Ok, so I've taken special author-based liberties and made up imaginary treatments for animal infections/sicknesses. So don't expect any of the medical knowledge to be accurate. (It would probably wouldn't be helpful for you to quote me on any kind of veterinary medical advice until after I earn my DVM...and that's still many, many years away people.)
Er...happy late Easter!
This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.
Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock, nor any other version of the Sherlock Holmes stories.
John laid down contently under the chair his Alpha sat in and busied himself with taking in the new surroundings.
Alpha Sherlock had decided they were going for a walk today, which was wonderful. John loved walks, even if he usually ended up unable to put any weight on his left forelimb afterwards.
Earlier, Sherlock had suddenly fitted his harness around his head and legs, careful with his injured one as always, and John could barely contain his happiness with getting out of their territory for a little.
Alpha Sherlock strayed from their usual walk path that day, John noticed at once but didn't mind, seeing as there were new sights, sounds, and smells to take in. However, they didn't walk nearly as far as usual before the tall human led him into one of the buildings lining the street, which was where he found himself now.
John noticed at once that the new place smelled alarmingly clean, the smells of the surrounding air molecules zapped together to create a strong mixture of other animals and chemicals (not the bad ones his old alpha had him find, he noted) that tingled his nose with every sniff.
In the end, he decided it was more comfortable to breathe through his mouth.
The other dogs that walked through were more interesting. He'd greet the openly nice ones with a wag of his tail and a lick to his nose, asking with his body language.
Friend?
Hello!
They'd respond in kind, although their leashes stopped them from getting close enough to sniff at John.
And then there were the dogs that John deemed much too overexcited or openly displeasing to deal with. He ignored the few growls and harsh barking that was thrown his way, and found himself content to poke his head out next to his alpha's legs and simply observe.
He shifted cheerfully at the thought, his alpha would be proud, what with how he was always telling John to observe.
Although, none of it served to explain why exactly they came to this new place.
His alpha was getting antsy, John could tell, and the mutt pressed his nose against the human's leg comfortingly.
His alpha sighed and reached down to stroke one of John's dark ears before sitting back again, less restless than before.
And so they waited.
After a while, John's bad leg gave a painful twinge. John shifted, but showed no other sign of discomfort. John huffed in annoyance and discontent. His shoulder was giving him a lot of grief lately. So much so that the set of stairs that led out of his home were becoming more and more daunting. John hated having to go down them slow, and getting nothing in return but a throbbing ache lighting across his back. John just couldn't seem to make it leave, despite what Alpha Sherlock always said about it being psychosomatic.
He was able to count a few more twinges before Alpha Sherlock's name was called, and Sherlock tugged John to his feet with the leash.
John stood, and shook off the pain in his leg before limping along next to Sherlock.
A few steps down a hall and some slightly awkward lifting on Alpha's part ended up with John on a high metal table.
Oh….
Memories came back to John.
He now knew where he was, but wasn't anxious at all with it. His old alpha made it a routine for the both of them, especially in the desert they traveled to.
This was the human's healing place for their pack members.
John wagged his tail as he sniffed and skittered around the table.
A healing place, always with kind humans who always were sure to give him lots of pets while they checked his cuts and bruises after a long day searching the rocks for the things that made fire-clouds.
His old alpha called it the "Vet".
John's tail wagging increased and he turned to Alpha Sherlock excitedly, sticking his nose out for attention.
Alpha Sherlock made a funny expression, "What?"
John's tongue flicked out to lick his alpha's chin.
We're at the "vet", Sherlock! Nice humans, clean, no more pain!
Alpha didn't seem to share his enthusiasm, "I don't know why you're so happy about it. It's the veterinarian office. Your shoulder has been hurting too much lately, and you know it. It's easy to tell. You don't scurry around the flat as much anymore, it takes hours for you to find a comfortable position to sleep in, despite the dog bed Mrs. Hudson bestowed upon you on Wednesday, and you've taken to lying down while you eat. Conclusion, your shoulder injury is bothering you more than it should."
John listened aptly at the deductions and though, not for the first time, how brilliant his pack leader was.
The veterinarian came in right at the end of Sherlock's triad of deductions and introduced herself as Dr. Sarah Sawyer.
"So he's been limping worse, you say?"
John heard Sherlock give an irritated huff as Sarah shone a light in John's eyes, "That's what I just said, weren't you listening?"
John shook his head and gave Sherlock a glance. Contrary to most of his kind, John did not always submit and cower to his alpha's ways. Behave, Sherlock.
John gave a single wave of his tail when Sherlock caught the mutt's glare, sighed, and listed the abnormalities John had shown the past few days to Dr. Sawyer.
After some poking a prodding in all kinds of places on his body that wasn't quite comfortable, John heard her give Sherlock her diagnosis, "Well, the joint between his left scapula and humerus is having a tough time moving freely, from what I can gather he has a bit of arthritis caused by trauma to the joint, or when he was shot."
Surprisingly, Sherlock seemed to hang onto every word, "Not bad enough for bone surgery though."
"No, thankfully. Some physical therapy should remedy it, or you can take him swimming routinely. I'll give you some medication for him to relieve the pain and stop any swelling."
Sherlock stared at her, "But…you will need to do surgery."
"Um…yes, unfortunately. There seems to be a bit of an infection in the surrounding muscle. See how it's swollen up near the top of his leg? It's not a large amount, but I'll need to do a bit of cleaning up to extract the dead tissue and wash it out. He was stitched up or recovering in bad conditions it seems. Happens often when the operating instruments are disinfected properly. I've already given him a sedative, so we can work on it now-"
John looked from his perch at Sherlock, and turned his ears at the disgruntled waves he felt coming from his alpha. He should care, should comfort his alpha.
But…John was feeling sleepy. He laid down on the table as his body suddenly felt very heavy.
The voices were blurring, and John figured he should be worried about the sudden feeling of sleepiness, but then Sherlock's hand was smoothing down his fur. And John relaxed into sleep.
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
Thirty-five.
Sherlock waited in the chair near the entrance to the small veterinarian office, his arms and legs crossed over. His fingers drummed rhythmically against his arm as he counted the number of minutes the surgery was taking.
Thirty-eight.
He fumed silently.
Forty.
Infection, arthritis from trauma, what the hell were the other vets doing when they patched him up? He had half a mind to go find them and give a lecture on proper disinfection before surgery.
Otherwise John wouldn't now be in surgery having his joint lubricated, and the muscle around it cleaned of infected tissue.
Although, he supposed Sarah Sawyer was competent enough to complete the surgery efficiently, even if she wasn't the most clever of animal doctors around. She'd have to do.
Although if she slipped up once, Sherlock would be sure to have somebody revoke her veterinary license.
Forty-seven.
Sherlock shook his head. What did it matter if John needed surgery? The dog was fine. He was fine. Why should he give a care about anybody else other than himself? His mind swirled in that though and Sherlock slouched in the plastic chair.
Why should he care about some animal? All it did was give him an inconvenience. Now he'd have to waste time on taking the dog swimming or walking. He'd have to stop three times daily to administer medication. Think of the cases he'd have to miss for it.
He shouldn't have to do that for someone else's mistake. For someone else's complete and utter stupidity. Of course not.
He looked at the few people left in the office chairs with their sick dogs and cats, their worried glances and open affection to their pets.
It was horribly ordinary. It was pathetic.
He should have never taken in that dog. He should've brought John to a shelter, rather than keeping it for his own entertainment.
What did he get out of if?
A few hundred pounds worth of veterinary fees.
Sherlock scowled, and looked to the door. He should leave. He should get out of this….thing while he has the chance. Before John is brought back. Before he can't delete this whole episode. Before he started caring.
He should leave.
Fifty-five.
Let someone else take care of a crippled police dog.
Sherlock started to stand, the door called to him.
"Mr. Holmes, John is awake and ready to go home."
Sherlock stopped and turned.
Sarah held the door open for John, whose ears drooped and eyes moved lethargically from the local tranquilizer used for the procedure.
The logical part of Sherlock's mind rebelled. Go, the door is merely feet away. You're fast. You can disappear and leave. They'd lose you. You can still get out of it. Let go! Leave!
The mutt didn't put any weight on his bandaged shoulder as he immediately recognized Sherlock through the throng of other patients and walked over, before Sarah could stop him. Sherlock felt something twinge in him as the ex-police dog went and leaned his head against the detective's leg.
The dark-haired man stared down at the dog absently, trying to figure out why he wasn't moving. He barely registered Dr. Sawyer's voice as she handed him a few bottles of medication.
"…should be changed when you apply the antibiotics to his shoulder. And give him one tablet orally each day. If he isn't putting weight on his leg in a week, bring him back in. He's a bit loopy now because of the anesthetic, but he'll be alright by morning."
Sherlock stared at her, then to John's medicine.
He must have seemed vulnerable to Sarah, which he silently berated himself about, as she gave him a comforting smile, "Don't worry too much Mr. Holmes. John is young, full of life and energy. He'll be up and perfectly healthy before you know it."
Sherlock finds himself nodding, agreeing with her. John would be fine. It would all be fine.
He bent down and scooped the mutt up into his arms, for John looked ready to sleep his life away.
Sherlock looks at Sarah and asks, asks for Christ's sake, "Can I bring him home now, and come back tomorrow to pay the bill?"
And Sarah Sawyer must find a bit of honesty in his gaze. Maybe it's the way he scratches John's side absently or how the pup seems to relax into his arms, safe and trusting. Whatever she sees, it makes her nod, "First thing tomorrow, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock doesn't respond in kind, simply leaves the veterinary office.
He doesn't remember hailing a cab, or convincing the cabbie to let a sick dog ride with him. He doesn't remember going up the steps to his flat and gently lying the pup down on the couch.
He's still trying to figure out why he didn't leave.
He mulls it over in his mind, tosses it around, looks at it form all angles, fiddles with it to no end, and, for the love of him, by the time the sunlight dies down and the flat is encased in darkness he still doesn't have an answer.
He wants to shoot the wall, but stops himself because there's an injured dog on his couch recovering from premature arthritis brought on by trauma and an infection that should have been easily prevented.
It isn't until Sherlock stands, and stares at the dog, at the one creature that has not hated him, been scared of him, nor left him in the better part of twenty years.
And Sherlock thinks, impetuously, that John Watson is the closest thing he has to a friend.
If he looks back, maybe that's what stopped him from leaving that dammed vet's office, from being free from the inevitable outcome of this companionship that he knows will come.
Sherlock sits on the couch beside the sleeping mutt, "That settles it then. You had better not leave before you've earned your keep, John Watson."
John doesn't respond, and Sherlock deems it worth it to sleep the rest of that night.
He went and paid for his dog's treatment first thing the next morning.