfortably. "I just... Well, I look in its eyes, and I see that it's still alive, even though death is iminent. And it's utterly helpless, in my hands. I just couldn't be the one to end its life, though it is an act of mercy."

Holmes sat in his armchair and looked at the doctor quizzically. "You were in Afghanistan."

"That was different--we were at war. If I killed anyone, it was an act of self defense. And when your life is in danger, you'll do anything necessary to protect yourself. But this dog is harmless."

Holmes smiled slightly at this display of the doctor's heartfelt kindheartedness. "Does it help to know that it won't make much difference in the dog's lifespan?" he asked.

"It should," Watson answered, shaking his head.

Mrs. Hudson chose that moment to rap on the door. "Dinner is laid, Mr. Holmes," she said when she saw him, gesturing to the table. "I just came to give you this telegram. Goodness, doctor, is that little dog not put out of its misery yet?"

Watson stood, a very slight flush tinging his cheeks, but before he could speak Holmes interrupted. "I'm afraid the good doctor's medical supplies are close to depleated, Mrs. Hudson. We have only just now discovered the deficiancy."

Watson stared at Holmes for a moment, then quickly held the syringe behind his back, shooting the detective a grateful look. "Terribly sorry, Mrs. Hudson..."

"Oh, dear... well, I suppose the poor thing can make it through another day..." she picked up the little dog, who was utterly unresponsive.

"Tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes sang out as he closed the door behind her, before turning back to his fellow lodger, who was looking rather sheepish.

"Thank you for that, Holmes," said Watson, as he put his syringe away. "I know it was rather silly--"

"Think nothing of it, Doctor," said Holmes happily as he turned to his place at the table. "You had better help the poor thing out tomorrow, though--it really did appear to be in pain."

"I know, I know... I wanted to help, believe me."

"Of course you did, Doctor." Holmes rubbed his hands together appreciatively. "But for now, there is an excellent meal before us. Will you join me?"

"You're certainly cheerful," said Watson, sitting opposite him. "I take it the concert was good?"

"It was magnificent," said Holmes happily.

Their conversation drifted onwards, but Watson found himself dwelling on the incident later. He could not quite put his finger on it, but something between himself and his fellow lodger was different, since they began working on this case. He supposed it would make sense eventually.

A/N: #facepalm#