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His owner was pacing up and down the flat. Through the kitchen, down the hallway, around the coffee table, dodge the chairs, back into the kitchen. Repeat. Every third or so circuit, he would glance up at the mirror, pause, adjust his collar, tug at his jacket, or run a hand through his unruly mass of curls. Then on the next mirror stop he would shift the collar again, take off the jacket, and flatten back down the hair. Gladstone couldn’t tell where the agitation was coming from but the fact that his owner, who the other weird tall not-dogs called Sherlock, was so visibly upset was making him nervous. He had sat himself down on the sofa (the biscuit lady downstairs needn’t know) so he could see his master at all times and was quietly waiting for it to happen, whatever it was. After a while, every time his master past the coffee table he stroked Gladstone’s fur soothingly. He was happy to help. Perhaps he could convince his master tummy rubs would also help?
The doorbell rang. Gladstone barked on instinct and skipped to the door. In contrast, his master froze next to the mirror and looked a mixture of terrified and excited. Everything was still upstairs for a moment as Biscuit Lady went for the door.
Then Gladstone smelt him. The Walk Man was here!
***
He didn’t know what had come over him.
It had started innocently enough. Due to his work, Sherlock couldn’t always be in the flat to take care of Gladstone but he would be dammed if he gave him away. Mrs Hudson could deal with feeding and so on but walking an Irish Setter was rather more work than he could ask of her, especially since she allowed Gladstone in the flat in the first place. Therefore there was only one obvious solution. A dog walker was necessary.
It wasn’t even that unusual, especially in London where many people worked odd hours and it wasn’t even every day. Finding a walker was surprisingly simple, even though Sherlock made sure the agency knew just how last minute he may have to ring in. Apparently there was someone who was ‘just perfect’ for that kind of work, all he needed to do was text and everything would be taken care of. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel sceptical but that may have just been the thought of leaving Gladstone with a stranger. However when the call came through about a new case, he didn’t have time to waste interrogating dog walkers and so threw the lead at Mrs Hudson, fired off a text and then tried not to worry about his beloved pet.
The text back came through as he was yelling at the forensic department.
“When will you learn to just look around you?” he was shouting when the chime sounded. He was tempted to ignore it but his mind instantly jumped to the worst case scenario about something happening to Gladstone and so he took a quick glance at it. Everyone took this as their cue to run for the hills.
It was a picture message of Gladstone sat in Regent’s Park, head cocked to the side and a smile on his face. Sherlock smiled instinctively at the thought of him posing for the picture. His brain tried to remind him that a) dogs don’t smile and b) don’t know what pictures are but he managed to shove those thoughts away easier than he would admit to anyone else.
There was text underneath.
Great first walk. Very well behaved and a delight to show off. He’s a very handsome boy- JW
A moment later another text came through.
This is John Watson by the way. The dog walker.- JW
Well obviously, Sherlock thought. He then struggled to think of a reply. Although not used to receiving compliments himself, he was always grateful to hear praise for his hound (especially when they were entirely truthful). He really was an excellent dog and to know people recognised that was somehow important to him for reasons he didn’t want to question.
Lestrade appeared in the doorway. “You okay? I thought you were keen to arrest this guy, do some more gloating?” As they were leaving, Sherlock taped out a response.
Evidently. Thank you for the picture. I’m glad he enjoyed the walk- SH
This then set a precedent. Every time Sherlock had a case, he would text John Watson, who gradually was promoted to simply John in his mind. Later a text would arrive with a picture of Gladstone and a message from John about his walk. Sherlock denied he was the sort of person to have a million dog photos on his phone but the way he jealously guarded it begged to differ. There was an entire sub-section dedicated to walk photos. Some of Gladstone on his own, sometimes with other dogs, many of him posing on rocks or on the move (like owner, like dog), and memorably, one of him halfway across a duck pond. That one was accompanied by an apology message and a picture of Gladstone wrapped up in a fluffy towel looking especially pleased with himself. John did not appear in any of the photos. Sherlock ignored his disappointment because why would he need to know what he looked like, he was only walking the dog, it’s not like he was important.
It was only because he liked mysteries, his natural curiosity taking over. Surely it wasn’t weird to want to know what your dog walker looked like. Especially when he was so complimentary about your dog. And texted you pictures of the dog with funny captions. And seemed genuinely curious when you accidentally texted him the solution to the Halden Green case instead of Lestrade. They’d actually chatted a little bit, Sherlock explaining he was a Consulting Detective and that text was meant for the Yard, then explaining what exactly a Consulting Detective was and what the case was all about, and he did not blush when John texted back that he was Amazing for working it out.
Which brought them to yesterday. Yesterday was Gladstone’s birthday. Sherlock realised it was illogical to celebrate a dog’s birthday as they had no concept of what a day was, never mind the date of their own birth. But then Mrs Hudson arrived with a dog birthday cake (and some human birthday cake for Sherlock) and fussed over both of them for a while and it seemed a waste of perfectly good cake to do nothing.
When she left he retrieved the presents from where he’d stashed them in his wardrobe, one of the few places Gladstone never learnt to get into. Gladstone loved wrapping paper. Sherlock made sure the door was locked while he snapped some photos of the chaos. It was when they’d returned from a long ambling walk (during which Sherlock oscillated between wondering if John walked this way and determinedly NOT thinking about Jo- the dog walker) that Mrs Hudson cornered him.
“I forgot about this earlier! John dropped it off yesterday. You really should meet him Sherlock, he just dotes on our young man.” Mrs Hudson always referred to the dog as ‘our young man’ or ‘our sweet boy’. Sherlock didn't bother correcting her. In her hands was a wrapped present, complete with a bow on top. It was clear from the frenzied response from Gladstone that it was a treat of some kind and on a small tag it said ‘To the handsome boy in 221B, From John, the dog walker’. Sherlock determinedly told himself he was not jealous of the dog. The sign off was what tipped him over the edge. Not from the company or a generic greeting but something that showed he genuinely cared. Sherlock for once agreed with Mrs Hudson. He had to meet his dog walker.
The next morning he texted for John to pick up Gladstone. He was unsure of actual timings and so tried to do some work while waiting. This unfortunately proved impossible as the tension in his body caused him to break several microscope slides and a mug. Gladstone lifted his head from his basket and had whined his disapproval at his nap being disrupted. That’s when the pacing started and then the doorbell rang and now he was here and Sherlock realised had no idea what to do with himself and had no plan whatsoever for this encounter beyond ‘Meet John’. When he heard Mrs Hudson open the door he flung himself into his chair, trying to project an air of nonchalance. He glanced over at Gladstone who was sat on the sofa, head tilted in a ‘seriously?’ gesture.
“Don’t you judge me,” he whispered and then shook his head. Was he going hysterical? Why? It was just the dog walker, here to walk the dog. Completely normal. Should he have tidied up more? No, John had been here before. He’d probably seen it in a worse state. Oh no, that can’t be good. What did he think of Sherlock? Did he think he was a responsible dog owner? Did he like the flat? Were the experiments too much?
“Hello handsome.” The voice startled him out of his own thoughts. He didn’t know whether to be shocked or flattered until he looked up and realised that the man was talking to the dog. Once again, he was not jealous of the dog.
While John was distracted ruffling the dogs ears, Sherlock took him in. Ignoring the fact that the first thing his mind screamed was 'cute', the next thing was military. But what was a soldier doing walking dogs in Marylebone?
"Afghanistan or Iraq?" John flinched. Sherlock belatedly realised he probably should of alerted him to his presence.
"Afghanistan. How did you-?"
"Everything about your bearing says soldier. The way you lean back into Parade rest without thinking, the tan line up to the shirt sleeve, the cropped hair." Sherlock said in a rush before clamping his mouth shut.
"So it’s real huh? That was brilliant," John said with a wondrous look in his eyes.
"Really?" He could feel himself blushing.
"Yeah really," John said grinning.
"So I was right?"
"Army doctor. 5th Northumbland Fusiliers, at your service," John added with a nod of his head.
"Pleasure I'm sure. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," he said, springing up, hand outstretched.
"Oh yeah. John Watson, new dog walker," he said shaking Sherlock's hand. Sherlock hoped his intake of breath was not audible. But also dog walker, sounds permanent meaning-
"Invalided?"
"Bullet wound. Left shoulder." It was clear John wasn't going to say anymore on that subject.
A bark made them spring apart. Sherlock hadn't realised they were stood so close together. Gladstone was stood on the sofa, paws up on the arm, looking at them expectantly, looking between them and where his lead was still hanging up.
"I guess that's my cue," John said laughing.
"Fancy some company?" Both of them looked surprised. Sherlock didn't know why he said that other than they had just started talking and he wanted to hear more. He wanted to hear everything. "The work I had to do fell through so I have time." Well a small lie never hurt anyone.
"Sure, that'd be great. Get funny looks when I talk to the dogs anyway." Sherlock thought of the skull and smiled.
"I know the feeling."
***
It wasn't meant to be a habit. One walk, just to satisfy his curiosity, just so he knew who he was trusting. But it was soon obvious one walk wasn’t going to be enough. John was so much more interesting than he'd anticipated and he couldn't leave it at just one conversation. Their talk had spiralled from dogs to Sherlock's work, to observations about the surrounding population (which made John giggle and oh, he had to hear that sound again), to Sherlock's apparently astonishing lack of popular culture knowledge. So there was another walk two weeks later. Then one a week later. Then it advanced to every week. Then every few days. And then Sherlock found himself lying on the sofa only a day after his last walk with John, desperately wishing the day away not, as was usual, for a case but so that he could see John again.
"Text him."
Sherlock rolled onto his back to glare at his not-housekeeper.
"You are being ridiculous. If you like the man, text him. If I have read the signs wrong, which is highly unlikely mind you, then you don't have to see him again. But anything has to be better than you sulking up here alone."
His not-housekeeper was stood in front of the chairs with Gladstone sat by her feet. Both had looks of judgement on their faces. Traitor.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
When she had left, muttering under her breath, he texted John. Sometimes you just had to listen to your landlady. Mainly because he was worried she would genuinely kick him out if he did not.
I need to talk to you. It's important- SH
There. Done. Nothing to worry about at all. A wet nose nudged his hand. Gladstone then rested his head on the sliver of sofa next to Sherlock's head.
“Thanks. We’re going to be fine aren't we? Whatever he says?” Gladstone whined, though whether it was in agreement or disapproval he couldn't tell. Sherlock returned to his thoughts, wondering what the hell he was going to say. He'd told John it was important because it was but now there was the added pressure of admitting it was important to him. That he cared. He really, really cared.
Thud. A plastic toy in the shape of a pig smacked him in the face.
“Ow!” He glared at the innocent looking dog in front of him. It was a face that said he had no regrets.
This was the reason why 10 minutes later he was sprawled out on his living room floor play wrestling with the stupid ball of fluff.
“Is this a bad time?” Sherlock shot up so fast he nearly collided with the dog who had also leapt up at the sound of an intruder/potential best friend.
“John,” he shouted and the winced, his voice about four times too loud. He scrambled to his feet and inadvertently caught sit of himself in the mirror. It looked like Gladstone had dragged him through a hedge backwards. In a wind tunnel. Set to tornado mode.
“Sorry. Mrs Hudson said I could come straight up. I was in the area so figured it was easiest just to drop by.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Come in,” he said, waving John into the room and trying to keep rambling to a minimum. Gladstone trotted over for his required fussing and then retreated to the sofa. John didn't sit down but stood in the middle of the room. He had his arms folded but his expression was unreadable. Not anger, although there was some defensiveness there, curiosity possibly, amusement, and something else. Something else.
“You wanted to talk to me about something?” John prompted and Sherlock realised he had been staring. How attractive.
“Um yes, yes I did, I.” Sherlock's throat was closing up, his palms becoming sweaty, his heart pounding in his chest. The words were stuck, his body rejecting saying them, violently trying to keep the vulnerability at bay.
Well there was only one thing for it.
“DoYouWantToGoOnADateWithMe?”
John stared. Sherlock supposed it was a common reaction to hearing what sounded like a random assortment of consonants and vowels yelled at you.
“It's fine if you don't want to,” Sherlock said, backtracking, “I mean if it's not your, thing, then that's fine, we don't have to mention it, I,” Sherlock trailed off. The wooden floor really needed cleaning. Especially when he melted through it in a state of complete embarrassment. Mrs Hudson would be so annoyed.
“Well considering I've spent the last few weeks shamelessly flirting with you, then yes, I’d say I would love to go on a date with you.”
The words took a moment to sink in. John wanted to date him. John had been flirting with him. Flirting with him for weeks in fact. He looked up and saw amusement and shyness and determination and affection.
His body made the decision for him. He kissed him. John's lips were soft and slightly chapped and he made a small gasp when Sherlock's lips touched his. They were still for a moment, each giving the other an out, which was ridiculous given the conversation they had just had. John took Sherlock's hands and placed them on his waist and Sherlock automatically started to stroke his thumb over John's hip bone, despite the layers in his way. Slowly, John reached up to caress his neck, curving his hands around and sweeping through the curls that rested there. Sherlock tilted his head, trying to avoid their noses colliding and John made his mouth fall open at the slight flicker of tongue along his bottom lip and it was perfect, just perfect.
John was the first to pull back and Sherlock swayed slightly, his lips trying to follow John's. They didn't pull away entirely, their bodies still close and their hands on each other, and Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and kept his eyes closed.
“Sherlock?” John whispered.
“Yes John.”
“This is great, wonderful but the dog is staring at us and it’s kind of freaking me out.”
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes and they both turned their heads slightly.
Gladstone was sat up on the sofa with his head cocked to one side and was staring straight at them as if pondering the weirdness of man. When he realised he had everyone's attention, he thumped his tail twice against the back of the sofa.
“Guess that means he approves?” John said, only half-joking.
“Something like that yes,” Sherlock agreed, not entirely sure he knew what was going through the canines mind.
“Glad to know I'm accepted.”
“That's just because you have dog treats in your pocket.”
John's “Oy,” of indignation was cut off by Sherlock kissing him again, long and slow because he could.
Gladstone huffed and then leapt down from the sofa to go and get his lead because clearly everyone had forgotten the real reason they were there. Clearly you could never trust a man to do a dog’s job.