A fluffy little story written for a prompt on lj. Totally gen/friendship. Life has been stressful lately, so I just wanted to write something cute and sweet. I've got way too much other work I should be doing, but it felt good for the soul.

Hope you enjoy, feedback is always appreciated and adored.

It had been raining that day. Sherlock's uncanny cab-hailing powers had failed him, for the first time John had ever witnessed. And so they had been forced to run home, sharing only one umbrella the best they could (Mrs. Hudson had warned Sherlock to bring his own, but of course he couldn't be concerned with such trivial details as the weather). It was especially awkward given the height difference, and the fact that Sherlock kept outpacing John and refused to slow down.

John had fallen behind yet again and was about to shout at Sherlock when he heard whining. It was high pitched and utterly pathetic. He paused to look around, no longer concerned with the rain rapidly soaking through his jacket. The sound was so desperate, the doctor instinct in him just couldn't ignore it. What if the creature was in pain? He wasn't trained in animal care, but perhaps he could do something.

He followed the sound down a narrow ally, forgetting about Sherlock completely. The sound came again, and he noticed a cardboard box tucked next to a trash bin. The box was soaked with rain and starting to fall apart. The box rattled as John approached and the whining increased.

He pulled back the top flap and found a sight that nearly broke his war-hardened heart: inside was a tiny English Bulldog puppy, soaking wet and shivering. It was only slightly bigger than his hand, all wrinkles and loose skin, with a brown coat and big white spots.

John had always been a dog kind of man. He had grown up with a Labrador whom he had adored, and who had been his best friend for many years. Something about the species' unwavering loyalty and steadfastness appealed to him on a deep level. When so many relationships in his life proved unstable, a dog would always be there, not judging or scolding. And seeing this dog now, abandoned and alone, really hit him hard. He hadn't been so different just a few months ago, alone with no one to turn to and nowhere to go.

John scooped the puppy up, shushing it's panicked whines with a soft voice and soothing words. He cradled it gently and pulled it inside his jacket. The coat was already wet through, so he pulled up his jumper, wrapping the puppy in the warm wool and cradling him the best he could. The puppy stopped struggling but still mewled pathetically. It was a feeling of helplessness that John knew all too well, and he did his best to comfort him, stroking his head and offering him soft words.

He turned to go catch up with Sherlock only to find him standing at the entrance to the ally, watching with amusement.

"I should have known you'd be the type to rescue stray animals." Sherlock's voice wasn't quite approving, but it wasn't chastising either.

"He's not a stray, Sherlock, somebody abandoned him here. He's helpless, I can't just leave him!" John snuggled the puppy closer protectively.

"No, no, I suppose you can't, can you? Well, come along then." Sherlock turned back out of the ally and opened the umbrella. He walked slowly this time, matching his pace carefully to John's. It took them nearly half an hour to reach Baker Street, and by then they were both soaked through.

John headed straight up to the bathroom to grab some dry towels. He laid them out on the tile floor and swaddled the puppy carefully to keep warm while he peeled off his drenched jacket and hung it to dry. The puppy cried until John picked it back up, then it immediately quieted down. He rubbed it's fur with the towel to dry it as well as he could, but it was most important to keep him warm for the time being. It would be best to build a fire and let him rest in front of it.

When he turned Sherlock was in the door again, watching. "I see he's formed an attachment to you already," he observed, motioning to the puppy which was beginning to snore contentedly, burrowed against John's chest. John only shrugged. He was waiting for Sherlock to voice the protest that was almost certainly coming. His calm so far was somewhat unnerving.

"I've already started a fire, you might want to add a couple logs once it gets going."

John noticed then that Sherlock was still wearing his wet coat and clothes. He must have started the fire as soon as they had gotten in, without tending to himself first. John smiled to himself. So Sherlock could be selfless after all.

John pulled his favorite chair closer to the fireplace and sat down with the puppy curled in his lap. It was snoring softly, it's tiny chest rising and falling steadily. John figured that a long rest would do him good, followed by a meal. He wasn't quite sure how big bulldog puppies were supposed to be, or even how old this one was. But it felt impossibly light and skinny. It had to be at least somewhat undernourished, especially if it had been out in that ally long.

Sherlock joined him in the other chair and looked down at the sleeping bundle.

"English bulldog," he observed. "Wretchedly ugly breed. Leave it to the British to forget about aesthetics when designing a canine companion. No elegance whatsoever."

This didn't really surprise John. He'd been waiting for some sort of criticism."I take it you're not a dog person, then," he ventured.

Sherlock looked confused. "Oh, no, I like dogs perfectly well. They can be useful in many capacities: herding, guarding, hunting, assistance. Dogs are very intelligent creatures, John, and you know I admire intelligence. I can't abide the shedding, however. Intolerable." He grimaced and wiped at his pant leg involuntarily.

John chuckled. Sometimes Sherlock was full of surprises, but then sometimes he was completely predictable.

Sherlock observed him carefully. "You have saved that dog out of compassion, and I know it's something you have to do. But what do you plan on doing with it now, John? You know we keep odd hours, it would be difficult to care for a pet. And I can't have that little thing slobbering all over my furniture or disrupting my experiments."

These were all valid points, as much as John hated to admit it. They really didn't live an ideal lifestyle for a dog. It would need regular walking and feeding and attention. But the longer he held it there on his lap the more reluctant he was to consider parting with it.

Besides, they didn't know anyone who might make a suitable owner. Mrs. Hudson would probably love to dote on it, but she wouldn't be up to all the regular walks. Lestrade and Mycroft both worked the same ridiculous hours they did, never mind the fact that John would never willingly trust Mycroft with power over such a fragile creature. Sarah might have been perfect, but unfortunately she was allergic. But the bottom line was that John felt responsible for this little life he had saved, and he didn't want to leave it in anyone else's hands.

Sherlock just sighed, as if reading his thoughts. "Well, keep him warm for now. I'll go see if Mrs. Hudson has anything suitable for him to eat."

John nodded, then paused. "Him?"

"Yes, of course, didn't you notice? That is a male dog, obviously." John didn't even know when Sherlock had gotten a clear look, but he decided to take his word for it. Once Sherlock left the room he rubbed it's little wrinkly head and whispered "good boy." It felt right.

Several days passed after the puppy's arrival at 221b Baker Street. Once he recovered from the initial shock he quickly became a handful. Just as Sherlock had predicted, he got into everything, finding ways to squeeze into places they didn't even know existed. John had spent the first several days running all over the flat just trying to keep tabs on him. But he didn't worry too much, since eventually the puppy would tire out and John would find him in a little snoring heap in some cozy corner.

He had taken to sleeping in John's bed and following him around like a shadow while he walked around the apartment getting things done. Every time he sat down the puppy would be in his lap, demanding attention. And of course John couldn't refuse.

Sherlock seemed to be adjusting, though grudgingly. He hadn't mentioned the issue of keeping the puppy since that first day, but John knew the thought still hung in the air like a looming threat.

But the matter seemed to settle itself without any further discussion. John had come home from the market one day to find Sherlock napping stretched out on the couch, with the puppy sprawled against his side, snuggling into his warmth. There was no way Sherlock hadn't noticed, light sleeper that he was. If he really objected he would have removed the puppy. John took this as a positive sign.

Mrs. Hudson had been quickly smitten as well. As soon as she had set eyes on the puppy she had began cooing and tittering, using that high-pitched baby talk voice that seemed to come instinctively to women. The puppy had reciprocated by climbing into her lap and promptly falling asleep. This, John was learning, was probably a sign of affection. And so Mrs. Hudson had taken it upon herself to care for the puppy when they weren't in, spoiling him with treats and doting on him like a grandchild. It was probably good for her to have the company. Sometimes John would walk by and hear her chattering away to the puppy, filling him in on all the latest neighborhood gossip. Better him than John.

The last thing the puppy needed to make his place permanent was a name. John had resisted so far, because he had been afraid to get too attached, lest Sherlock finally put his foot down and insist they give him away. But giving him a name had a certain finality to it. It would officially make him part of their little eccentric family.

He had been considering for a few days. There were the classic dog names, like Spot or Sparky, but they felt too clichéd. He thought Sherlock would probably object to a human name, considering it absurd or inappropriate. He wasn't sure what that left.

But Sherlock took the problem out of his hands once again. John came into the living room quietly one night as Sherlock and the puppy were on the couch. Sherlock was trying to read but the puppy was determined to sit right in the middle of his book. Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and picked the puppy up, placing it on the floor. But the puppy construed this as some new sort of game, and hopped back up again eagerly. "No, Gladstone, knock it off. Stop being an intolerable pest, this minute. Do you hear me?"

John came over to mercifully remove the puppy and place him in his own lap, where he contented himself with chewing on John's fingers.

"…Gladstone?" John asked after a moment. He was too surprised and bemused to even laugh.

"Yes, I have taken to calling the dog Gladstone. He needs a proper name, after all. You can't keep calling him 'puppy' forever, it's so horribly generic."

He kept his eyes focused on the book and waved his hand dismissively.

"But why Gladstone?" John pressed. It just seemed so..random.

Sherlock finally looked up, exasperated, with that "why can't you see the obvious" expression.

"Because of his wrinkly jowls, John. Can't you see that he is the spitting image of William Gladstone, in his later years?" His expression was completely serious, like this was an obvious fact of the universe that John had failed to grasp.

"William Gladstone? The Prime Minister?"

"Of course, what other William Gladstone is there?"

John was stunned. "Well, none that I know of. But I didn't think you would know who William Gladstone is."

Sherlock gave him a cold glare. "Despite what you may think, I am not an idiot, John. I did go to school, after all. One of my teachers kept a portrait of him hanging in the classroom. Ghastly looking man. I'll never forget that face."

That wasn't exactly flattering to the puppy, but John let it slide. He couldn't quite disagree.

"Besides," Sherlock continued, without waiting for a response, "he already answers to it. See: Gladstone!" he called. The little puppy's ears perked up and he turned to look at Sherlock expectantly, tongue lolling.

John chuckled in disbelief. It seemed that was settled, then.

"You could have given me a say in it, you know." He was a little annoyed that Sherlock hadn't even consulted him before he went and named their dog after an old dead man.

"Yes, but all the names you were considering were so dreadfully dull." John didn't even ask how he knew what names he had considered. Sherlock always just knew.

"Well fine, then, Gladstone it is." The puppy looked up at the sound of the name and John rubbed his head. "I suppose this means he's staying, then?"

"I suppose, if he must," Sherlock sighed. "Besides, Mrs. Hudson has become inordinately attached to him. If we got rid of him now she might evict us and keep the dog." John thought that might be fairly accurate. "And I guess he's not so bad. When he's not destroying things or urinating on the carpet or getting in the way. Tolerable, I suppose." But John caught the sly smile.

That settled it. From that day forward Gladstone became a permanent member of the 221b Baker Street family.