Work Text:
Sherlock had been behaving strangely all day, atypical to his regular sark. Not enough to be noticeable, mind, at least to the officers who didn’t know him on a personal level. Those who did caught on immediately.
“He’s slower today, have you noticed?” DI Lestrade asked, nudging Watson as they stood a foot from the police tape whilst Sherlock stalked the crime scene.
“He’s been like that all day. Cranky, too.” John replied with a shrug.
Greg released a tired sigh, the one of a worried father and an exhausted policeman. “I bet he’s going to slip.”
“Preferably not anytime soon.” John said, just as Sherlock approached them with a spiel on what he’d uncovered. There were pauses, hesitancies uncommon to his usual rapid responses, eyes flickering everywhere. He was clearly frustrated with himself as he huffed and shoved his hands deep into his pockets.
His gaze landed somewhere off to the side of the crime scene, just behind the DI and his flatmate, narrowing as they zoned in on something. Greg didn’t turn to look in case it rose suspicion, but he did question what had been spotted. Within seconds, Sherlock was yelling and bolting in the same direction, coat flapping behind him. John groaned, and along with a pair of officers he sprinted off after him to see what had irked his attentions.
The police went one way, him the other, and soon he was darting into an alleyway without the rationality to check if it actually was Sherlock at the end. Luckily, it was, though he was no longer running. He stood there, frowning, as if he couldn’t quite remember where he was, and tracking something, or someone, behind a set of bins.
“Sherlock? Are you okay? Do we need backup?” John panted as he came to a stop a couple of feet from the man. He couldn’t quite see what was causing a ruckus, though he doubted it was human. In fact, aside from them, the alleyway was barren.
“Lost?” Sherlock asked, crouching in front of a gap between two bins. John hummed questioningly, ducked to join him.
A puppy no older than ten weeks was cowering in the shadows, concealed by a fallen bin bag, it’s trembling no less mistakable. It emitted a tiny whine, sniffing at the air for signs of predators before it tentatively approached Sherlock’s outstretched hand. Nuzzling at the leather, its tail began wagging rapidly, all exhibitions of fear draining as it regained an excitable puppy demeanour.
“No collar.” Holmes noted, stroking at the curly fur with a hint of a smile on his face. He turned to face John. “Can we keep?”
Watson paused for a moment. Whoever he’d chased after minutes earlier were likely long gone now, unless the officers had tracked them, and now Sherlock was slipping, quickly too. He couldn’t be left alone, nor was John willing to trek a potentially sick dog across London to their flat to drop his flatmate off.
John shook his head, and adopted his kindest tone. “We can’t keep him, Sherlock, no. He might have an owner.”
“But no collar.” Sherlock countered with a pout.
“He could be chipped, love. He needs to see a vet in case he’s hurt, who knows how long he’s been out here for.” Watson explained, almost instantly regretting his choice of words as Sherlock’s face dropped.
“Hurt?” His fingers curled around ginger fur, and the puppy cuddled closer, sniffing at his coat and his shoes.
John tugged him up by the arm and dusted him off. “Come on, let’s take him to a shelter, yeah? They will look after him.”
The staff were ever so patient. John had half a mind to buy them flowers as a thank you, as it was certainly a bizarre ordeal to face on such short notice. A grown man reluctant to hand over a puppy, looking to his friend every few seconds anxiously.
“It’s alright dear, we’ll take good care of him.” Said the vet nurse, reaching out carefully as if he were the startled animal, and not the puppy he clutched to his chest.
He’s got special needs John had mouthed when they arrived, his go-to when his behaviour was too petulant to write off as simply peculiar. It usually sent people’s gazes elsewhere, cheeks flushed sheepishly. But oh, had Lock tried to pretend he was not struggling to stay afloat, his toddler brain screeching to tuck the pup under his coat and make a run for it. That would only end in trouble though.
“He got…has he got an owner?” Holmes asked, his index finger idly rubbing behind a floppy ear. The pup had been scanning the room curiously, though all the new sights and smells had tuckered the poor creature out, and he now lay boneless over Lock’s sleeve.
The vet nurse smiled. “Why don’t we check? Come with me.”
He was definitely getting flowers, John decided, as they were led to a private examination room not dissimilar to his own at the surgery. She allowed Lock to use the chip scanner, but there was none to be found. A stray, then. Lock sent hopeful eyes towards his doctor.
“No,” John laughed airily. “We can’t keep him. We’ve neither the space nor the time.” Lock slumped, and the nurse flashed an amused smile.
“I’m the same love, I want to keep them all too.” She said as she gave the pup a quick health check. Deemed acceptable, bar an ear infection, the puppy was ready to be checked in and prepared for adoption.
Lock wouldn’t budge, staring down at the wandering animal with damp eyes. John mentally psyched himself for a tantrum, ready to drag him from the building with a litany of apologies. Instead, the vet nurse entered the room with several slip leads of various colours and approached Holmes.
“I’ve got a big task for you, if you don’t mind?” Lock perked up at that, eager to please. She grinned. “Can you pick a colour for our little puppy? And, if you like, you can choose his name.”
That was it, John was buying an entire florist’s. Lock swallowed a squeal, remembering that he was supposed to be big right now. He thought very, very hard, selecting the red slip lead – neither had the heart to tell him it’d be removed in a moment – and opened his mouth to announce the name.
“Teddy. His name’s Teddy.” Now that John looked, the tiny ball of curly fluff did look remarkably like a toy as he huffed about the room with a racing tail.
“That is a wonderful name! Thank you love. I’m going to take him now, if that’s okay?” Lock pouted, acquiescing only upon seeing the pointed and stern look John directed at him. “You were very kind to bring him here, and brave, too.”
“What do we say?” John reminded, the corners of his lips quirking up.
Lock jolted, gathering himself as he helped leash the pup with a final pat goodbye. “Thank you.”
“That’s quite alright dear.”
“Thank you.” John repeated, though his tone conveyed so for an entirely different reason.
“I have kids, so.” Her eyes widened. “Oh my- I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”
John’s responding laugh was light as he waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it, I know what you mean. Speaking of which,”
He turned to Lock, who was attempting to sneak around the table to access the drawers of equipment, caught red-handed. “Come on mister, say bye to Teddy.”
“Bye Teddy! Be a good boy!” Lock chirped, allowing John to usher him from the room by the small of his back. They thanked the staff as they exited the building, then Lock’s smile dropped.
“I don’t wanna go home.” John should’ve known the boy would know exactly what he was thinking as he marched in search of a taxi.
Regardless of his protest, however, John didn’t find it appropriate nor safe to have a little boy dashing about London, no less when a murderer was nearby. His little boy in particular had a tendency to bolt, too, which was all fun and games in their garden, fenced in and secluded, but not so much among busy streets and traffic. It wasn’t everyday the general public witnessed a fully grown toddler.
Much to his chagrin, however, life had other plans. The day wasn’t over yet. Sherlock’s phone rang, but Lock wasn’t allowed to touch it, so Greg tried John’s, informing him that they’d had reports of a sighting of the suspect nearby, and if they could, the help was greatly appreciated.
“I help! I can help, I’ll be big!” Lock vowed, already adjusting his coat to flip the collars up.
“I’m not sure, it’s not like they aren’t capable of calling backup.” John countered with a hum. Holmes scoffed, eyes sharpening up, standing taller.
“Come on John, we don’t have time to faff about. There’s a criminal on the loose!” Watson gave up arguing – if Sherlock thought he could handle it, he’d just have to trust him.
John wouldn’t bother questioning how they ended up stumbling upon the exact team of officers prowling the streets for the same man, but he supposed it had to do with Sherlock. It didn’t take long for their human sniffer dog – and it wasn’t Anderson this time – to catch the hiding suspect, who swore colourfully upon being found. Sherlock was pleased, spouting off his typical brags as a swarm of stab vests dragged the flailing criminal away.
“Thanks Sherlock, we probably would’ve needed the chopper if you hadn’t sussed him out.” Greg clapped him on the shoulder, delighted and relieved as they watched the man be stuffed into a police van, only for his violence, screaming expletives and threats as he struggled.
“What a delightful man.” John remarked with a shake of his head. Sherlock, however, didn’t respond, which was quite unusual of him. “Sherlock?”
“Are you alright?” Lestrade used the grip on Sherlock’s shoulder to turn him and peer into his face. “Shit.”
“What?” John joined his side. “Oh no darling, it’s okay.” He added in a hushed voice.
“So I see the freak finally decided to come back and help once he’d finished gloating.” Sergeant Donovan sneered as she approached, walkie-talkie in hand.
“Funny you should say that, considering he did your job for you in five minutes.” John snapped, tugging his charge away from the bustle. Donovan blinked; John had never talked back to her before, and she was clearly as bewildered as Greg.
“That’s enough you two. Donovan, you book him in, I’m taking these two home.” Lestrade ordered, shaking off the tension to apply his stern tone.
She scowled. “But-”
“Now, Sally.” There was no room for dissent, and with a petulant harrumph, she stormed off to complete the task. When she was gone, the attention was back on Holmes, who was trying his hardest to appear big in front of curious officers milling about the scene.
“Try not to stress, love, come on.” John was met with resistance when he attempted to pull Sherlock in the direction of Greg’s car, which was past the van containing the suspect. He was rooted to the spot, widened eyes damp and alert, scanning for threats.
“He’s terrified, bless him. Let’s get you home now, there’s a good boy.” If some officers eyed the trio half dragging Sherlock to the car, they dared not speak a word, at least not in earshot.
The distressed little was buckled safely in the backseat, John at his side to hold his hand inconspicuously with Greg at the wheel. Once they’d driven away from the mayhem and rejoined the main roads did anyone relax.
“I’m sorry, this is my fault.” John admitted as he kissed Sherlock’s temple, who was trembling and sniffing with tiny tears escaping his waterline.
Greg glanced at them and his heart broke at the sight of his scared little boy holding onto John for dear life. “How so?”
“I should’ve said no and took him home instead of believing he was big enough to cope.” Watson replied, allowing Holmes, who he assumed was now Lock, to lay his head on his shoulder.
Greg kissed his teeth. “Nonsense. It’s nobody’s fault. Stop it, we’ll go home and I’ll take over, alright?”
“Yes da.” John said, settling back into his seat. Lock cuddled against his side, thumb in mouth, a lot calmer than he had been.
What a day!