John sat in the waiting room of the emergency vet with his hands clasp together over his knees, leaning back uncomfortably in a chair much too small for him (so, pretty small). Blood covered the jacket hanging loosely from his fingers. He tried hard not to think of the last time he'd seen so much blood in one place. He hadn't been able to save Sherlock, but he might've managed to save this dog. He wasn't exactly sure why he was still here, well, beyond the fact that the cabby had abandoned him the second John forked over the cash. He could've easily gotten another cab, but he hadn't even tried. It wasn't his dog. He hadn't even been the one to hit it, not technically. Yet, for some reason, he felt responsible for her.

About an hour ago, he'd rushed the dog inside, propping open the door with his elbow as he passed through because the driver hadn't even offered to help. There were only two other people there: a frail, tired looking woman in her mid-thirties, and the receptionist. The receptionist saw John and the dog in his arms and immediately rushed out back. Seconds later, two others followed her, carrying a dog sized stretcher (which for this dog was basically a human sized stretcher). They instructed him to put the dog on it and he laid her carefully onto the bright, blue fabric. A second later, they were gone. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and rubbed a bloody hand through his hair.

His mobile buzzed and he quickly fished it out.-Another time, then.- It was Greg. The weight of guilt pressed down on him. He could still go, catch a cab, but he didn't really want to.

"What happened?" It was the other woman.

John looked at her dumbly for a moment before spotting his coat on the floor. It must've fallen off when they'd rushed the dog out back. He quickly snatched it up, grimacing at the stark, red smudge it'd left on the white and blue tile floor. He realized he was pretty much ignoring the other woman and glanced back at her. She was waiting patiently, eyes kind and sympathetic.

"Uh, got hit by a cab."

"Oh, that's terrible! So good of him to drive you here though."

John gave her a tight lipped smile, but said nothing. She kept watching him and he started to feel uncomfortable. Her eyes said she was expecting something, but what? And then he realized.

"What's happened to yours?"

The woman heaved a sigh, her eyes brimming with tears, and he immediately regretted asking. Without a word, he reached over to the box of tissues and handed her one. She offered him a sad smile in thanks and took the tissue, blowing her nose loudly.

"He's-He's dying." John felt his stomach tighten. "I was so stupid. I-I shouldn't have left the chocolate on the counter. Oh, God, Poopsie."

She broke out in sobs, burying her head in her hands, and John suddenly wished to be somewhere, anywhere else. Thankfully, the receptionist came back out and called him over. He glanced at the woman, who waved him off before heading to the counter. With thinly veiled indifference, she handed him a clipboard with some paperwork on it. He was about to say the dog wasn't his, but she left to help the others before he could say anything. Unsure what else to do, he grabbed a pen and dutifully went back to his seat to fill out the forms.

Name. Age. Breed. Neutered or Spayed? Up to date on shots? Regular vet? God, these people wanted to know a lot. For most of it, he checked the unknown box, leaving the regular vet slot blank. Under why he was here he filled out that she'd been hit by a car, scribbling out the day's date for when the "condition" had started. As for a name. Now that one was a tricky one. He paused. Did he really want to name it? If you name it, then you keep it. That's the rule. He was pretty positive Mrs. Hudson would throw a fit if he brought home a dog, so he left it blank.

By the time he was done, the other woman had quieted from sobs into small sniffles. She watched him as he got up and returned the clipboard to the counter. The receptionist was back and she took them with a nod. He should've left then. He could've. He wasn't too far from 221 Baker Street, which Mycroft had stubbornly insisted on paying for even though John had wanted to move somewhere else. He had plans to move, but that required steps like getting a job, looking for an apartment, actually living. His therapist agreed wholeheartedly that it was a good idea and he was a little worried at how easily he was getting used to living with ghosts. But still, it felt wrong to leave, the same way it felt wrong to abandon this dog. So he sat there and waited another half hour before someone came and called the other woman out back, their face giving away nothing. She looked nervous and John sympathized. Shortly after, another vet, an older man, quite tall, with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, came and got John. Together, they walked into an empty exam room. John was sure he was about to hear that the dog had died.

"So the good news is that she's stabilized." Oh, thank God. "The bullet went clean through and missed any major organs, but it nicked her jugular. Frankly, it's a miracle she's alive at all."

John couldn't keep the shock from his face. "Excuse me. Did you just say bullet?" She'd been shot? Of course. The blood on her chest. He knew it felt weird. Poor thing. No wonder she was terrified.

"Yes. I thought that was why you were here." He checked the paperwork and his brows furrowed. "Hit by a car. That would explain the scrapes. How did she get loose? Where is your leash? Also you're aware, I'm sure that all dogs will need to be microchipped by—"

"Oh, she's not mine," John said quickly, feeling an irrational pang of guilt. "The cab I was in ran her over."

"Well, in that case, you can go." When John hesitated, he added, "We'll make sure she gets to the proper authorities and they will find her a good home if she pulls through this. She's lost a lot of blood."

Well this had been a waste. He'd waited a whole hour, blown off Lestrade, and given up his evening just to be told to go home? That felt...wholly unsatisfying.

"Can I see her?" The vet looked at him like he was crazy. "I feel bad for what happened. I just want to make sure she's okay."

Reluctantly, the vet nodded and motioned for John to follow. Out back there were rows of cages, crates built into the wall from floor to ceiling. Most were empty, but a few contained dogs, cats, and even a ferret. An IV stuck out of a Labrador puppy and he noticed the woman from the waiting room crying in front of the kennel. A vet tech was there comforting her. He wondered if her dog would be alright, but quickly brushed the thought aside when they rounded another corner and the entire building filled with an unholy shrieking. It was a jagged mixture of rage and terror, the kind of noise no animal should ever be able to make, and he instantly knew it was the dog they'd hit.

He and the vet ran past another set of cages and burst into the next room. The dog was on the floor, teeth bared, an IV rolling on the floor in front of her. Two empty bags of saline were on the examination table and another was half full on the floor. A spray of precious blood colored the walls and one vet tech was huddled a step back, holding his arm. The other two advanced slowly on the dog.

Every time one got close, she screeched at the top of her lungs and lunged forward. Her eyes were wild, but more focused than they'd been before. There was a kind of ferocity in her gaze that went beyond fear. It was primal, instinctive and it sent shivers up John's spine. No dog should look like that. For an animal who'd been shot and run over, she was surprisingly agile.

Doctor senses kicking in, John went over to the man who'd been bitten and reached for his arm. "I'm a doctor," he explained and he didn't get any resistance. The wound wasn't deep and bled only marginally. He had a feeling it could've been much worse. The guy would need jabs, but he'd be fine. As John was bandaging up the injured vet tech, one of the others swooped in and tackled the dog while the third distracted her. She snarled and scrambled to get out of the woman's grip, clawing both techs in the face while they tried to subdue her. The vet quickly grabbed a muzzle, the solid kind that barely allowed dogs to breathe, and secured it over her mouth with expert precision. All it did was panic her more.

The scream went up a few pitches and the dog doubled her efforts to get loose. John let go of the vet tech's arm and walked forward, blind rage overtaking him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he'd shoved both vet techs off of her. They protested sharply, looking at him like he was crazy. The vet sprang back in surprise and the dog scurried backwards into the wall, eyes locked on John, breathing hard. She was shaking and her pupils were blown so wide he could hardly see and color left it her eyes. Her panic was overwhelming.

He reminded himself to breathe.

For a long moment, nobody moved. Then the vet slowly reached over and grabbed a slip leash. The movement caught her eye and she growled, a deep, menacing tone this time. Only the edge of it held fear. John frowned at him and shook his head.

"Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave." John stiffened. "This is not your dog. We'll take it from here."

"No, you won't."

"Excuse me?"

"I'll be taking her home."

The doctor sighed. "I'm sorry, but there's protocol. A waiting period. She could have a home, a family out looking for her."

John raised himself up, eyes hardening. "You know as well as I do that a state like this takes months, if not years to get to. If she has a family, it's a damned horrible one."

Did the dog just wince?

"Sir, for a dog like her, there is only one option." John didn't like where this was going. He could feel the dog stiffening beside him. "Look at her. She's suffering."

"No."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no. You are not putting her to sleep." Where was this coming from?

"I'm sorry, but it's not your decision. You aren't the dog's owner."

"I'll pay."

"What?"

"The bill. I'll pay the bill. Then she's mine, right?"

The doctor sighed, glancing down at the dog, who glared back at him in spite of herself. Her chest was shaved so John could see the bullet hole, fresh blood leaking unceremoniously from it. He couldn't believe what he was doing. He should have his head examined, but it didn't feel right to leave this dog to die.

"If you can catch her, she's yours," the vet said dryly, handing him the slip leash. Fair enough.

John knelt down in front of the dog. Her attention snapped back to him, her eyes wary and guarded. He reached out a hand and she growled, pushing herself further into the wall like she was trying to go right through. He withdrew the hand and noticed a flicker of something...confusion? crossing her eyes.

"Easy," he cooed, making his voice smooth and gentle. "Easy. I'm not going to hurt you."

She just stared at him like he was crazy and he felt oddly self-conscious, but he pushed on.

"You're alright. There's no reason to be afraid," he said, easing forward just a little. The dog growled and he stopped. "Shhhhh. I'm not going to hurt you." She snorted, her tongue flicking out between her teeth in a nervous gesture. Her breathing was ragged, her focus completely on him. He crawled forward just a bit more, aware of the vet and his techs watching him, but not caring. This time the dog just stared at him. Encouraged, he opened the loop of the leash a bit more and raised it enough to slip over her head.

Her growl became more desperate and he noticed her eyes flicking back and forth in search of escape. But both doors were closed. "Hey, hey," he said softly and her attention returned to him. "It's okay. You're okay." He held the leash there and her eyes flitted between it and his face. He could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. The whole room stayed perfectly still, all of them hardly daring to breathe. Finally, after a few minutes of hovering there, the dog uncurled...just a fraction. He leaned forward a bit more and slipped the leash over her head. She tensed, shrinking back into the wall, but didn't growl.

Once the leash was on, the dog just stared at him, watching him. It was unnerving, like he was under a microscope. It felt oddly familiar.

"What shall I put for the name?" the vet asked resignedly.

John deliberated for a moment, glancing at the dog. Then he smiled, and said, "Shirley. Her name is Shirley."