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Sherlock hadn’t meant to do it. Really, he hadn’t. He had no need, no rational reason… well, he knew why he had. He scowled. Sentiment. He hated how irrational, how unbelievably irritating it made people. Made him. He flopped onto his makeshift blanket nest, sprawling out as if this was Baker Street instead of an abandoned warehouse. Another twinge of feeling made him growl in annoyance, pulling one of his wool blankets around him.
“Woof!”
Sherlock frowned, glaring across the room. The labradoodle puppy hobbled toward him, definitely favouring his tightly wrapped, back right paw. But his tail wagged anyway as he made his way gingerly over to the consulting detective.
“What is it?” He snapped, sitting upright as the tiny beast approached. “You’ve already made me travel to Hampstead and consult a veterinarian, what more could you possibly want?”
The creature didn’t cower at the frustration and anger in his tone. Instead, he hopped closer, bumping Sherlock’s hand with his wet nose.
“What?”
A soft whimper, followed by another, more persistent nudge.
Confused, the detective raised his hand, inspecting it. There wasn’t anything there—
The little dog tried to crawl into his lap, yelping when the effort put stress on his injured leg and he fell.
“Stop that!” He lifted the noisy, clumsy… thing. “You’re distracting, and I don’t like it.”
He yipped softly, squirming in the bony hands that held him. With a huff, Sherlock set him down as far away as he could. Settling into the corner of the room, he pressed his fingertips together, hoping to get something done about this case. But his thoughts kept turning to the tiny fluff ball currently trying to pick a fight with the detective’s plaid blanket.
The mutt was… good, he supposed. He had helped him find out that the landlord had killed the wife and children, before murdering the father when he wouldn’t return his affections.
“Dogs are good judges of character, Sherlock. If I ever met a bloke a dog didn’t like… I don’t think he’d be worth trusting.”
Sherlock scowled, shaking his head as if to dislodge the warm, teasingly patronizing tone. It was sentimental and distracting, and he couldn’t afford that right now. He needed to focus, to find Moriarty’s web and burn it. He—
Paws pressed against his leg. The detective opened his eyes, ready to berate the little beast for interrupting his thoughts.
His sad, brown eyes looked stunningly familiar. The muted moonlight that came through the windows created a cunning illusion of humanity in the puppy’s eyes. Sherlock let out a deep sigh before he picked the little dog up and set him gingerly into his lap. With a happy noise, he settled there, licking affectionately at the detective’s long, thin fingers.
“I suppose you’ve been rather helpful,” he began slowly, laying his other palm on the dog’s back, “You did help me catch a killer… but now I have to remember to feed you.” A half smile pulled the corner of his mouth up. “You remind me of a man I knew. Seems like another lifetime ago.”
The puppy yawned loudly, resting his chin on his master’s thigh. Absently, Sherlock began to run his hand over his thick, soft coat.
“At least you’ll give me someone to talk to. Better than the skull,” he muttered under his breath. With a sound that sounded eerily similar to a huff of amusement, the little beast wiggled even closer to his detective’s belly.
A slight, fond smile warmed Sherlock’s face. “All right, fine. You can stay.” He pulled a corner of the blanket over his little friend. “But you had better not disturb me whilst I’m thinking, Hamish.”