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The biggest issue was Gladstone. Literally.
Over six feet long (or tall, when she stood on her hind legs to stare out the window), and 11 stone of solid bone and rippling muscle, Gladstone was a very large addition to 221B. Taller than John, heavier than Sherlock, Gladstone was a third person in the flat; a third person who just happened to enjoy sprawling in the middle of the floor, and required two pounds of raw meat and minced veg per day.
“You’re joking,” John declared, staring at the large white styro that had just been delivered. “This is one week of dog food?” He picked up one of the square packets stacked inside, eyebrows raised at the list of ingredients.
Sherlock might have muttered something in reply, but he was halfway into the freezer, rearranging as diligently as if a corpse had come in the coffin.
“Gladstone will eat better than we do!” John wondered how much this all cost, but knew better than to ask. He would look it up on the internet, later; the name of the company and their website was emblazoned on every package, as well as on the styro, itself. The packing list, unfortunately, did not include pricing. “All organic, free range beef, with beets, parsnip, kale, garlic… Garlic? Do we really want to feed her garlic?”
“Do stop fussing, John. A raw diet is optimal, you know that.” His voice was muted, weirdly flat due to the location of his head.
“I’m not fussing, and if I were, it wouldn’t be about that. It’s just… ‘Guaranteed hormone- and antibiotic-free...’ Christ, Sherlock. How did you keep her fed on the streets?”
Sherlock removed himself from the freezer and began transferring the contents of the styro into the vacated space. One packet went directly into the sink, and four more were put into the fridge. “It was quite simple, really. We merely sampled the skips behind various restaurants. An astonishing amount of perfectly edible food is discarded each day. Gladstone has eaten at the very finest establishments in London.” He smirked. “Just contemplating Mycroft’s probable reaction made the effort worthwhile.”
Gladstone declined to take part in the conversation. She had stationed herself underneath the kitchen table for the proceedings, observing the unloading of her diet with quiet interest. Occasionally, her tail thumped against a table leg, the only sign of excitement aside from the pool of saliva forming under her chin. John sighed, and made a mental note to buy more tea towels.
Sherlock, and by extension Gladstone, had only been installed (or reinstalled) in 221B for a little over 48 hours. John and Sherlock had picked up as if Sherlock had never taken a header off of St. Bart’s, at least superficially, but Gladstone was having a bit more trouble with her new lifestyle. She was deeply attached to Sherlock, of course, but John had become a friend via muffins, and the past two nights had been spent with Gladstone wandering up and down the stairs, whining softly in distress. Her routine was disrupted; it would take time for a new normal to be established.
In the meantime, John was determined to get her to a veterinarian. He’d given Sherlock a cursory check-up the previous day; Sherlock had submitted with fewer complaints than he would have previously, perhaps in unspoken apology for the past few months. Gladstone also need to be checked out, especially if she’d been eating out of rubbish skips. He said as much to Sherlock.
“Gladstone does not have worms, John,” he sneered, as if the idea were unthinkable. “Considering that we ate largely the same thing from the same source, if she had worms, I would be dead by now.”
John’s heart leapt into his throat, and he decided that he would get Sherlock x-rays if he had to drug the man. Intestinal parasites were nothing to joke about.
“Be that as it may,” he said, firmly, “she needs to be checked out. I’ll set up an appointment-“
“No.”
“What?”
“No vets, John. Gladstone would only be traumatized and I will not subject her to that, again.” Sherlock faced John squarely, his expression fiercely protective. Gladstone whined.
“It’s just the vet clinic, Sherlock, not a torture chamber, for Christ’s sake!”
“She won’t know that, John. All she knows of veterinarians is pain and misery and the death of her litter. I won’t put her through that, not after…” Sherlock’s expression was an atlas of contradictory emotions, more than he probably realized.
“Sherlock,” John said softly, reaching out to touch his friend’s hand. “You never told me—where did Gladstone come from?”
Sherlock cleared his throat, and looked away. “One of Moriarty’s… businesses, you might call it, was breeding dogs for illegal fighting. But Mastiffs are too gentle, the only way to… to make them fight, is to drive them insane. And even then, they usually just… give up. Gladstone was the only one of her litter left alive when I found the, the facility.”
He looked at John, meeting his eyes, once more. “It wasn’t some dodgy warehouse, John. The operation was being run out of a perfectly respectable veterinary clinic, but the things he was doing to them… it was sick, John. Gruesome and perverse. I couldn’t…”
“What happened?”
A smile briefly graced Sherlock’s mouth. “I’m afraid there was a dreadful fire, and the good doctor was terribly maimed. Unfortunately, the fire failed to consume the records of his illegal activities, as well as his fellows’, so he’ll be spending the rest of his short, and hopefully miserable life, taking IV fluids in a prison hospice ward.”
“Ah.” John didn’t know quite how to respond to that. He knew that Sherlock could be ruthless, but it was so infrequent, and so very personal, that this facet of his friend always surprised him. “How about Bart’s, then?”
“What do you mean?”
It was a perfect solution. “We’ll take her to Bart’s. I’m sure Molly will let us use the facilities. I’ll do the exam, myself.”
Gladstone’s tail thumped again, and the table skidded slightly. John took it as a sign of approval.
“You? What do you know of veterinary… no, of course, stupid, you must have looked after canine units, yes? Limited number of veterinarians in the army, obviously, and you are far too curious and compassionate to refuse if you think you can help. Yes, John, I think that would do quite well.” He paused, then said, carefully, “Thank you, John.”
John ducked his head, flushing slightly. He felt absurdly pleased at Sherlock’s awkward gratitude. He had always treasured Sherlock’s rare thanks, warily offered. Sherlock seemed so vulnerable, as if he feared his appreciation would be rejected. “It’s fine, it’ll be fun, sneaking a dog her size into the morgue.”
“Hmmm, yes.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I’ll text Molly. We should go late, around midnight. It will be nearly deserted by then.”
Glancing at the clock, John nodded agreement. That was ten hours away, plenty of time to brush up on canine physiology, and get in a nap, as well. He left Sherlock to his rearranging, and Gladstone to her watching. The kitchen was barely large enough for two; three was a crowd.
*
Mid-afternoon, Sherlock muttered something about Mycroft and swooped out of the flat. He’d spent the previous few hours in his bedroom, unpacking probably, while John brushed researched. Gladstone had migrated into the sitting room; when Sherlock left, she ceased snoring for a moment to watch him go, but didn’t rise. She cocked an eyebrow as the door closed, then settled again, apparently content to stay with John.
Sherlock’s resurrection and return hadn’t made so much as a ripple in the media, news so old it was embalmed. Nobody remembered Sherlock Holmes, or Richard Brook. The news cycle had moved on to riots in Egypt, the number of soldiers killed in the latest IED attack in Afghanistan, gay marriage legislation in Parliament. John wasn’t sure if he was angry, or relieved, about that.
The official records had been updated, Mycroft expediting the considerable paperwork required, with Sherlock’s reluctant cooperation. As far as Sherlock was concerned, the total destruction of Moriarty’s web constituted the end of his responsibility. Unfortunately for him, his brother, the MoD, Scotland Yard, and Her Majesty, the Queen, disagreed.
John was just as happy to left behind with Gladstone. He was still pissed at Mycroft, and a bit discombobulated at having a flatmate, again. The months between The Fall and Sherlock’s return to their flat seemed more real than the present. He needed time to process, to make the transition, to quit seeing a bearded man with a hoarse voice when he looked at Sherlock. And Gladstone’s muted snoring was reassuring, alleviated any lingering loneliness.
After another hour, John started to feel restless. Mrs Hudson, surprisingly, had turned up with a slightly worn leather collar large enough for Gladstone’s frankly massive neck, and a black nylon lead, but they’d been using the mixing bowls for her food and water, and the internet suggested that a dog her size required some sort of table contraption. With Sherlock out, it was a good time to take Gladstone shopping.
The Mastiff appeared to understand that they were going on an excursion immediately John made the decision. She sat up, ears swiveled forward attentively, while John put on shoes, got keys, wallet, lead, and phone. He sent a quick text to Sherlock, then buckled Gladstone into the collar.
As soon as he opened the flat door, she went thumping down the stairs, as graceful as a beer wagon with bent axle. Mrs Hudson poked her head out, at the noise.
“Going out, Dr Watson?”
“Just up to the Pets@Home.” Gladstone clattered across to Mrs Hudson, shoving her head under the woman’s hand for a scratch. His landlady obliged, already thoroughly charmed by the dog’s amiable disposition and large, kind eyes. “Gladstone needs a few things.”
“I’m sure she’ll enjoy that. Have a nice outing,” she said, patting Gladstone one last time, before retreating back to her chat shows.
John locked up, while Gladstone waited. He clipped the lead on, and let them out onto the street. The day was warm, but slightly overcast, with a slight breeze. A good day for a walk.
He let Gladstone set their pace, considerably slower than John’s usual. He tended to hurry, but Gladstone seemed intent on investigating every tree and rubbish bin. He was grateful for the latter when she relieved herself. He had to fish around a bit to find a discarded plastic carry bag, but she didn’t tug the lead while he picked up the mess, the bag wrapped around his hands, and deposited the whole thing in the bin. She looked a bit embarrassed about the whole incident, if dogs could feel and express such a thing. John added poop bags to his mental list for the shop.
Gladstone moved a little faster after that, so they made it to the pet shop not too much later. The shop girl cooed and fluttered over her. John said thank you, while wondering why people said thank you to such things; it wasn’t as if he had anything to do with Gladstone’s genetics. But he said it anyway, because that’s what one did, then shamelessly took advantage of the woman’s time and admiration to find out everything a new pet owner needed.
Money remained a non-issue, and it was mostly Sherlock’s, anyway, in John’s opinion, so he felt no compunction about spending a truly obscene amount of it on Gladstone’s every possible need or want. The only thing he didn’t buy was a dog bed. The shop girl had pulled several from the racks, and tried to lure Gladstone onto one. Gladstone had given her an incredulous look, very similar to Sherlock’s when confronted with extreme idiocy, and turned her back to sniff at a bin of biscuits.
“Well,” John shrugged at the woebegone woman, “she’s already been on every piece of furniture in the flat. It’s not as if she really needs a bed. And I don’t know where we’d put it, anyway.”
He did buy a special dinner table, made especially to hold two large stainless bowls, included in the kit. He also bought collars and leads, marrow bones, bags of every type of biscuit, several pull toys, a handful of books, and a box of some sort of chew that was supposed to keep her teeth clean and healthy. He threw a ball and said “Fetch, Gladstone!” rather hopelessly, and wasn’t surprised when Gladstone sat down heavily, and gave him The Look.
“Fine, you don’t fetch. I didn’t really expect it, but you don’t have to look at me like that.” Gladstone huffed in relief, or perhaps forgiveness, stood and shook vigorously, ears flapping wildly. Drool flew everywhere, slimy trails of saliva hitting the walls and merchandise.
“And some sort of towels,” he said to the shop girl, wearily, while she giggled. “Lots of them. And bags for, um, you know, cleaning up on walks?”
“Of course,” she agreed, and led them to yet another aisle.
One of the benefits of spending great gobs of money, he’d found, was that delivery was offered free of charge. He’d discovered that odd fact not too long after The Fall, and inheriting Sherlock’s portion of their case earnings. He’d not been too shocked that Sherlock hadn’t touched it, hadn’t needed to, had a trust that matched the GDP of a medium-sized country, as long as he stayed clean.
So John’s inheritance had been more than enough for John to have stopped working, for perhaps a decade if he were frugal, which he was. But John liked working, liked being useful, feeling needed, and now, when he occasionally splurged, he could do it on a much larger scale than ever before. That was how he’d discovered the hidden world of the posh. They, and now he, got all sorts of things for free, as a sort of bonus.
When John had got a new suit, several weeks after the funeral--mostly out of boredom and anger, he didn’t have much interest in clothes--he’d gone to Sherlock’s tailor. It had been a sort of petty fuck-off, but also a tribute to his friend. John had gotten two shirts made, as well, and when it was all complete and delivered (free, of course), the packages included an extra shirt in a soft blue, a waistcoat (and what would he do with a waistcoat? It didn’t bear thinking about), several ties, belts, and even socks.
None of it showed up on the bill. John even called the shop, afraid there had been a mistake. “Oh, no sir,” the apprentice who answered the phone assured him, “it’s standard, part of the kit, sir. Are you dissatisfied with the items? I can send someone over with alternates for you to select from, if you’d like?”
The kid--John had recently begun thinking of everyone under the age of thirty as practically infants--sounded extremely concerned that John might be unhappy, and eager to please. “No, no, it’s fine. They’re, er, lovely really. Very nice. Thank you.”
“Very good, sir. I’m very happy you’re satisfied. We appreciate your patronage!”
The entire exchange, and the few similar episodes that followed--a date at a posh restaurant that he’d read about in a posh magazine, then a much more pleasurable return on his own, with a book, a bottle of Scotch so good he was afraid to drink it, a visit to an upmarket grocer--taught him that people who had enough money to buy whatever they wanted often didn’t have to. He’d stumbled out of the liquor merchant’s, an equally sozzled Lestrade trailing along dazedly, with the Scotch, and a bottle of very nice wine thrown in gratis; he thought the merchant might have had them sample every whiskey ever made, and he hadn’t been stingy with the pours.
“Bloody Christ,” Lestrade had said, in disbelief. “Is this how the other half lives, then?”
John had chuckled weakly, and told him about the free wine and desserts during his (miserable fucking) date. He’d brought Lestrade along to the grocer’s, too; turned out, Lestrade was great fun to be ridiculous with. He should have taken Lestrade to Galvin at Window, not the snotty harpy. In retrospect, John thought he had probably been punishing himself with that date. There was no other reason for John to have asked the woman out.
He looked forward to dragging Sherlock on similar errands. Before, he would have been too self-conscious, overly aware of his own finances, but now the thought made him warmly amused. Sherlock would be as much fun as Lestrade, but in entirely the opposite way.
These reminiscences kept him occupied through the walk back to the flat, with a leisurely stop at a local pub for pie and a pint or two. They sat on the patio, really just a fenced-off portion of the sidewalk. Gladstone sat neatly, watching the pedestrians, and accepting chips from John with surprising delicacy.
He’d thought he’d gotten to know Gladstone quite well during her time with Sherlock-as-Hairy-Harry, but he was discovering he hardly knew her at all. Gladstone was dignified, but also goofy. She could be aloof one minute, then messily affectionate the next. She would pull away if you reached out to pet her head, tucking her tail as if anticipating a blow, but would shove at your hand for a scratch around the ears, perfectly at ease as long as she was initiating the contact.
That, in conjunction with what Sherlock had told him about her history, made his heart beat a bit faster. The dogs he’d known, both as pets and working dogs, in the military and therapeutically, had been cherished, appreciated, respected. Cruelty in any form enraged John, but towards animals… well, in John’s opinion there was a special place in Hell for people who abused animals. He probably would have shot the bastard, though. He was sort of glad Sherlock hadn’t. Sherlock had more imagination and less mercy than John.
John finished his pint and stood, shoving a few notes under his empty glass. He waved at the server as they left, Gladstone tugging the leash gently, as if she was eager to be back on the move. John let her lead them home circuitously, detouring to follow her nose through alleys and back lanes.
Sherlock was home when they arrived. He’d left the flat door open, and Gladstone bounded up the stairs as soon as John unclipped her lead. John followed more sedately, to find Gladstone greeting Sherlock ecstatically, as if it had been years, and not just a few hours since they’d last seen each other.
He tilted his head back as John entered, and frowned, fingers scratching vigorously behind Gladstone’s ears while she whuffed into his shirt. “Mrs Hudson said you went shopping.”
“Delivery,” John replied, concisely, toeing off his shoes and hanging up the lead. “Should be here tomorrow, between 9 and 12.”
Sherlock hummed and turned his attention back to Gladstone, who was gradually going boneless. John saw a fleeting smile flicker across his mouth. Who would have thought that Sherlock was a dog man? Sherlock had never seemed the sort for any pet, but Gladstone somehow suited him. It didn’t hurt that she was as imposing as the man, himself, gorgeous and singular.
“Tea?” he offered.
“Obviously.”
John was already taking down two mugs, because, yes, obviously. He made them tea, and carried the mugs into the sitting room, setting one on the table near where Sherlock sprawled on the sofa. Gladstone had collapsed onto the floor, looking half-melted, eyelids already sagging shut.
“She’s going to be the most spoiled dog in London. I must’ve bought half the shop.”
“Hardly. I assure you, Queen Elizabeth’s corgis are far more pampered than you can imagine.”
“Mmmm. Point taken. After the Queen’s corgis, then.” John sipped his tea and relaxed into his chair, content to sit in silence. He didn’t realize he’d slipped into a doze until gentle hands took his cup and guided him to his feet. “Hmmm?”
“Get some sleep, John,” Sherlock whispered, and steered him towards the stairs. “I’ll wake you in few hours.”
“Mmm. Okay,” he mumbled, and tripped up the stairs to his room. He was asleep again, as soon as his head landed on his pillow.
*
Sherlock didn’t so much wake John, as lurk beside his bed with Gladstone, the two of them staring in tandem until their combined attention dragged him from sleep with the spooky feeling of being watched. John opened his eyes to Gladstone resting her big head on the edge of his bed, eyebrows quirked into carets. When she noticed he was looking back at her, her tail slowly wagged from side-to-side, cautiously enthusiastic.
Sherlock was a few feet farther away, leaning casually against the doorjamb. His gaze was no less intense, for all the increased distance. John fancied that if Sherlock had a tail, it would be wagging much like Gladstone’s, and the thought propelled him out of bed with a laugh.
Gladstone danced back, nails clicking on the wood floor. John started a new mental shopping list, adding “area rugs” as the first item.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Half-past ten.”
“Christ.” John scrubbed a hand through his hair. His stomach rumbled. That reminded him. “Did you feed Gladstone?”
“No. I assumed you would want to do blood tests.”
“Good. That’s good, thanks.”
Sherlock nodded, once, a sharp tilt of his chin, then spun away. “Hurry, John, you’ll need to eat before we leave. Can’t have you fainting over sharps.”
“Right,” he said. Gladstone thwapped her tail against dresser, then careened against the door, knocking it into the wall, rebounded, and galloped after Sherlock. John just shook his head; she was like a bull in a china shop, for all her dignified persona, a physical avatar of Sherlock’s personality.
Sherlock was pulling one of John’s fancy frozen dinners from the microwave as John reached the kitchen. He dropped it carelessly onto the end of the table, not yet covered with microscopes and experiments, and thrust a fork at John. “Sit, eat.”
A mug of tea thumped down next to the paper tray, splashing a little onto the wood. A second cup joined it, as Sherlock flopped into the chair across from John.
“I’m going to have to go see Lestrade, soon,” Sherlock stated, apropos of nothing, as far as John could tell.
“Yep.”
“He knows, of course, Mycroft informed him of my changed state, but he’ll wait for me to initiate contact.”
“Seems like it,” John agreed mildly.
“He may punch me.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t expect you to defend me,” Sherlock said, as if making a grand concession.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sherlock huffed, and John smothered a smile, pretending to concentrate on the rather bland fettuccine alfredo. Definitely not worth the cost; he might as well have picked up frozen pies at the Tesco. Still, it had been fun to shop like a Rah, the once, and Lestrade had been a gas.
John let Sherlock sulk a bit, then assured him, “Lestrade probably won’t actually punch you. He probably wants to, but he’s a professional. Besides, he feels bad about the whole thing, so guilt will probably keep him from it, if nothing else.”
Sherlock shrugged, as if it were no matter, but his face had a braced blandness that meant it mattered very much indeed. John didn’t push, just finished his noodles, and contemplated giving the tray to Gladstone to lick. Better not, he decided; it probably wouldn’t affect the blood tests, but there was no point in risking it. This was a bit outside his expertise, as it was, he didn’t need to be second guessing the results. He could see a future in which letting Gladstone lick bowls and plates was commonplace, though.
Gladstone gave him a slightly betrayed look as he binned the paper tray, but John stood his ground.
By the time he’d relieved himself and washed up, Sherlock and Gladstone were ready and waiting impatiently at the door. Sherlock managed to restrain himself from urging John to hurry, but the thought was clear in the twist of his lips. Gladstone panted happily, collared again, but not yet leashed. It was dangerous for a dog of her size to wear a leash on stairs; stairs were difficult for most four-legged animals, to some degree, so it was best to let her barrel down at her own breakneck pace, even if it looked and sounded like a disaster in waiting.
The evening had cooled off considerably. John was glad he’d decided to throw on a jacket. It wasn’t cold, really, but it was chill enough to be uncomfortable in shirt-sleeves.
St. Bart’s was the opposite direction from the pet shop, so Gladstone entertained herself sniffing the new bins and trees along their route. Several received a bit more intimate attention, of a minor kind. John and Sherlock dawdled, mostly silent, although Sherlock occasionally deduced the owners of the autos parked along the street.
John let the night wash over him, happier than he could remember being for months. Sherlock was holding Gladstone’s lead and seemed content with John’s occasional hums in response to his comments. There was a startling number of dogs out and about, being walked by owners who were in some cases nearly asleep on their feet. Gladstone ignored them all, supremely uninterested.
The pedestrians who were awake enough to notice the trio of doctor, dog, and detective gave them a variety of curious looks. Some seemed approving, others disgusted, quite a few admiring of Sherlock, Gladstone, or both. The last look seemed only natural, they were a striking pair, but the first two took a bit of deducing. Finally, John realized they were assuming that he and Sherlock were a couple walking their dog. The addition of Gladstone seemed to reinforce and perpetuate the aura of coupledness they gave off.
John couldn’t very well tell every stranger who passed them, “no, really, we’re not a couple,” especially since he wasn’t entirely sure, anymore. He hadn’t dated since he’d ‘met’ Hairy Harry. In a way, their little meetings across from the Starbucks had been dates. Coffee and muffins once a week wasn’t exactly wining and dining, but John wasn’t a complete idiot, and the loss of Sherlock, his partial return, and now his complete resurrection had shifted something in John’s self-awareness, his awareness of them.
He had no idea what the next step would be, whether this unconventional relationship would ever become romantic--or more so than it already was--or sexual, or what, but he didn’t need to know. John was comfortable knowing that he loved Sherlock, deeply and unconditionally. He would take each moment as it was, without judgement or expectation, cherishing the miracle his friend had wrought.
His memory tossed a phrase from childhood up onto the shoals of his awareness, a quote from almost forgotten Sunday school lessons that he’d used as a prayer, or a reminder, throughout medical college and his service. It had been a sort of note to himself, but now it seemed to apply more to Sherlock than to John. “He came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.” Maybe it was heresy, but it was a heresy John could live with, that he had to live with, because John, and Greg, and Mrs Hudson lived.
“Ah-fucking-men,” John muttered.
“What?” Sherlock asked, looking at him curiously.
“Nothing, sorry. You were saying?” John smiled at his friend, and Sherlock let it go, his free hand pointing out details of an Aston Martin as he continued deducing. The owner would probably be appalled at what his car said about his marriage and career, but John didn’t particularly care. He wasn’t here, John and Sherlock were, and it was a beautiful night to take a moonlit stroll with his genius, probably platonic, life partner. Amen.
~Finis~