Must Love Dogs

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any other characters from said series.

Hello, all. I hope you're not put off when I say that this is my first Sherlock Holmes story. However, I've certainly read enough to at least get some idea of how to emulate the wonderfully sophisticated style of these stories. Please forgive me if I'm a little rough.

Many thanks to KCS for pre-reading a Super-Size chunk of this story while it was still in the works to make sure it wasn't a total suck fest. Reviews and critique are always appreciated.

"You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor? He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college... Trevor was the only man I knew, and that only through the accident of his bull pup freezing on to my ankle as I went down to chapel... It was a prosaic way of forming a friendship, but it was effective. I was laid by the heels for ten days, and Trevor used to come in to inquire after me. At first it was only a minute's chat, but soon his visits lengthened, and before the end of the term we were close friends..."

Sherlock Holmes, The "Gloria Scott"


Whitechapel, 1880.

Stands.

At long last, I have managed to unearth him and his accomplice, one Bennett by name. (The latter being significantly less important, but an altogether unexpected surprise, nonetheless.) Within this very hour, they both shall be within the firm grip of the law... Well, if one interprets the word "law" to mean that these brutes will be left in the oversight of Lestrade and Gregson, then I shall certainly rephrase. For indeed, within the hour, Benedict Stands and Jeremiah Bennett with be within the firm grasp of handcuffs, at the very least. And this knowledge gives me immense satisfaction.

They've begun to move, prowling along in the dark and disappearing momentarily. So, taking a moment to tap the ashes from my cigarette, I shove myself off of this lamp post and begin to stalk them at a snail's pace. I will admit, I sometimes wish I were not in possession of such great eagerness. One step too close to this nasty lot, and this disguise will have been in vain, not to mention Lestrade's little stakeout. There is little doubt that it will be I who am in the handcuffs to-night if I cannot produce the criminals after dragging a quarter of the Yard down here on such a bitter, foggy night as this.

Even the latter, however, would shrivel compared to my perfect disguise being rendered useless. The rags, destroyed boots, cap, and chimney soot were all easy enough to come by, of course, but it did take me just over an hour to prepare a cream makeup with exactly the right tint of purple for the black eye. I have made a small study of bruises and how their hues tend to vary from assorted injuries and on different skin tones. It would make a fascinating monograph topic, actually...

I do need to pick up my feet a bit more to just barely see the two figures ambling forward in the fog. The Yard finds it difficult to believe that I am perusing two potentially dangerous men on a hellish night such as this for the sake of a petty robbery. I do, however, believe that these men, or Stands, at least, has some connection with the stabbing (and subsequent robbery) of a pawnbroker in the west end. And this "connection" is, no doubt, that Stands, on the night of January eighteenth, walked into the store of a Herman Kolfsheim at seven o'clock. Inside, he presented Kolfsheim with a gold pocket watch (stolen, no doubt), claiming he wished to pawn the item. Once Kolfsheim had been sufficiently distracted by inspecting the watch, Stands, with his left hand, withdrew a serrated dagger and, with one quick and forceful motion of his arm, stabbed the man beneath his third rib. Kolfshiem then collapsed—first forward, onto the counter, and then backwards onto the floor, where he fractured his skull upon landing. Stands then vaulted over the counter, rummaged around for the strongbox, and made his exit. Quite trivial, actually.

Curse this fog! I can barely even see my hand in front of my face, much less my two men. I am forced to resort to something of a slow jog just to keep them within my sight—much too conspicuous for my liking.

Ah, there they are. They're turning off the main sidewalk into one of many narrow, filthy alleyways that is more than likely to be crawling with Stand's thugs. You just can't help but love London after dark, can you?

Initially, I did not see much in the alleyway, but now I begin to perceive light cutting through the fog. Some vagrants huddled around a fire, nothing more, although I do not blame them. Finally, there is something of a clearing up ahead. The ally widens ever so slightly here, making it so that two people actually have room to pass each other without touching. Including Stands and Bennett, I count seven men gathered here. I slow my pace down and continue walking through the opening into where the walls once again squeeze the alley into something of a narrow path. I have only to make my exit here and alert Lestrade's men on the other side.

"What's your 'urry?"

Bennett bounds in front of me, blocking my escape. Did I mention the fact that he is no small man? His thugs, taking his cue, block the gap behind me or otherwise surround me.

"What gives?" I demand angrily in a tediously practiced and refined (oh, the irony!) cockney accent.

"You was certainly in a hurry when you was followin' us down the street a few minutes ago. Isn't that right, Stands?"

"Indeed," Stands responds over his shoulder uninterestedly, disappearing into the doorway of a squalid, derelict flat. No doubt that is where their loot is hidden, but why the deuce is he going in there now?

Meanwhile, upon Bennett's stressing of the word "followed," all six of his men have either taken a tentative step forward or have balled their fists in preparation for the brawl to begin.

Think quickly, man. Time is of the essence!

"'Ey, 'ey, 'ey! I didn't come here to muck around with your gang. And even if I was, I sure as the devil ain't dumb enough to do it alone. 'Ave ya seen a bloke from 'round these parts, name of Gates?"

"I ain't never 'eard of no 'Gates.' And what would the likes of ye be wantin' with this 'Gates?'"

"That's my business."

Almost in perfect unison, the gang takes yet another step forward, intent on beating me to a pulp, if not for Bennett raising his hands in an order for them to hold off until we're through.

"Now, then, Mista'...?"

"Fine. I'm lookin' to find Gates 'cuz 'e owes me! Promised to grease my 'and with some of 'is loot from Kent if I came by!"

Something is going horribly wrong here, it does not take a logician to see that.

"Well, I told ya, we ain't got no 'Gates' 'ere." he hisses, not at all swayed nor impressed by my rather botched cover story.

"Shut ya boat, Jem."

I cannot help but reel as Stands emerges from the apartment. He steps up to me and gives me a scrutinizing once-over from toe to head, and somehow seems satisfied that I am a legitimate wanderer as he.

"Let the river trash go," he finally declares, using the same flippant tone as before.

"'Ow do we know 'e ain't got any cutter on 'im?" one of the nameless brutes ventures.

"I said, get 'im outta my-"

He stops mid sentence, eyes fixed on me. I do not like the stare he is giving me, not one bit. He throws back his head and laughs quite suddenly—there is something amiss, no doubt, and I do not know what it is. Only that the danger here is immediate and deadly.

"Nice," he says, getting a hold on his composure, "Very nice. Y'know, for a second there, you almost had me fooled?"

I think my heart has just stopped beating in my chest. I plant my feet in a firm position, ready to run at a moment's notice. Oh, God, why had I not come better prepared? A knife is sufficient against two or three, but eight surpasses the realm of even having a conceivable chance of survival. And Lestrade's men... Well, they are useless period.

"But it just ain't workin', copper, and so... unfortunately for you," he says much too gleefully, vanishing back into the apartment and yelling so that he can be heard, "your reward is to become our night's entertainment!"

He steps back outside with two leather throngs in his hand, and tied to the end of either one of them are two enormous Rottweilers.

Lord have mercy on me.

Surely, the place is breaking out into a chorus of anticipating laughs and whoops at the prospect of these massive beasts being unleashed upon me, but my focus is unwavering on these dogs. I would have thought that upon catching sight of me, a stranger in their territory, they would bark and growl and lunge with all their might against the restraint of their leashes. What seems to be happening, though, is exactly the opposite.

As soon as they catch sight of me, they both freeze in their tracks and are silent. They make no movements, but fix their eyes and seemingly all their senses on me. What I see in those homely faces is not ferocious madness (at least not yet) but something akin to... hunger? No. Desire. An acute desire and determination that can be satiated by one thing alone... to get the target...

The suggestion frightens me ten times more than a snarling, brainless, beast.

"I'd like you to meet a coup'la friends o' mine, copper," he grins merrily, to which the rest of the gang relapses into smiling and prepaeing silence, not unlike the animals themselves.

"This 'ere's Bruno and Rex."

"'Ey, now, whatcha think you're doin'?" I sputter rather more nervously than I should, raising my hands in defense.

"Fine. You wanna play like that, I'll just be right outta your way now—"

"Indeed, you will," he nods, although I take no comfort in his reassurance.

"I neva' meant no 'arm, me old china, I swear it. Just give me leave and—"

"Tell you what I'm gonna give you, copper. I'm gonna give you a five second head start before I let go of these leashes and let the dogs take care of the rest. One."

That's it. I've failed. I spin around automatically to retreat the same way I arrived, but there are not one, but two brutes blocking the narrow path to safety.

"Two."

Three men in front of me. Are there no openings whatsoever in this—!?

"Three. Betta' get runnin', copper!"

The flat. If I can just make it out the front door of this house—

"Four."

I shove past Stands and the beasts themselves, still following my every move patiently, and make it through the doorway before he can get to five, sprinting for the hallway, although it is rather dark in here and I have no idea where I am going.

"Five."

I hear a clinking of metal on stone as the leashes drop.

A/N: Short, I know, and very, VERY rough around the edges. It gets better after this, I promise. I think I got myself into the swing of it, here. Don't believe me? Read on.