A/N: Well, I was working on Halo, but then I ended up watching clips of Sherlock on you tube (They're giving me an ASBO!) and this happened. I cannot properly explain it. But I rather like this fic : )

Disclaimer: I want to own Sherlock. But for some reason, bbc keeps hanging up on me…

Lestrade sighed. He was dreading this-something about people being murdered in their own homes always bothered him. Especially when it was in such a domestic neighborhood, one with kids and dogs and happy families. Families like his.

"Don't bring domestics to work Lestrade, it will make you even more incompetent than your failing department already is." Lestrade winced. Ah yes. There was the other thing he'd been dreading.

"Freak."

"Your frustration at Anderson's wife coming home early from her business convention and your sister's happy engagement would be better suited on reality television, not being directed at me." Lestrade stepped forward as Donovan's cheeks flushed. She furiously opened her mouth.

"Sherlock, Donovan!" The Sergeant backed down, albeit with a mutinous look in her eyes. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where's John?"

"At some hospital." Sherlock's tone suggested he thought John's profession to be a waste of time. Lestrade's heart sank. John was the only person he'd ever met who could handle the consultant, and if they were having domestic difficulties the entire department was utterly screwed. "Come on." Sherlock breezed past.

Lestrade grimly followed. Donovan trailed behind, muttering obscenities under her breath. The murder had happened in the sitting room, and had been discovered by the husband when he went downstairs to find out why his wife wasn't in bed. The man was hysterical when he called them.

Looking at the body, Lestrade could see why. The woman was in her nightgown, barefoot, a few locks of hair in curlers but most of it loose around her shoulders. One hand was palm up, with cuts lacerating the insides of the fingers. The other was on her stomach, right on top of the baby bump someone had slashed with a knife.

Sherlock made a disappointed noise. "Is this it?"

"What do you mean is this-" Sherlock help up a hand, cutting on Donovan's indignant words. He abruptly swiveled around and started upstairs.

"Sherlock, you can't wander around! This is someone's house and it's a crime scene besides!" Lestrade called after him. Sherlock negligently waved a hand at him and disappeared up the stairwell. "Dammit." Lestrade muttered.

He hurried after him. Sherlock had gone into the couple's spare bedroom, looking angry for once. He was on his heels in front of the closet, one hand extended, murmuring soothingly.

Lestrade blinked. Sherlock was capable to speaking nicely to things other than John? He edged into the room, glancing over the clothing on the floor and taking in the foul odors in the air. These were slobby newlyweds indeed.

"That's it boy, come on out…"

"Sherlock, what…" Lestrade hadn't heard him speak that gently ever, not even to John.

"Border Collie-Schippe mix, not older than a year, probably adopted at around six months old from a friend. Neglected, probably headed for either a dumping by the highway or a complaint from the neighbors." Sherlock straightened up, a wriggling black ball of fur tucked in his coat. "Definitely going to be abandoned once the baby came, given the woman's inexperience and the man's panic over their financial state."

Lestrade inched closer. The dog was cradled comfortably in Sherlock's arms, it's eyes closed. It was bigger than he originally guessed, and skinnier. "Poor boy."

"Obviously." Sherlock swept past him. "It was the elderly next door neighbor." Lestrade sighed as Sherlock disappeared again.

"Sherlock!"

John paused at the door. He was exhausted, and the clinic had been hell. To add to that, he'd been working overtime to try and get some extra money for a vacation.

And now Sherlock was behaving oddly. His flat mate was sitting cross legged on the floor, with an enormous bag of dog treats.

"Sherlock. I'm not eating dog food for dinner." Sherlock shrugged.

"This is an extremely important undertaking John. And you need to fetch a take out menu." The Doctor tried too see what was occupying Sherlock. To all appearance, it was a chair.

"Fine." John stomped to the kitchen. It wasn't until he'd ordered that he heard Sherlock's exclamation of delight.

"Good boy! That's my intelligent puppy!" John froze. He stuck his head out of the kitchen with trepidation, wondering what in the world Sherlock had done. Surely no strange chemical, now being addressed as an animate thing, could have seeped into the chair, not again…

In fact, Sherlock was fondling a puppy. John stood in the doorway, gobsmacked. It was a skinny black pup, of narrow build and with ears too big for it's body. It was also completely occupying Sherlock's attention.

"What."

"John, this is our new dog."

"No! I don't want a dog! What will Mrs. Hudson say? The rent will double, at the very least! Why in the world is it even here?" Sherlock adopted a wounded expression.

"I found him in a closet, at the Abberworthy road crime scene. And Mrs. Hudson will be brought round once she sees him." John closed his eyes. Hazardous chemicals he understood. Violin playing at midnight was fine. He'd even come to terms with the body parts scattered amongst the food.

But this, this was going too far.

"Sherlock, a dog? Honestly?" Sherlock glared at him.

"He was in need of an adequate home. We're keeping him." John rubbed his forehead. Sherlock had that look, that look he got when he had a plan and would stick to it no matter what the idiots thought.

"Fine. But if it barks or poops or sheds, we're getting rid of it!"

"Ignore John, Kreisler. Come, let's mock him as he tries to read his crime novel where it's disgustingly obvious that the barmaid did it!" John gritted his teeth. The thing (Kreisler, trust Sherlock to name him that) had wormed it's way into Sherlock's lap, and he was absently stroking it as he explained at length the plot holes in John's book.

But John held hope. Not even Sherlock could keep a dog when Mrs. Hudson threatened to toss them out on the street.

And there was the lady with their Chinese! John leapt up and opened the door, hoping the beast would spring up and start barking, or better yet, yap.

Of course, Sherlock would grab it before it could leap up and maul Mrs. Hudson. Whose expression of shock right now would make an excellent caricature.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson. This is Kreisler, my new dog. I assure you, he'll be trained in a matter of weeks."

"Sherlock, it says in the lease, no pets!" Sherlock sighed and picked up the thing. It wiggled in his arms and licked his face.

John wasn't sure what was most unexpected-Sherlock not resisting, or Mrs. Hudson's sudden breakdown of wits. He watched in horror as she transformed from a dignified proprietor to a squealing young girl.

"Well, I suppose if he's trained…" Mrs. Hudson's eyes had a strange look as she glanced at John. "You promise to look after him Sherlock?"

"Absolutely. I was just sending John off to buy dogfood."

In a few days, the beast was ensconced in Sherlock's affections. There was a bowl next to Sherlock's place at the table. It slept in Sherlock's bed. It's eyes were always on Sherlock, even when it wasn't cuddled up at his side.

True, John was at work most of the day and didn't see whether or not Sherlock was paying attention to the beast when he wasn't at the clinic, but he probably was. It would be just like him to absently stroke the beast while doing something important.

And he sure as hell did while John was home. Once it was sitting at Sherlock's feet as he fiddled with a microscope. Or Sherlock was sitting on the couch lightly stroking it's fur. The thing didn't even have very nice hair.

John had a strong suspicion that it was trying to replace him.

He was at work when he got the text.

Dog crime scene.

Where are you?

Need sanity.

L

His vision went red.

"Sherlock!" He thundered. John stormed into the flat, glaring at his friend. The effect was spoiled when John tried to take a step forward. He tripped on one of the dog toys which seemed to show up whenever he left the flat.

Blood roared in John's ears, and he prepared a defense in case someone should say that murdering this beast wasn't justified.

"You didn't pick up milk?" Sherlock was on his knees, on the floor, combing the beast's fur.

"No!" Sherlock snorted and went back to his grooming. John glared at it, trying to remember why was so angry. "You brought it to a crime scene?"

"Kreisler was interested." Sherlock scratched under the dog's chin. "I didn't think he should be left alone."

"You…you didn't…Sherlock, it's a dog!"

"He has a name!"

"After a violinist?"

"There is nothing wrong with a cultural reference!"

"Stop being so obstinate!"

"How am I being obstinate? I was just brushing my dog when you barged in, broke his toy, and started yelling! Without milk, might I add."

"If you don't quit complaining about the bloody milk I sweat to god…" Sherlock scowled at John.

"What, exactly, is your problem with Kreisler? It defies logic!" John glared right back.

"My problem, is that he is a bloody nuisance who serves no purpose, mucks up the house, will doubtless raise the rent as soon as it slips up and does something stupid, and is a bloody eyesore!" Sherlock's lips tightened. He angrily got up, whistling sharply. The thing bounced up after him. At this point it came up to just beneath the middle of Sherlock's thighs.

"Fine. If he's such a bloody eyesore, why don't you just bloody move out!" Sherlock stormed past, the dog at his heels. John scowled after him, but realized that it was futile to follow the detective. When Sherlock wanted no pursuers, he disappeared.

John scowled at the empty flat, and stomped over to the kitchen for a bite to eat. He couldn't afford to move out. And he didn't have a problem with anything else, the flat was perfectly located and had an excellent landlady, and besides he would miss Sherlock, provided the man stopped keeping that infernal dog!

John stayed up in his room until midnight, when Sherlock finally came home. He listened to the nearly silent footsteps, then the sound of dog food being poured into a metal bowl. John scowled. Sherlock showered at the beast drank, and the beast followed him up to his room.

It took a long time to get to sleep that night.

John finally saw the obvious solution. He'd been working long hours already, and if he just increase his overtime a bit Sherlock and the dog would be out prowling by the time he came home, or Sherlock would be occupied.

Well, it wasn't a solution. But it would work until the dog was gone. Then he could go back to the seven to eight hours he'd been keeping.

John figured out there was an issue when he saw his patient list for the day, after a few weeks of this schedule. He'd have sworn the day was going to be packed full of people, but the entire day was clear. Only one name. John's eyes narrowed when he read it.

"Mycroft."

"John, why is your tone so hostile? Surely you realize I've legally booked this appointment." John sighed.

"You can't spy on Sherlock and I. It's against the law. I googled it." Mycroft smiled, in a way that was somewhat scary.

"I am a powerful man." He paused. "Sherlock has a dog."

"I've noticed. And?" Mycroft glared at him. John rolled his eyes. "He chose to bring that stupid canine into the flat. What of it?"

"Our family owned dogs. Purebred bulldogs, to be hunted with or sold. Dogs from our kennels won great prizes, achieved great things. One, a fine specimen, was the greatest dog I'd ever met." John raised his eyebrows.

"Sherlock's irritating thing isn't going to be winning any trophies, if you're worried about competition."

"That dog belonged to my brother. Mother gave him the dog, the runt of the litter, when it was a puppy and Sherlock was six. Already a very bright boy. Too bright, as you've noticed. I think that dog was the only friend Sherlock had. He'd play with it, teach it tricks, spend hours walking it around the countryside. I remember how overjoyed the dog was whenever Sherlock came home…probably the warmest welcome he's ever gotten from anyone." Mycroft broke off into chuckles, doubtless remembering something his brother and the dog had done. "It died of course. Just before Sherlock hit high school. A wonderful dog, but not immortal. All the same, the dog was the only one who ever seemed to give Sherlock unconditional affection, with the exception of Mummy."

"What does this have to do with me?" John asked.

"You, obvious, are being remiss in your duties." John blinked.

"I have duties now?" Mycroft sighed, with the same "surrounded by idiots" air Sherlock often mustered.

"Please. You are, for all purposes, my brother's spouse." John spluttered. "You wash his clothing. You feed him. You don't date anyone, and didn't you break up with Sarah because Sherlock was simply more important to you? You share a flat, used to go to crime scenes and eat together, argue like an old married couple, and you're sleeping together."

"We are not!"

"Well, you clearly want to be. I had no idea you would be so cowardly in making your move John." John felt himself going red. Mycroft nodded. "Exactly. Of course, you started working overtime-I sense a bit of avoidance-and Sherlock was deprived of his only companion. It's not pleasant to have your spouse, or boyfriend if you insist on not moving things along that fast, neglect you. I'm sure an affectionate companion was a wonderful thing for Sherlock when he found that you'd removed yourself from his company."

John turned his guilty gaze to the examining table. "…and now I'm jealous of a dog."

"You'll notice that your entire day from now on is cleared. And I really think this appointment has gone on long enough." Mycroft said judiciously. John rose from his seat.

"I'm going home."

His sense of purpose grew with each step. Sherlock was lonely. That explained everything. Of course he wanted a dog, now that he'd become used to someone liking him it would have been awful to have that yanked out from under him.

John would cancel all that overtime-who needed vacations? Sherlock hated vacations, and it wouldn't be fun to go anywhere without him. He'd get right back on the ball, to provide all the love Sherlock needed. And quite a few forms of love that dog couldn't ever perform.

Sherlock wasn't at home. He was in the park, playing fetch with Kreisler. John took a moment to appreciate the figure he cut in the long coat, arm raised to throw a ball, then hurried forward.

"Sherlock!" Sherlock turned, vaguely uninterested. His interested spiked when John lunged forward and kissed him, practically leaping into Sherlock's arms.

"What was the purpose of that?" Sherlock tone may have been one of indifference, but there was a faint blush on his cheeks and his eyes sparkled. John grinned and cuddled up to Sherlock's side.

"Just because I love you. I take it that I'm allowed to do that in the future?"

"It could be worked into our arrangement as flat mates." John shook his head, pressing in even closer.

"I was thinking more by way of dating." Sherlock blinked, a smile spreading over his face. Something by his foot barked.

"Kreisler!" Sherlock crouched down and scratched the dog's head. Now that John was looking at it properly the dog was rather cute, with black fur that had turned absolutely glossy, and two pointy ears that didn't look as gangly now that he'd filled in. In fact, those brown eyes were positively cute. "Does John meet standards?"

Kreisler (John couldn't keep thinking of him as the beast, not if he wanted to stay in Sherlock's good graces) barked once. Sherlock grinned up at John. "I love him too. That was a yes John, but only if you prove your manly worth in bed."

"Stupid dog." Sherlock snuggled farther into his covers, still managed to cling like a limpet to John. Kreisler was lying half on top of Sherlock and half draped over one of John's legs. "Sherlock, can't I kick him out?"

"No." Sherlock drowsily petted Kreisler. "You must get used to him John. He could have hopped on at a worse time."

John resigned himself to the dog. Even if he did have it on his leg now, he had Sherlock curled up to the rest of him, and that really was worth more than one stupid dog. Besides, the dog was warm, and comfy. Maybe he and Kreisler could form some sort of treaty. They had a lot in common, after all.

Because really, how many people could claim that Sherlock Holmes loved them? They were a select group, and sticking together was simple logic.

A/N: Review!