This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.
Disclaimer: I don't own any version of the Sherlock Holmes stories. I do own dog behavior though...because I own a dog...that's how it works right?
Sherlock paused as he walked up the stairs to his flat. He'd just gotten through with a grueling, wonderful, incredibly not boring case that lasted three days. Yet, there was no flying ball of fur scratching at the door, nor a happy yelp to greet him.
John always greeted him when he walked up the stairs.
And Mrs. Hudson was assigned to watch him, so she should have been in his flat with the door open.
The door was closed.
There was no sign of John.
Sherlock ran up the stairs quickly, taking three at a time.
He opened the door and strode into the room, "John?"
"Hello, brother dear, nice to see you too."
Sherlock's worried (no, not worried. Since when does Sherlock Holmes worry?) feeling settled down and turned into annoyance.
"Mycroft, where is John? Please tell me you didn't kidnap and interrogate him."
Mycroft shifted in his chair and pointed with his umbrella to the couch. Mrs. Hudson had taken up residence there with a cup of tea, looking comfy and content. However John, who was sitting on the floor next to her, was anything but.
John stared at Mycroft, his head low and flat. His ears pointed forward and he sat stiffly next to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock analyzed the dog's posture.
Not aggressive. The fur on his spine isn't standing up, no baring of his teeth. Sitting next to Mrs. Hudson, but is tense. Ready to spring into action in case of a fight, but not actively seeking it out. Protective. Unsure.
"John?" Sherlock watched him, perplexed. John made no move, except for an ear that swiveled to listen Sherlock's voice.
Mrs. Hudson ran a hand over the fur on his back, "Isn't it sweet Sherlock? He's a very good guard dog. I was just dusting when your brother came over unannounced, startled me it did. John won't let Mycroft get within five feet of me."
Mycroft sighed, "I shouldn't be surprised that you trained your…little companion to despise my presence."
Sherlock scoffed at his brother while he kept a close eye on John, "I didn't teach him that. You were just idiotic enough to barge into his territory and scare his pack. Maybe next time don't antagonize him."
Mycroft hummed to himself, "He's very loyal, very quick. You've had him all of, what, two weeks? You should consider yourself lucky. He could be the making of you, brother dear."
Sherlock voted to ignore him, and turned to calm John down. "John, heel."
John's eyes flicked over to him, but stubbornly stayed where he was.
Sherlock snapped his fingers sharply and pointed at his side, "John. Heel."
John let out a small, frustrated huff before standing and stalking over to Sherlock's side.
"Good dog. Very good," he reached down and scratched John's neck, sending over calm energy for the dog to pick up on. He smiled and looked at Mycroft, "It's been three weeks, four days, seven hours and thirty-six minutes actually. Maybe you should stop thinking about cake and work on your math, Mycroft."
Mycroft gave his brother an empty smile, "You should thank me, Sherlock."
"What for?"
"If it weren't for my suggestion to Mike Stamford that the injured dog he had in the park would make an excellent companion for a one Sherlock Holmes, John Watson here would be in an overrun dog shelter. Possibly awaiting his euthanization."
Sherlock gave Mycroft a look of disgust, despite the slight flutter in his stomach "Hardly a sob story. He's a perfect dog. Any family with half a brain would pick him to bring home. He wouldn't be in the shelter for more than a few days at worst."
Mycroft looked over at the dog, who had started to relax in his presence for the first time, "So it would seem. Do yourselves a favor. Don't give yourself a reason to make any of that happen-"
"And don't give me a reason to sic him on you when you annoy me."
Mycroft continued, oblivious to Sherlock's comment, "-And don't give me a reason either. He's a dog, Sherlock, not a human. Don't make the mistake of thinking he is. After all, we still remember what happened to Redbeard, don't we?"
The name hits Sherlock like a bullet to the chest, bringing forth an avalanche of memories from his Mind Palace. Sherlock doesn't want to compare the results to John.
The suffocating feeling is quickly pushed down, but Sherlock lets his anger bubble up from the subtle threat. John shuffles and leans against his leg like a spiritual guardian in his distress, and Mycroft is slightly surprised at the intelligence he sees lingering in the pup's eyes.
Sherlock points to the door. His voice holds no room for argument, "I think your visiting time is over, Mycroft."
Mycroft takes the hint, sensing that anymore time spent in 221B would result in Sherlock reaching his nerve's end. He takes his umbrella from its position leaning against the chair.
"Until later then, brother," Mycroft send a last, sparing glance down at John, "You may want to change his bandage. He's due for his medicine."
Mycroft sends a ghost of a smile at the dog, "Wouldn't want that shoulder wound to regress."
And with that last piece of advice, the British Government is gone.
Sherlock audibly lets out a sigh. Mrs. Hudson gets up from her spot on the couch.
"You two boys always have such lovely conversations with each other."
Sherlock huffed, "Don't use sarcasm, Mrs. Hudson. It doesn't suit you."
The landlady tutted at him before kissing both Sherlock and John on the head.
"His medicine is on the kitchen table, love. I'll bring up some leftovers. Just this once. Mrs. Turner brought over a lovely bisque earlier today."
The landlady heard Sherlock grunt a response out as she waltzed downstairs to fix him a bowl.
On her way back up, she almost dropped the tray of food on the stair landing when she caught a glimpse of the residents of 221B.
Sherlock sat crossed legged on the floor in front of John, applying the medicated gel to John with a tenderness Mrs. Hudson had never seen in Sherlock before.
The dog leaned forward and touched his brown nose to Sherlock's shoulder in return.
Mrs. Hudson smiled and lightly turned back down the stairs, not wanting to disturb the moment.
She was sure little John Watson was a very good thing for him. A dog does not judge, it does not insult, it does not lie, and it is a friend to anyone that treats them right. And if there was anything Sherlock needed, it was a friend.
Although, Mrs. Hudson wasn't quite sure if he realized it yet.
Little did she know, as Sherlock reapplied the bandage to John, he was making a silent vow.
Sherlock gently picked up the pup after the bandage was secure, and placed John on the couch. Although, he was amazed at how much John had grown in little over a week. If the dog's paw sizes were any indication, Sherlock didn't think it'd be too long before John was too massive to carry around the flat.
And as Sherlock Holmes sat next to his pet, listening to the mutt let out a sigh as Sherlock ran his hand down his back from the head, the detective knew one thing for sure.
John Watson would not be taken from him. Not if he had any say in it.