So, here's the second installation :) Which means more puppy!John, which means more adorableness!
Also, warning, this hasn't been beta picked or Brit picked. I'll do my best to make it as British as I am capable, but if anyone spies anything major off, feel free to inform me.
This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. If I did it wouldn't take 2 YEARS to get new seasons out! But hey, I guess Moffat gets off on our torture.
"MRS. HUDSON!"
Sherlock called down to his landlady (not housekeeper, he heard her voice in his head) from his kitchen. When she didn't answer, Sherlock knew she was out. The consulting detective groaned. He had been calling her up a lot lately. Ever since John was left in his care.
He called her up twelve times in the first three days he had John, asking questions that ranged from "Where does he go for the loo?" to "Why the bloody hell doesn't he answer me? There are plenty of dogs that have the ability to at least mimic human speech!".
He could tell Mrs. Hudson actually found the whole thing almost as adorable as John himself, which, of course, annoyed him. She had known Sherlock since he came and fixed that whole fiasco with her husband and the law, but never had she seen Sherlock so intent on keeping something….well, alive.
Neither had Sherlock himself, really.
However, he trusted Mrs. Hudson. She adored the dog and the dog seemed to adore her, and she knew a lot about how to care for one.
Now that it was Sherlock's turn to care for John, he wanted all his answers to come from someone like Mrs. Hudson, someone who he knew wasn't a total moron.
Sure, Sherlock could simply look it up on the internet, as he usually did with contemporary things he didn't know about, but he didn't trust the answers of ordinary people for this. Ordinary people overlooked important things, and Sherlock hadn't grown bored of John as quickly as he expected. He was certainly a puzzle for Sherlock, given in the form of activities like learning the body language of dogs and just why John was so interested in rolling on his back in the middle of the floor. He found he the dog's behavior and the reasons behind it much more fascinating than he anticipated.
But he couldn't form straight hypotheses if the dog was starved. Which brought him back to his current predicament.
He looked at his feet, where John was sitting, tail wagging, as he patiently waited for Sherlock to put food in his bowl.
It shouldn't have been that difficult. Any person, no matter how stupid, could put food in a bowl. But there was one thing.
His meddlesome brother obviously had anticipated the arrival of his new flat mate and promptly sent over supplies for John shortly after Mike left him in his flat. The dog bed was in the corner of the living room, across from his chair and next to the fireplace. The dog toys were strewn across the room, he would be sure to give John a good lecture about that later. The food and water bowls were in the kitchen. He called Mrs. Hudson up every morning and night to fix John's meals, for he had been called in for an important case the day after he got John. Simple, but important none the less.
So he left Mrs. Hudson to take care of him.
With the supplies Mycroft gave to him.
If Sherlock didn't understand the needs of a pet, surely Mycroft wouldn't either. And that's why Sherlock was calling for his landlady.
He looked at the canned dog food he held in his hand. Surely this was some kind of a joke? An attempt from his brother to off the mutt.
What kind of person feeds their pets mashed up animal parts that's been left in a can for God knows how long?
He heard a short bark, and turned to see John looking expectantly at Sherlock.
"What, John?"
John barked again, and pawed at his food bowl, making it scrape against the floor.
"Alright! Alright, I'll give it to you. But I don't trust it. And you shouldn't either."
John simply licked his chops as Sherlock pulled the can tab to open the top. As soon as he saw what was inside he put it in the rubbish.
John looked at the rubbish bin and then back to Sherlock, looking almost disappointed in a dogish way, and the detective almost groaned.
"You have a nose! Do you not smell what is in there? Animal intestines and adipose, cow udders, cornmeal? It's grey, John! No, you will be sick. How is it you've lived this long eating that filth?
John inched closer to the detective, pawing at his leg.
Sherlock sighed, "Yes, yes, I know you're hungry. Let me think, please, so I can fix something."
John waited at Sherlock's side for about a minute, letting the detective think to himself, before he gave up. If this new human, Sherlock, his new pack leader, wasn't going to feed him, he'd find something himself.
John trotted around the kitchen, his injured shoulder not quite hurting him as much as it had been at the veterinarian office he was housed at before being brought here. Although it could have been Alpha's blunt statement of "Stop limping, it's psychosomatic, and obstructing my analysis of your walking pace". Either way, John found his less-hindered walks relieving.
John sniffed at the cabinets on his level, then pointed his nose up to the edge of the countertop. Nothing smelled appetizing.
Until he reached something tall and metal. It hummed quietly. Oh, John knew what this was! It was the cold place humans used to keep food. Why humans would want their food cold, he'd never know, but he knew there would be food in there.
He sniffed the edge of it, and….there! He could smell meat in there! Fresh meat too. And something else, something sweet.
Now to get it open.
John looked back to Alpha Sherlock, the human was still doing that weird pose with his hands in front of his face. John knew Alpha could open the cold place. John just needed to tell him.
John barked.
Sherlock wasn't brought out immediately, but after a few more barks from John, he finally turned to the dog, "Stop that! What is it?"
John barked again, and nudged the cold machine with his nose. He wagged his tail, surely Sherlock-alpha would understand.
For such a smart human, his could certainly be ignorant at times. John didn't mind though. He liked his new home.
John had felt alone when his last Alpha, his last pack, hadn't woken up. His last Alpha had taught him a lot, something Sherlock-alpha didn't quite understand. Sure, he gave John basic commands like "Come", "Sit", or his favorite "No". But John missed his work. He missed sniffing out the things bad to humans. He missed helping his pack protect other humans.
Perhaps if he showed his talents, and his new Alpha would understand.
So John did what his old Alpha taught him when he sniffed something out: He jumped onto his hind legs and scratched at the door with his good foreleg, tail wagging so hard his whole backside was being thrown off balance.
John almost jumped in excitement as Sherlock came up, "John Watson! Down!"
John got back down on the floor, but he let out a growling whine and pressed his nose to the cold food holder again.
Sherlock looked at it and almost immediately opened the door. He took out the packaged ground beef Mrs. Hudson had bought for him the day before. Ah, John was smart. Smarter that any ordinary dog, yes.
Sherlock reached down to pet John on the head, "Good dog."
But when his hand reached down, Sherlock didn't feel soft fur but air.
Sherlock heard a sharp rattle and looked down, "John!"
John Watson looked lifted his head from the floor where an opened and half empty jar of strawberry jam lay. He licked the excess jam off his muzzle, before looking up at Sherlock with a accomplished expression.
Sherlock stared at John.
John stared at Sherlock.
They stared at each other.
"Now that I know is not good, give it here."
Sherlock reached down for the jar, only to hear John growl at him.
Sherlock jerked his hand back, even though he knew the dog wouldn't dare bite him. The blunt, obvious show of disobedience still gave the lanky detective a slight startle.
"John!"
John just huffed and went back to lapping up the jam.
"Fine! Fine, get sick over it, but you're going to clean it up afterwards."
Sherlock looked on, perplexed as John's attitude immediately shifted to happy puppy, complete with wagging tail. The detective felt a headache coming on.
He looked at the raw beef in his hands.
John couldn't live off of jam, not matter what the dog thought or how much he liked it.
Sherlock walked back to the kitchen counter, unwrapped the meat from the package, chopped it, and placed it into one of John's bowls before filling the other with fresh water.
Sherlock ran a hand over the silky fur on John's back before moving out of the kitchen, sitting on the couch, and hacking into Scotland Yard's files on his laptop.
He couldn't stop a small smile from appearing when he later felt a lick of gratitude on his hand and a warm body lay at his feet.