Two hours later, Shirley and John sat on the floor of the top apartment at 221B Baker Street as far apart as the leash would let her. The vet had wanted to keep her overnight to be sure, but all it took was a well-timed charge from Shirley to convince him she was more trouble than she was worth. As far as she was concerned, she was tired, grumpy, and in pain. There was no way she was staying. It wasn't that she liked John more so much as the idea of the vet's hands on her again made her skin crawl.

They were released and the receptionist handed John the bill plus a butt load of medication and antibiotic ointments she had no intentions of letting him give her. He grimaced, but paid and the two of them left quickly. She was fully intending to chew through the leash and escape, but he'd been smart enough to leave the muzzle on. Shifting to human form would certainly scare the pants off him and, with luck, the leash out of his hand, but she wasn't sure if she even still could. Besides, it'd hurt like hell if she tried to shift before she was healed.

Shirley fought him every step of the way, refusing to move and thrashing at the end of the leash. She knew it would do her no good and each time he'd stop and beg her to move again until she'd shuffle forward a few more feet. The few people who were still out at that miserable hour gave the pair a wide berth. The looks they got ranged from sympathy to straight up disgust and John was getting redder and redder with each passing person. Anger. Fear. Embarrassment. The scents rushed out of him like sweat, magnified by the rain. Good. The sooner he realized she was trouble, the sooner he'd toss her out on the street.

She didn't know this man. He seemed harmless enough, but then so had David…right up until he'd beaten her senseless and thrown her in a cage. Though, John's apartment was hardly a sterile, cement kennel. It was a bit…messy, with busy, brown wallpaper punctuated by green paint and dark, wooden floors. Random knick knacks and countless books were scattered around the place. Someone had even spray painted a yellow smiley face on the wall opposite the fireplace and shot out the eyes. She looked up at John who was watching her with curiosity. The way he held himself screamed military. He could've done it, but someone else had definitely lived here.

One chair and the leather couch were well used while the second chair, draped with blankets, looked like she'd be sneezing if she so much as looked it too long. There was a nagging scent of cigarette smoke, old, stale, like whoever it was had quit or left a long time ago. The faint smell of death and rot and men's body wash clung beneath a thick layer of dust. None of it matched John, who, while more than a bit run down, was still clean shaven and proper. This place was less of an apartment and more of a tomb, used by one when there should've been two. Was this why he'd kept her? Because some long lost asshole had broken his heart? Is that what people did after a breakup, get a pet? She'd never been a pet before.

And never would be. Mentally disgusted with how easily she'd almost accepted a new master, Shirley rounded on him, scrambling backwards against the leash.

"Easy," he muttered, closing the door and locking the door before pocketing the spare key he'd borrowed from under the mat to get in. "Just a minute."

She growled in response yanking back so hard she saw stars and he nearly came off his feet.

"Alright, alright," he said, sinking to the floor.

John reached out slowly, mumbling a string of comforting words while she thrashed and growled. Frustrated, he took his hand back and sighed. Shirley sat there, wheezing heavily and glared right back. John swallowed and waited until, finally, her breathing slowed. He tried again. This time when she growled, he let his hand hover between them, waiting for her to relax. She eyed him carefully, flickering between his face and outstretched fingers.

"Come on."

No. She growled.

"Juuust," his hand inched forward, "taking this off."

His fingers brushed the top of her head and every beating she'd ever taken exploded in her memory. She let loose a shriek, launching herself at him. John yelped and fell backwards with her on top of him. He grabbed the skin on either side of her face, fingers tangling into white fur. She pushed her claws into his stomach, using her back feet as leverage to try and ram her head into his. John grunted and flipped onto his side, dragging her with him. She hit the floor hard and kicked out, catching him right in the chest. Both of them sprang to their feet and Shirley bolted into the kitchen, ducking down behind the kitchen table.

"Bad dog!" John shouted, stabbing a finger in her direction. "Very bad dog."

She snarled, ready to spring at a moment's notice. She knew what was coming. She could almost feel the familiar throb of the bullet tearing her skin. John pressed into his chest and winced. He shook his head, face red with fury.

"What have I gotten myself into?"

But when he looked at her, really looked, he saw the way she was shaking. The dog was huddled down, tail tucked, ears flat against her skull. Her wide eyes practically glowed with terror, following his every move like he was some kind of monster. His anger deflated.

"What happened to you?"

Her ears cocked forward and shrank back again. Fear muddled with confusion. But when he stepped forward every alarm bell sent signals sizzling to her brain. Run! Fight! A painful snarl tore from chest and he stopped. The man changed course, abandoning his march on the kitchen to veer off towards a bedroom. Shirley cocked her head to the sounds of opening drawers, shuffling cloth, and the pestered groan of an old bed accepting someone's weight. She whined, lowering stiffly to the floor and sank into a rough, clinging nightmare.

.:...:.

John laid in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, but mind entirely somewhere else. He couldn't believe he'd done this. He'd never owned a dog in his life, let alone one that wanted to kill him. What the hell made her be that way anyway? Was she just not used to people or was it something more? The way she'd stared at him was answer enough, but it was nicer to think she might simply be feral. One thing was certain: if he ever met her previous owner, they'd have to scrape the bastard off the pavement. He circled around those dark thoughts until dozing off into an equally restless sleep.