Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, pulling his dressing gown close around his shower-warm body. "You like dogs," he commented, eyeing John, who was sprawled out on the floor and trailing his fingers across the carpet for the puppy to pounce on.

John sat up slightly. "Yes. So?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Didn't peg you as a dog lover."

John smiled faintly. "Uh, yeah, Harry was allergic when we were kids, so I never... well, who doesn't like dogs?"

Sherlock turned to the teapot. "Cat-lovers."

John laughed, getting to his feet. "Well, what are we going to do with her, then? It is a her. We can't keep her. I don't know how long we'll be able to pass off the barking as one of your ridiculous experiments, but Mrs Hudson doesn't even like it when you bring home dead animals." He paused. "Although, I don't think anybody really likes that."

Sherlock poured himself a cuppa, taking a sip. "Say it's for a case... Find a new home for it or drop it off at the shelter tomorrow. I don't care."

"You do, though," John replied, refilling his own mug. "You brought it home, meaning you found yourself sentimentally attached to that." He pointed to the puppy, pausing afterwards. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock followed his gaze. "Oh. Nice. I thought you were watching it," he said dryly, taking another drink of his tea.

"Well, I was entertaining her, until I had to talk to you."

"You didn't have to talk to me," Sherlock pointed out. "You just chose to."

"Yes, well, now there's piss on the floor. Clearly, she's not house-broken," John said just as dryly, putting his mug down.

"Oh, don't act like it's the first time," Sherlock said absently. "There's rags under the sink in the bathroom."

John sighed. "I don't even want to know, do I?" he muttered, leaving the room to go find the rags.

Sherlock looked at the little Labrador. It barked and ran across the sitting room, pouncing on one of John's discarded slippers. Sherlock grinned, schooling his expression as John came back.

"Could you, I don't know... play with it or something?" John asked, rummaging under the kitchen sink for some cleaner.

Sherlock took another contemplative drink of his tea before setting his mug down. "I'll take it back to my bedroom. There's less clutter and less potential things for her to get into her mouth." He brushed past John and crouched next to the puppy. "Alright. Let's discard John's slipper and go back to my room."

The puppy merely growled as Sherlock tried to pull the slipper away. Another smile sprang to Sherlock's lips before he quickly pushed it down, pulling more firmly on the slipper. "Now, now. Leave it. Drop it," he ordered.

The puppy didn't drop it.

Sherlock sighed. John laughed.

"Hey, it's your slipper," Sherlock said. He grabbed the other slipper and waved it in front of the puppy. "Yes, look. It's the second to the pair. You want to terrorise this one, too?"

As with most puppies who thought everything was a new toy, the Labrador perked up and barked a few times, crouching down to its front paws. Its tail was wagging ferociously.

"Well, she's ambitious," John commented.

"Yes." Sherlock stood up, coaxing the puppy back to his bedroom with the slipper.

"So, what should we call her?" John called.

"Call her?" Sherlock echoed.

"Well, we can't just keep calling her 'it' or 'the puppy'."

Sherlock looked up from unplugging his lamp - the electrical cords couldn't lay on the floor, because dogs chewed on everything - and looked down at the puppy. "I don't know."

"Didn't you use to have a dog?" John asked, water turning on the bathroom as he washed his hands.

"Er." How did John know that? "Yes, but it wasn't a girl." He jumped as the puppy pounced on his bare feet. "Hey. Those are my feet, not a chew toy."

"Huh." John pushed open Sherlock's bedroom door and closed it behind him. "What about... Chocolate or something?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, let's name a dog after something that you eat. Not to mention that she is a chocolate Lab. Creative."

"Well, I don't know, do I?" John retorted. "Like I said, I never had a dog. And I'm not good at naming... pets."

"You had a fish named Bubbles when you were five," Sherlock said, "so, yes, I'd agree."

"How do you know about Bubbles?"

Sherlock finished collecting the cords and shoes from the floor - his bedroom was spotless compared to the rest of the flat, and he specifically wanted it that way - and sank into the chair. The puppy was still slobbering on his feet and he gently pushed it away with his opposite foot. Naturally, it came right back and nipped his toes.

"We could name her Feet," John said jokingly.

"Okay, John, listen to me. The base line here is: you do not name dogs people name, you do not name them after food, you do not name them after body parts."

John raised an eyebrow. "Okay, come up with a name, genius."

Sherlock looked back at the Lab, pushing it away from his feet again. He had named Redbeard when he was a child and he was not going to be making the mistake of a childish name again, much less a pirate one.

"Beryllium."

"Beryllium," John repeated. "Are you kidding me? You're naming it something off the periodic table?"

Sherlock looked up. "Why not? It's a perfectly acceptable name. It sounds distinctly feminine and, besides, we're not keeping her, so why does it matter? She won't learn a name in the process of a couple of days."

John sighed. "Okay, whatever. You need to call a shelter, because we cannot keep her..." He looked down at Beryllium. "However cute she may be, you cannot have a dog in this flat."

"Why not?" Sherlock retorted. "I'm currently letting her bite my toes - which, I might add, hurts more than you'd expect - and I removed all of the electrical cords and possible things that she could get in her mouth from the floor. I'd be a perfectly responsible dog owner."

"Yes," John muttered. "And, like a child, you would pawn her off onto me the moment that you got busy with a case and, lest we forget, I'm always running after you."

Sherlock looked back at the Lab. "We could train her in crime work."

"Why don't you try a bloodhound for that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stereotypical and therefore boring. Besides, the shelters are closed tonight. You can call in the morning. Beryllium can sleep with me tonight."

"She's not house-broken," John reminded, heading for the door.

"When I said 'sleep with me', I wasn't being quite so literal. I'll get some old blankets for her bed tonight," Sherlock replied, not moving.

"Great. Try to get my slippers away from her, too, before she chews a hole in them. I'm going to make dinner. Is tenderloin good?"

"Sounds great," Sherlock replied, not bothering to look away from Beryllium.

John opened the door and paused. "Don't get too attached," he said, before leaving and closing the door behind him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and bent to pick up the puppy, lifting it onto his chest. "I'm not attached. I'm never attached."

Beryllium simply yipped and licked at his face, trying to paw her way further up his chest. She nipped at his chin and Sherlock turned his head away, only the wall witnessing his smile as Beryllium nibbled at his earlobe.


Isn't Sherlock and a dog so adorable? *o* Martin's dog and Benedict for the Redbeard/Sherlock scene set the stage and voila. It's adorable.

Sorry about the delay. The muse is fickle on this one, but I was in the mood for cuteness. I do not own Sherlock. Thank you!