"John!"

The ex-soldier jolted from his sleep, nearly tumbling off the bed. Which wouldn't have been a problem in Afghanistan, but here where the beds were actually off the floor and the floor was hard wood instead of soft sand… He was lucky his instincts were so good. Grumbling, he stood and grabbed some pajamas, not wanting to walk around naked. Although with Sherlock, who swanned around the flat in nothing but a sheet, it wouldn't seem like an unusual occurrence.

"Damn it," John mumbled, "The prat just had to wake me up. What is it, Sherlock?" The las part was yelled down the stairs as the doctor stumbled down, still rubbing his eyes and yawning. He froze in the doorway when he saw Sherlock pacing, his coat wrapped tightly around his middle, one hand buried inside as if trying to keep a wound closed.

"Sherlock, what the bloody hell," John said sharply as he rushed to his friend's side. "Who did you piss off now?"

Silver-blue eyes looked down in shock, then amusement. "Oh no, John, not me. I didn't get hurt. Besides, I wouldn't call you down for something as small as that." He ignored the muttered, "'Course not, you berk," and continued, "No, he's much more important."

That just made the whole situation more confusing.

"What or who are you bloody talking about?" John was staring up at Sherlock now, his trying-to-deduce-but-still-too-tired face out in full force. Sherlock sighed and opened his coat slowly, bringing out the rather important and shivering little bundle.

"A… a dog?" John rubbed his eyes, wondering if he was hallucinating. "Did you put something in my tea again?" Living with a genius certainly had its drawbacks, John mused.

"No, John, do keep up. I found him drenched and curled up in an alley. I-" Sherlock hesitated before admitting, "Well, I couldn't leave him there could I?"

John looked up from the dog, a grin slowly spreading across his face. "Sociopath, my arse."

Sherlock scowled but didn't respond, instead asking, "Would you- Just look him over. I don't want fleas in the flat."

John kept the grin and scooped the puppy out of the pale arms. "Alright mate, but you owe me."

Sherlock sighed. "What this time? Shall I clean the flat? Keep body parts out of the fridge?" He noticed the puppy whimpering slightly, cowering away from John, and frowned, taking it back. Immediately the dog relaxed, snuggling closer to the expensive coat and the man underneath it.

Both flatmates stared at the canine, flabbergasted.

John found his voice first, speaking in a soft tone, not tearing his eyes away from the sight of an animal trusting Sherlock so completely. "You know, they say dogs see things in people that no person, not even their closest friend, knows." Sherlock didn't scoff, didn't scowl, just stared. John could see awe in those strange eyes, and smiled. He carefully offered a hand to the puppy, who sniffed uncertainly, then allowed John to make soft passes over its body. The little thing still kept closer to its rescuer though.

John finished his examination. "Dry him off, and keep him warm. Feed him a little and give him some water. Although I don't know too much about dog breeds, I'd say he's a blue heeler German shepherd cross, maybe two months old." He grimaced. "Lots of exercise then, and plenty of herding instincts. Are you planning on keeping him?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just gazed down at the skinny pup, still cuddled close, still shivering. Slowly, he wrapped him once more in his coat and walked towards his bedroom. John frowned, then shrugged. He knew the detective had heard him, and that he would take care of the dog. He went back to bed, but couldn't sleep for quite a while. Footsteps paced in Sherlock's bedroom for about an hour, then quit as the bed creaked. Sherlock sleeping? John frowned, but didn't feel like getting up. Soon he fell asleep as well, dreaming of a long thin dog with dark curly hair.

"Sherlock, we can't keep him."

Sherlock refused to acknowledge this statement, curling in around the puppy sleeping happily on the couch.

"Sherlock-"

"No, John, he's mine. We're keeping him." The detective lifted the puppy down to the floor and laid out on the couch in what John was starting to call his doesn't-want-to-talk-so-pretends-he's-thinking pose. The exasperated flatmate huffed and spun, stalking heavily into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

The puppy had managed to clamber back on the couch, then onto Sherlock, curling up on the detective's thin chest by the time John returned with two steaming mugs. He smiled at the crazily perfect pair and set one mug down next to the couch, returning to his own chair.

Sherlock felt a warm weight settle on his chest. He looked down quickly, knowing John had left the room. It was his dog, curled up, now snoozing. He should think up a name for him. Sherlock looked back up, staring at the ceiling and folding his hands as if praying, actually thinking now.

John was startled out of his nap by a voice shouting, "Perfect! Oh, it's marvelous!" He squinted against the late afternoon light-he must have slept longer than he thought- and groaned. Sherlock was up again, and unfortunately using one of John's jumpers as an experiment. In the living room. With acid.

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

Mrs. Hudson heard a frightful row upstairs that night.

The little pup was soon dubbed Smile by John. Sherlock sniffed haughtily, but admitted that it fit the dog, who always pranced around with a tongue hanging out and a doggy smile fairly well, although he preferred his own suggestion, Gladstone.

Turned out both names worked.

Of course, Gladstone/Smile answered more to Sherlock than John.

So it eventually just became Gladstone.

John gave up trying to keep it Smile.

The dog grew. And grew. And grew. He kept fit running with Sherlock to and for cases, occasionally helping John find them by barking. Once or twice he attacked the criminal when he turned on Sherlock. John was happy, though slightly saddened. It seemed his place in Sherlock's life was being taken by a dog.

He was sitting thinking this one day, deep in a funk, depression, whatever it was called.

Sherlock was doing an experiment in the kitchen, but he kept glancing up, watching John. He could tell the ex-soldier was feeling a little down, but he had no idea why. Gladstone was snoozing on his feet, a warm presence.

Gladstone.

He'd taken down that one man with the knife that had come after Sherlock. John had been right down the alley, just far enough away, but he caught up fairly quickly. Before Gladstone, John would've been patching Sherlock up from a slight scrape after taking down the armed criminal. Now he couldn't do that. Gladstone could keep up with Sherlock, and so he was there to protect the detective.

That was John's job though.

Oh.

Sherlock straightened from his microscope.

That makes sense. John was saddened because he wasn't Sherlock's protector as much anymore. While the doctor obviously liked the dog, he envied him as well.

Well this was a puzzle. Sherlock mused on the answer as he leaned backwards, forgetting he wasn't in his chair.

Thump.

John shot out his chair and ran to the kitchen. Normally he wouldn't be worried, but that wasn't a normal Sherlock thump. And Gladstone was now barking.

The detective had fallen backwards and hit his head on the wall. He laid at an awkward angle, blinking and confused. Gladstone stood over him, anxious woofs erupting randomly.

"Sherlock," John breathed, "you utter arse," bending down to gently help move the long limbs. "No, no, careful, I have to check for injuries." The doctor, in full clinical mode, knelt next to the mass of curly hair.

"Jaawn," Sherlock groaned. "Ow."

John swallowed down a chuckle. "Yeah, Sherlock, quite a tumble." He raised an eyebrow after ascertaining no serious injuries had resulted. "Did you forget I got you a stool for experiments and looking into the microscope?"

Sherlock pouted slightly and looked away. "No," he mumbled.

John did chuckle this time. "Alright if you say so," he stood, holding out a hand. "You're fine, just get up slowly."

Sherlock sat up, groaning. He had a massive headache, but even he knew nothing more than a bump on the head was wrong. He tried to get up, but John laid a hand on his shoulder. "Wait a few minutes. I'll get some water."

Sherlock crossed his legs and stared down at his lap, slouching. John watched him with tenderness, but cut off any thoughts before they went too far. Sherlock was married to his work, he reminded himself, and most likely wouldn't be interested in an old broken-down soldier like him.

"John, you know you're a part of The Work, correct? Because I feel like I have not done enough to reassure you of the important position you hold in my life, and now you feel like I have replaced you with Gladstone." The dog's tail thumped at his name, having curled back up underneath the table, but Sherlock ignored him for now.

"I have not. Gladstone holds a place in my mind palace, of course," John knew this to mean in his heart, "but you have an entire wing. I do things that make you and only you happy. I comply to your rules," John snorted, but conceded that, "I keep experiments in the marked side of the fridge," this was true, "I never stop talking to you, whether in my mind or actually speaking, what else can I do to show you?"

John frowned, confused. "Show me what?"

Sherlock ducked his head and stayed silent, back to staring at his lap.

John smiled then. "Sherlock, I may have been having some doubts, but not because I thought you were trying to replace me. Gladstone has replaced me in some ways, but he cannot do everything. I am still your doctor, your protector, your flatmate. Even the best of dogs cannot compete with all that. However, Gladstone can keep up with you, with your bloody long legs, so I have decided that he is not a replacement for me. He acts as more of an extension of me."

As he spoke, John moved around the kitchen, pouring a glass of water for Sherlock and a cup of tea for himself. Now he plopped down next to the consulting detective and set the glass in front of him.

"Drink that. You have two guardian angels now, Sherlock. Two people who…" John hesitated only a second before saying what he was certain of, "who love you very much, and want you to be safe."

Sherlock's head snapped up, silver blue eyes shockingly bright and intense. John let him deduce, knowing he would find his own reassurance, and sipped his tea.

After a few moments, John finally stood and said, "Now, Lestrade texted earlier. There's a case. You should be good now, as long as you take a water bottle along."

The case had fortunately proved to be an eight on Sherlock's scale. A body was dragged out of the Thames, and identified as a prominent artist who was also an art connoisseur and known as a great art authenticator. It had taken Sherlock three days to figure out which museum had the forged art, and which painting it was, as well as who was selling forged art.

And of course, the detective had suddenly stopped short in one of his ramblings, shouted, "the Thames warehouses, John!" and run off. Gladstone had not been allowed this time-he hated Anderson almost as much as Sherlock did and had bitten him when he ventured too near the last time-so John was left to catch up.

And of course, because it was Sherlock, there had been about ten thugs at the warehouse, all armed. Sherlock had some fighting skills, but he was outnumbered and about to go down when John had arrived. Using his own fighting skills-much better than Sherlock's because he had actual training-John had taken down six before one knocked him out. There were only two left, so Sherlock had dealt with them as much as he could before Lestrade came. When the police cars finally did pull up-some sort of accident on every bloody street, as far as John heard-the detective was half-carrying John out the door. He yelled at the coppers for a fair few minutes, then stomped off and hailed a cab, waiting for John.

Now they were back at the flat.

Precious silence, John thought, sighing quietly as he sank into his chair and rubbed his throbbing head.

Until Sherlock slammed open the door.

John groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Sherlock quickly realized what he had done and shut the door as quietly as possibly, murmuring to Gladstone. The dog woofed gently and went to lay his head on John's knee.

John just smiled and began to pet him.

"John?" The detective near-whispered.

The doctor looked up at his friend.

"I-" The taller man took a step closer. "I'm sorry."

John couldn't believe his ears. "Sherlock, what-" he began, only to be interrupted.

"I didn't think there would be that many skilled fighters and I thought I could take them out and I forgot that Gladstone wasn't there and so I left you behind and then you got hurt and I know it was my fault so just go ahead and forgive me."

John laughed. The last part had been so Sherlock that he almost forgot there was an apology attached.

"Of course, now come here."

Gladstone wagged his tail, happy that his humans were getting along again.