It's finals time! Here's a chapter for all you hard workers studying right now :) Good luck on exams!
This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Cmpanion story collection.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything having to do with Sherlock Holmes. No tv show, movie, book, anything.
John was in the sitting room, basking in a warm patch of sunlight, when he heard loud pounding on the stairs.
He picked his head up and wagged his tail lazily as Sherlock burst through the doorway. The detective smiled and dashed about the flat, eagerly gathering his coat and scarf, "There's been a murder John! And this one, oh this one, happened just two hours ago!"
John gave a soft woof.
Sherlock paused, "Hm, yes I suppose you're right. Being happy about it is a bit not good. But we'll be able to catch him! The man's been dead for only two hours. He couldn't have gotten too far."
John simply yawned in response and continued to watch Sherlock.
The detective gathered his things, dashing to the doorway to leave. However, he stopped at the threshold of the flat, thinking something over.
Sherlock turned back around to face John with a contemplative look.
It had been twenty one days since John's surgery. The lanky detective kept a close eye on John's injury while he recovered. Healthy dog that he was, it didn't take too long before the mutt was up and about again. Tender though it was when touched, John's shoulder was as properly healed as it would get.
With his injuries better, John found the pain and stiffness had lessened immensely. And the mutt took great joy out of it.
Sherlock could barely get out of the way fast enough as John scrambled and pounced around the flat. The pent up excitement of being able to move freely meant longer walks and more food. Sherlock didn't mind though, for he hadn't ever seen the mutt that lively.
The dog now tilted his head at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock never stared at him for this long, but the detective had made up his mind.
He walked over and kneeled next to the dog, "John, I need an assistant for this one. You've seen plenty of action. A lot of gruesome deaths. More than enough to last a lifetime for anyone, human or dog."
The mutt's tail thumped enthusiastically against the floor.
"Would you like to see more?"
John hopped to his feet and barked excitedly.
"Yes, really. I've deemed you fit enough to handle the activity. You're shoulder is healed, and you've never had less of a limp. You've been boxed up for months because of it, and now you need an outlet to make up for all the vigor you've missed out on. It's time to put your police-dog skills to the test."
John barked again, his tail moving so fast his whole backside moved with it. John leaned forward and covered Sherlock's face with licks.
Sherlock sputtered, "No, no, stop that! Or I'll retract my previous statement. Go get your harness and leash."
He watched as John dashed off into the bedroom. Less than a minute passed before he came back out. A red leash dangled from his mouth, dragging a matching harness attached to it across the floor.
Once Sherlock had gotten the harness on John, he took the leash and led the dog to the door.
"Let's go John, the game is on!"
XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX
"Oi! Freak, you're late. We've been waiting for thirty…minutes…"
Sergeant Donovan trailed off as she saw Sherlock and John approach, '"Is…is that a dog?"
She was standing behind the barricade of yellow police tape that encircled the entire front yard of the house. Officers and forensic technicians were flocking everywhere, dusting for prints and looking at the grass.
Sherlock groaned and lifted the police tape, "Why is it that everyone asks that question? Stupidity must be spreading like the plague in Scotland Yard. This is John, he's with me."
Donovan pulled the tape back down, "You can't bring an unauthorized dog to a crime scene, Freak. He'll contaminate it. And why would you get a pet? What? Did he follow you home?"
"He's my assistant. Sniffs out the baddies and catches criminals. Now let us in, or I will call your boss."
Donovan looked skeptical but lifted the tape. Sherlock noted the way her aggravated expression softened when she saw John's happy, panting smile.
"Fine, but it's on your head if he pisses on any evidence."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and led John into the house. John was a natural when they passed the yellow tape. He stuck close to Sherlock's side, staying out of other officer's ways as they walked. He stopped panting, his ears perked forward, and his tail went up on alert.
A police dog through and through. Sherlock couldn't hold back the smirk that pushed its way onto his face.
They entered the living room of the house, where Lestrade and some other officers stood over a body.
Lestrade saw them enter and his shoulders straightened, "Sherlock, about time. You brought John? I take it he's all better?"
"As good as he'll ever be. Now tell me about the victim. John, stay."
Sherlock hung the leash on the doorknob and waited until John was lying down before heading over to the body.
"Arthur Neeman. Forty-two years old, works at a packaging factory on the west side of London. He's willing to drive an hour to work to have this nice, out of the city house. No immediate family nearby as far as we know. Killed by a blow to the head."
Sherlock was already kneeling next to the body, lifting clothing and examining the man's skin. He got up and made a circle around the victim, pausing a few times to take out his magnifying glass and look at something.
John watched his alpha work in awe. It wasn't the same job his old alpha trained him to do when he was young, but John could tell the differences between him and Sherlock. His old alpha stood on the sidelines, waiting for the criminal. He'd set John loose to catch them if needed.
Sherlock was different. He spent more time near the corpse, looking over at John every so often. Like he was making sure the dog was paying attention.
While Sherlock looked, Lestrade walked over to stand by John. The detective inspector gave the mutt a few pats on the head, "Excited John? I bet you are. After being cooped up in the flat these last few weeks. Let's see what we've got. Sherlock, run us through."
Sherlock spun around, pacing the room as he fired off details.
"Judging from the muscles on his legs, the offset of his chest, and the calluses on the bottom of his feet, this man is a competitive long-distance runner. He's been competing in races for ten years, started off as a hobby but became more than that. It meant something to him."
Sherlock keeps walking around the house, gazing at upturned objects. He spies racing trophies on one of the shelves," His murderer was someone he knew. The door and windows weren't forced open, so not a robbery. But there was a fight. The man has a black eye, there's furniture overturned just in this area. So they had an argument and it turned into a fight, which means the murderer was probably a friend turned rival. He was jealous of the dead man, winning so many races recently. Now whether the murderer actually meant to kill Mr. Neeman or not, that's the question. The victim must've gotten a good punch in, or else he wouldn't have had time to dial nine-nine-nine before he was killed."
Lestrade shrugged his shoulders in disbelief, "How'd you know he called in?"
Sherlock sighed, "Look at this place! Outside of London, there's not a lot of neighbors close by, at least none that would be able to hear the fight. That's why you found him so quickly. He called the police himself to arrest his attacker. But by the time they got here, the murderer had recovered and caught Mr. Neeman by surprise, killing him with a blow to the back of the head."
There was silence for a bit. John barked from the corner of the room to personify his amazement.
"Thank you John, but I'm not quite done yet. You see, the murderer's still nearby."
Lestrade snaps into high alert, "What? You mean he's here?"
"He must have taken a cab out here. No frantic tire marks on the driveway. He just killed a man, he would've tried to get out of here as quickly as possible. He was going to call a cab to take him back, or take the dead man's car, but he heard sirens and hid away instead. With a house filled with officers? What else could he do but hide?"
"Bloody hell," Lestrade raced out of the house to alert the other officers. Sherlock followed him, grabbing John's leash as he went outside.
Officers filed into the house, searching ever nook and cranny. Sherlock went with John to the fenced-in back yard. Lestrade. Donovan, when she caught sight of them, followed.
Sherlock thrust John's leash to Donovan to hold. He ignored her protests and scrutinized the back yard, "He must be out here. There's not many places for him to hide in the house."
Sherlock scanned the back yard. It was bordered by a low fence, and the yard was filled with decorative hedges and bushes. A large tree stood in one back corner and a small shed in the other.
John suddenly froze, sniffed the air, and started pulling against his leash.
Sherlock looked over at him "John?"
John let out high-pitched barking, he spun in circles at Sergeant Donovan's feet excitedly. Donovan had to tighten her grip on the leash when he started to pull. His tail wagged, and he went as far as he could towards the tree.
A large portion of leaves shifted.
"There!" Sherlock pointed and raced for the tree. A few steps in, and the suspect leaped down. Sherlock was right about him being a rival. The murderer jumped the fence and took off across the grassy field behind the house at great speed. A long distance sprinter no doubt.
Sherlock jumped over after him, but knew that he wouldn't be able to catch up to a competitive runner.
Then something occurred to him. Sherlock skidded to a stop.
Lestrade raced past him, "What are you doing? We're going to lose him!"
"Donovan! Let John loose!"
The dog was still barking excitedly, pouncing in circles and pulling at the leash. Sergeant Donovan took a few seconds to process the order before she grabbed Johns harness to unhook the leash.
The second he was unrestrained, John Watson took off at full speed. He easily leapt over the fence and covered twice the distance Sherlock ran in half the time. Sherlock watched in awe as the ex-police dog easily caught up to the suspect. Fur gleaming in the sun, he jumped the last few feet and latched his jaws onto the man's right arm. The mutt's momentum caught him off balance and the man fell to the ground.
Lestrade let out a hefty laugh, "Bloody hell! Good boy, John! Keep him down!"
Lestrade ran the way to John and the man, handcuffs out.
Sherlock let out a short breath of a laugh. John looked like he was having the time of his life. The mutt's tail was flying in happiness, his head shaking the sleeve of the man like he would one of his rope toys, but never breaking skin. The suspect shouted and fought against him to get free with no success. Every time the murderer tried to get up, John would tug him back on the ground. He looked like a dog who loved his job.
Sherlock cupped his hands over his mouth when he saw Lestrade near them, "John, come!"
It was almost comical, the way John's head and ears perked up. The man's hand still dangled from his mouth, and his tail still wagged so fast it blurred.
The dog dropped the man's arm and raced over to Sherlock.
Sherlock met him halfway and fell on his knees. A genuine smile lit up his face, "John that was brilliant!"
John yipped happily as he ran around Sherlock, stopping every few seconds for the detective to pet him.
Sherlock, surprisingly, found himself laughing at the dog. He wished he could have taken John out to cases sooner. He figured they'd just have to take on many more cases to make up for lost time.
John raced around him happily, and stopped to lick at Sherlock's chin quickly.
There was a sharp couch beside him. Sherlock looked up and saw Donovan, with an army of spectating Yarders behind her. She raised an eyebrow at him and held John's leash out.
Sherlock realized he was acting much too happy over this situation. Sherlock was never happy to those at Scotland yard.
Sherlock cleared his throat and stood, "Good, John. Very good."
John sat at his feet, his tongue handing out the side of his mouth. He looked incredibly pleased with himself.
Sherlock snatched the leash from the sergeant's hands, "Looks like Scotland Yard doesn't need officers anymore. John and I just did your entire job for you."
Donovan just gave him an incredulous look.
Sherlock snapped his fingers to get John's attention, "Come along, John. I know this lovely Italian restaurant. Consider it celebration. Angelo won't mind a dog in the restaurant I'm sure."
John trotted at his side without the aid of the leash. For that moment, reveling in the feel of being a complete police-dog once again.