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The day that Greg got adopted was the happiest day of his life. His owner was the best owner in the whole world. He remembers the first moment he saw him. Greg already lived a while in the shelter, and with every day the chances of becoming adopted grew smaller. People always went for the puppies. Greg wasn’t jealous, the puppies were really cute and he could understand the humans for wanting them. But still, he longed for an owner of himself. A human just for him. So he waited, hoping that someone would want him.
And on that glorious, happiest day of his life, he saw a man coming to him. Greg knew from the very first look: this is the one. A few minutes later, he had a new collar, a new owner, and most importantly: a new home.
Greg loved his master. He was kind, played with him, gave him food, and he smelled delicious. His name was John. John was the best thing that could have happened to Greg.
For a while, they were happy. Just the two of them, in a little appartment in London. All was well. Greg felt content.
Sometimes John smelled sad.
Sadness has a particular smell. Often John would be staring outside, not doing anything, just looking. And then he would smell sad.
Greg didn’t like the smell.
He would put his head on Johns lap and look at him. John would smile and scratch him behind his ears. Saying something like: ‘I’m lucky to have you, don’t I buddy?’ And the smell would disappear. For a while.
Why was John sad? He wanted to make him happy. If John was happy, Greg was happy.
Maybe John was lonely?
The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Most of the time John was here. Only leaving here to go to work. He talked to people, and sometimes he would go to the pub, taking Greg with him. But that was with friends.
John, decided Greg, needed someone. A person just for him. A person that he would love. Someone that was worthy of John. A mate. Greg would help to find someone for John, someone they would both love.
The best way to meet other people was the park. John and Greg went every day after John came home from work. If the weather was nice they played with an old tennis ball, or John would read with Greg lying beside him. Sometimes John would make small talk with people he knows. But today, Greg was a dog with a mission.
The first potential candidate Greg saw was a girl with a sweet smile. A little puppy bouncing around her. Tom was a hyperactive little ball of white fur with dark brown spots and flappy ears. Greg liked Tom and the two chased after each other. Meanwhile John chatted with Molly, mostly about them. John was smiling, but wasn’t really interested in something more. Greg concluded that she was a bit too young.
Mrs. Hudson was a sweet lady, but she wasn’t compatible either. First, she was too old. Second: cat person, enough said. He did adore her cuddles though, even if she smelled like cats. They were the best. Well, for one exception. Greg woofed at John and John started to pet him.
Pure. Bliss.
The professor was a little bit intimidating. He walked his dog Sebastian the same moment John walked him. Sebastian was a trained German Shepherd who had worked with the police. The only form of conversation John had with professor Moriarty was a quick good evening when they passed by.
There were other people John knew, but none of them had a dog. And that was one of the conditions Greg had after the little fiasco named Mary. It wasn’t Gregs fault, at least not all of it. Could he do something about the fact that Mary detested dogs? John went on a few dates with her and he always smelled so wrong when he came back. Greg tried to like her, he really did. It was pretty serious until Mary said that she never wanted a dog in her life and if John wanted to stay with her he had to get rid of “that awfull mud that makes everything dirty”.
That was the only moment Greg feared that he had to go back to the shelter.
Luckily John broke up with Mary a few days after that.
So, reasoned Greg, we don’t know any potential partners for John, the only solution for that is to meet new people!
Let it be said that Greg was a very clever dog.
Greg rated every single dog and owner in the park. That one was too small, that one smelled wrong, that one was just rude.
But he didn’t gave up.
His patience was rewarded. Because that had to be the most gorgeous dog that ever walked on this planet. All long and elegant. And that fur. God. The colour grey wasn’t worth to describe that shiny pelt. Greg needed newer, fancier words.
Even the owner was perfect. A bit mysterious. A nice smell. This could work! He wanted to jump around from happiness.
Of course John had to pick that moment to go back home.
Greg wined and begged, but John just pulled at his leash.
The next day he tried to find the exquisite dog and owner again, but they weren’t there.
Greg wanted to howl.
Did he missed their chance? Would he never see them again?
He sulked.
He did see them again, and it was completely by surprise.
The weather was beautiful. And John had brought The Ball.
‘Do you want it?’
Yes! Yes yes yes yes YES!!!
‘Go and get it!’
John threw the ball and Greg sprinted after it. It bounced and rolled right before the feet of someone who was sitting on the bench. Greg dived enthusiastically after it. He beamed when the ball finally sat between his jaws. And then wanted to drop it.
Right there before his nose sat the beautiful dog, who was even more beautiful up close.
Hi, I’m Greg.
He waggled his tail, dropped the ball and pushed it to the greyhound with his nose.
Come on! Let’s play!
The hound huffed, I’m not the type to do something as silly as playing.
But it’s fun! Come on, I dare you!
The hound looked torn, maybe another time…
Greg was a little bit disappointed, but then beamed, does that mean that I’ll see you again?
Perhaps.
‘Greg!’
Greg shuffled forward to take The Ball. I need to go.
Obviously.
He lingered a bit, not wanting to leave just yet. What is your name?
The hound looked a bit taken aback with this.
‘GREG!’
Greg took The Ball between his jaws turned around.
Mycroft, my name is Mycroft.
Greg looked over his shoulder, beaming and pattered back to John.
Greg saw Mycroft and his owner, Sherlock, more after that. Sometimes from afar, sometimes he could actually talk to Mycroft.
He learned that Mycroft was a pure bred greyhound. That his coat was actually named blue although it looked soft silvery grey. And while greyhounds were experts in running, Mycroft didn’t like it.
Greg adored Mycroft.
Mycroft seemed to tolerate Greg.
Which was actually pretty special, because Mycroft didn’t liked anyone. He was pretty cross that one time Greg brought Tom to play with them. And Tom was adorable.
Greg asked Mycroft about it. The dog scrunched his nose. The noise, the energy, I don’t like it.
Gregs face fell, but I make a lot of noise too… Does that mean you don’t like me?
No, said Mycroft hastly, and then looked surprised at himself, you’re an exception.
Greg barked happily.
As long as it’s not too much noise.
One time when Greg wanted to walk to Mycroft and Sherlock, they weren’t alone.
Next to Mycroft sat a smaller, black greyhound. Just as elegant, with the same bored expression as Mycroft.
They looked gorgeous together.
The disappointment was overwhelming.
The next day Greg avoided Mycroft and Sherlock.
Greg was playing with The Ball again. Diving after it, chewing it and bringing it back to John.
Until it rolled between two long grey paws.
Greg.
Mycroft!
Mycroft was alone, and looking a bit uncomfortable.
Where is Sherlock?
Thinking, he’s in his mind palace, he won’t miss me.
Oh.
Is something wrong?
What?
Did I… Did I do something to offend you?
What? No! No, of course not, it’s just… I figured you wanted to be alone with your new friend.
New friend?
Yeah, the black dog from yesterday?
Oh, Anthea. Mycroft shrugged, we are not friends. Sherlock sometimes solves cases for her owner Irene. I don’t have friends.
Greg frowned, that’s not true. You have me.
He waggled his tail, and surprisingly Mycroft did the same.
Tell me something. A secret.
Why?
Because I’m booooored. Come on Mycroft, tell me something!
Mycroft paused for a bit, my real name is not Mycroft.
What?! Greg looked baffled.
It’s a name Sherlock uses to spite his brother.
You’re lying.
I don’t lie.
Of course you do, you lie all the time. You’re sneaky.
True, but I didn’t lie about this.
Why are you using Mycroft as name then?
Because the other name is ridiculous… Silly human.
Mycroft sounded fond. He always sounded fond when he was talking about Sherlock.
What is your real name?
Thats for me to know for you to guess.
Greg was sure John would like Sherlock too, if only they would talk to each other. One time they even sat on the same bench, but then Sherlock got a text message and he left before John could say hello.
Frustrating.
Oh, if they weren’t going to talk to each other Greg was going to make them.
The Plan was actually very simple.
You are going to do what?
Mycroft looked baffled.
It will be perfect! Greg grinned, and if our owners get to know each other we will see each other more! Wish me luck!
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
‘Greg!’
Greg walked back to John. John put on the leash and they started to walk back home. He waited until the perfect moment was there. The moment where Sherlock and Mycroft would also walk home. The moment where they would cross each others paths. The moment that was… now.
Greg pulled. John, not expecting any sudden reaction, fell right into Sherlocks arms. Leash still firm in his hand. Greg danced around the two. The leash tight twisted around them. Both pressed close to each other.
Mycroft looked at him, judging. You are ridiculous.
Both men looked into each others eyes. Surprised. A bit embarrassed.
‘I am so sorry,’ said John, blushing furiously, ‘Greg normally doesn’t do this.’
‘It’s okay.’ Sherlock cleared his throath and tried to seem unaffected. Which would have worked if his ears weren’t pink.
John couldn’t untangle them fast enough. He avoided eye contact and muttered apologies. He pulled on the leash and walked away. Face still a bit flustered. Greg tried to yank him back but John was determinate. He looked over his shoulder and howled softly. Sherlock and Mycroft were both staring at him. Wel, Mycroft was staring at him, Sherlock was staring at John. He looked a bit overwhelmed.
‘Come on Greg,’ and John gave a hard pull on the leash.
The plan wasn’t that perfect after all. Coming home, John was still a bit embarrassed and angry.
‘What was that all about? Bad dog.’ His tone was strict.
Greg whined, tail between his legs. He gave John his best puppy dog eyes.
I’m really sorry.
And whined again.
He lied on his back and put on the even more sad puppy dog eyes.
John sighed and tried very hard not to smile. ‘Silly dog.’ And there were the belly rubs.
Belly rubs were the best.
The problem was, after the incident, John tried to avoid Sherlock. When Greg tried to lead him to the bench were Sherlock was sitting, John called him and walked to the other side of the park.
The idiot.
Gregs plans were ruined. Ruined.
And now he couldn’t play with Mycroft anymore.
He wanted to growl.
John was on the wrong place, at the wrong time. (Or the right place, the right time, depending how you looked at it)
They were walking calmly when a man ran towards them, chased by police.
John, going in full soldier mode, tried to tackle the man but he was stronger than expected. Which led to John falling in the Thames.
‘JOHN!’
Greg was convinced this was fate when he watched Shelock dive after John. He and Mycroft watched, a bit concerned, how there owners climed out of the smelly water.
‘All right? Are you all right?’ Sherlocks voice was full of concern.
‘Fine, I’m… Fine… You didn’t had to do that, now your coat is all ruined.’ They stared at each other, both dripping. ‘I live close by, if you want to change… I have spare clothes.’
Sherlock waved his hand, ‘I live close too, it’s not a problem.’
John looked a tiny bit disappointed.
‘Okay, well…’ He watched how the police put the man in handcuffs, ‘What was that all about?’
‘Murderer, boring, not important.’
John raised his eyebrows, ‘Who are you when you can say that murder is boring.’
‘Sherlock Holmes,’ he raised a hand, ‘Consulting detective, the only one in the world.’
‘John… John Watson, but you already… Actually, how did you know my name?’
Sherlock gave him a look, ‘I observe. You’re obviously a doctor, well, military doctor but thats not important. I saw you once leaving your work when I was there to treat a nasty stabwound. The only male doctor that works there is doctor John H. Watson.’
‘Or one of my colleagues could have told you my name.
‘They could, but what would be the fun in that?’ Sherlock smiled.
John smiled back, ‘That was amazing.’
Sherlocks eyes widened, ‘you think so?’
'Of course it was, it was… extraordinary, quite extraordinary…’
‘Oh.'
They stared at each other. John cleared his troath. ‘I should go and change,’ while pointing at his dripping clothes.
‘Oh yes, of course.’
John took Gregs leash and turned around. Greg wanted to howl in frustration. These idiots can’t see an opportunity when it’s right before their noses! Sherlock was looking after John, torn. But didn’t tried to stop them.
Greg looked at Mycroft, begging. Do something!
Mycroft let a soft bark.
Sherlock stared at his dog, baffled. Mycroft never barked. The greyhound stared at his owner and then looked right at Johns back.
Sherlock made a decision and shouted, ‘John!'
John turned.
‘If you are interested… in the case, you can come to my place, the address is Bakerstreet, 221B Bakerstreet.’
Shock changed into joy, ‘I will!’ And waved.
Later that evening, John pushed on the bell at 221B Bakerstreet. A smiling Sherlock opened.
‘Dinner?’
John grinned.
‘Starving.’