Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock.

Author's notes: This story consists of two parts and is set some time after Sherlock's return, John and Mary are married. It furthermore fits with my story "Best Man" but doesn't contain any spoilers for season 3 (and you don't need to have read the other one in order to follow).

I'm not a native English speaker, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Enjoy!

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Same Same But Different

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Sherlock stepped out of the cab and straightened up, taking a moment to look at the house in front of him. It was ordinary in every sense, well-kept and unassuming, one among many. The neighbourhood was quiet and nice enough, Notting Hill of all places. It turned out that Mary Watson, neé Morstan, had come from a moderately wealthy family, thus bringing her own town house into the marriage.

If John was uncomfortable with it, he didn't let it on. He had left Baker Street while Sherlock had officially been dead, rented a bedsit similar to the one he'd been in before he had met the consulting detective, and it had been a relief for him to move out of that again.

A chilly wind was blowing; Sherlock huddled deeper into his coat, not yet ready to announce his presence. From the outside, the house didn't look anything like John; it was too neat, too plain. John wasn't like that at all; there were complexities to his character which had surprised Sherlock, and which kept surprising him. He didn't think he'd ever met a more interesting person, including Jim Moriarty and The Woman. Their attraction was shallow, whereas John was deep, if not very good at observing; his strengths were his intuition and the ability to listen to people. He was endlessly more patient than Sherlock, which had the advantage that he rarely missed something (even though he didn't always know what to do with it); he was still listening when others were already composing their answers in their heads.

It was a rare trait, Sherlock thought, but then, John was like that, always bringing light into the lives of others. It made him a good doctor and an even better friend. And Sherlock missed him terribly, but he was not going to say so, of course. His gaze wandered across the brick facade once more; no, he decided, definitely not like John at all.

The inside was different, though; Sherlock had not expected it, but it seemed Mary wasn't so shallow a character either. He'd anticipated marble floors and a cool interior design, probably similar to Irene Adler's house, if not as elegant, but he'd been wrong. The house was... cosy, to say the least. There were rugs and pictures and a lot of books; dark woods, cream coloured curtains, splashes of colour everywhere. A Morrocan bowl here, a large glass with seashells there, a nautilus shell on the mantle, small fossilized ammonites all around.

Just as Sherlock appreciated the orderliness of a skeleton, be it human or animal, Mary was attracted to the smooth everlastingness of those spirals, the intricate design which inhered in their shapes.

It wasn't overcrowded though; it was homely and snug, probably exactly what John liked. No chemicals or body-parts, which he'd appreciate. Enough room for a Christmas tree, and a small garden at the back.

With a squaring of his shoulders, Sherlock orbited Mary's Mini which was taking up the small parking space that had replaced the front garden, and rang the bell.

He frowned as he almost immediately heard John's voice, slightly muffled: "No, Gladstone, no! I said 'stay'!" followed by an exasperated sigh: "Come here," before the door was opened.

Sherlock raised one eyebrow at the sight of his best friend, who was holding a wriggling, black-spotted puppy in his arms: "You've got a dog."

"Excellent deduction. Come in, will you?" John beckoned him into the hall with his head and turned around.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and followed his friend into the kitchen: "Did you just call him Gladstone?" he inquired.

John was still trying not to drop the small animal: "Gladstone, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, Gladstone."

The puppy was stretching its neck as far as it would go, trying to reach the detective with its nose. John stepped a little closer: "Come on, let him sniff your hand."

Sherlock frowned, but raised his hand nevertheless. Stilling, the puppy excitedly sniffed at his skin and began to lick his index finger with its tongue.

"Don't," Sherlock ordered, but Gladstone ignored him.

"He's still a baby, only nine weeks old," John said apologetically, withdrawing a little. Immediately, the dog began to wriggle again, but John set him down.

"So he can walk," Sherlock commented. "Why did you get a dog?"

"Mary's always had dogs, and I like them too. So we decided to get one."

"Hm." Sherlock watched the puppy as it sniffed along his shoes and at his trouser legs. "A Dalmatian."

"Yes. And don't ask where the other 100 are, I've heard that one too often already."

"What are you talking about?"

"Right. I forgot you're not from this universe. The film, 101 Dalmatians? There was a huge billboard right next to the Thames at Lambeth with 101 mechanically wagging puppy tails when the film came out. Mid-90's. You must have seen it."

Sherlock shrugged: "Don't remember it."

"Well, whatever," John smiled as the puppy padded around the kitchen. "He's lovely."

"Why did you christen him Gladstone?"

"I saw the name in a book and I liked it. It's certainly better than Spot."

"He doesn't have that many spots."

"Not yet. They're going to show eventually."

"Are you sure? Maybe it's not a Dalmatian at all."

"Very funny. And don't say it. He's got a name."

"Yes, I believe we have established that."

"Ignoring you now and moving on to making some tea."

Sherlock sat down at the table: "Lestrade called. They found the box, and the key fitted."

"Good," John didn't look up as he carefully measured out the tea, "he can book that one then."

"Hm." Sherlock was watching Gladstone: "Your dog just peed on the tiles."

"Oh, for- couldn't you have warned me?"

"How is it my fault?"

"It's not, it's just- he has to learn that he can't pee in the house. If we carry him outside quick enough, he'll learn it eventually."

"Huh."

John quickly mopped the puddle up, then washed his hands and returned to making tea. Just as he was putting sugar and cream on the table, Mary appeared: "Oh, hi," she smiled at Sherlock, "I thought I had heard the doorbell." She walked round the table and pecked him on the cheek. He was still a little bewildered that she was taking such liberties whenever they met, but it wasn't altogether as objectionable as he had feared. Mary smelled nice, and she didn't usually touch him much apart from the kisses.

John put three cups on the table: "Do we have some cookies left?"

Mary, who had bent down to scratch Gladstone behind the ears, straightened up: "In the pantry, if you haven't eaten them."

"Goody." John rubbed his hands together and disappeared in the adjoining pantry.

Mary surreptitiously glanced at Sherlock a few times when they were all seated at the table. He hadn't taken off his coat, but he seemed at ease. He usually was the most relaxed when he had just solved a case, something she had noted and John had confirmed. He certainly wasn't the easiest person to have around, but he didn't intimidate her either.

She had taken to watching him when she got the chance, and she found that he was often acting around other people. He had been rather silent in her presence at first, but she had decided to ignore it, and had treated him like any other friend of John's. She knew that he was anything but, of course. Her husband wasn't gay or bisexual, which made his and Sherlock's relationship more special: John clearly loved Sherlock, and the feeling seemed mutual as far as Sherlock was able to love; his affection wasn't as evident as John's, whose eyes lit up when Sherlock came in, but Mary had witnessed it surfacing a few times.

She didn't plan on competing with Sherlock, which would have been impossible anyway. John's heart was big enough for the both of them, of that she was sure. She wouldn't go as far as comparing them to being like brothers, but their bond was evidently deep. And she herself found that she liked Sherlock; she very much preferred his no-nonsense manner to fake friendliness, and he had something about him which made her want to take him under her wings a bit; she was actually glad that John was looking out for him. He seemed remarkably frail sometimes, and John had told her that he tended to neglect himself when he was busy.

"Are you going to spend Christmas with us?" she asked him. "We're going to stay here and have a tremendous meal all by ourselves. Which means we'll have tremendous leftovers later. You could stay overnight."

"Yeah, Harry's not coming," John said, "can't be bothered."

They both sounded casual, but Sherlock suspected that they carefully planned this. John knew that Mrs Hudson was going to be at her sister's for the holidays, and he didn't want Sherlock to be alone. Or rather, to feel alone, which was a significant difference.

"I'll think about it," Sherlock replied.

John pushed the plate with the cookies towards him, a wordless invitation to eat which Sherlock chose to ignore. He looked around the kitchen again, noticing that Gladstone had climbed into what looked like an advanced dog basket made of fake leather, curling in on himself, a small, snuffling bundle; he sleepily blinked his eyes open now and then, making sure that the humans were still there, but dozed off eventually.

The next time Sherlock called round, Gladstone had grown a few inches but still had the typical, chubby baby dog looks. He seemed to recognize Sherlock and wagged his tail, then ran off to fetch a toy, a colourful knotted cotton rope which he continued to clumsily nudge against Sherlock's lower leg.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked irritably, at which Gladstone nudged him once more, tail wagging madly.

John snorted: "What do you think he wants?"

Frowning, Sherlock bent down and took hold of the end which was hanging from the dog's muzzle, at which the animal immediately tried to pull away. Sherlock gripped the rope tighter, and Gladstone happily pulled more vigorously.

"He's grinning," Sherlock observed, "can dogs do that?"

John, who was smiling at the two, shrugged: "I've been told some Dalmatians can smile, but in all fairness it's probably just looking like they do. I doubt that dogs are aware of the concept at all, since baring their teeth usually means something entirely different."

"Hm. He's quite strong."

"Yeah," John laughed. "And watch out for those milk teeth, they are razor-sharp."

Sherlock played with Gladstone ("nonsense, I don't play; I just held the rope for him so he'd stop bothering me") until the puppy tired of the game. John gave him a stick to chew on, with which he quickly retreated, lying down under the table.

"It's made from rawhide," he explained, "good for his teeth."

"So I gather."

John eyed the little dog affectionately: "He's very clever, too. He's already figured out how to sneak onto the sofa when we're not watching."

When Sherlock left half an hour later, he couldn't but think about the way John was talking about Gladstone: he might as well have been talking about a child.

In the end, Sherlock decided to accept the invitation and spend Christmas with the Watsons. Plural, still unfamiliar. He had hesitated, not wanting to intrude, but the prospect of being alone in 221B wasn't very inviting.

Ever since he had come back after those two years, he found it much more difficult to be on his own. The void which John had left (not true, that: the void which John-and-he had left is more to the point) was too large, too empty, too dark. He had no intentions to fall back into old habits, but on some nights he was very tempted to tread the well-known paths which would have supplied him with whatever he'd have wished for. What always stopped him was the certain knowledge that John would never forgive him if he'd ever use recreational drugs again.

With these thoughts in mind, Sherlock left the flat to find some Christmas gifts.

"Come in, make yourself at home," Mary had opened the door when Sherlock rang the bell at six p.m. on Christmas Eve. "I'm at a critical stage with the soufflé, John's somewhere in the house. Probably lying under the tree. It already toppled over once." With a smile, she disappeared in the kitchen.

Sherlock set the bag with his gifts and the violin case down and hung up his coat, then he went into the living room. Gladstone came running to greet him, tail wagging, and the detective bent down to pet his soft, round head. John wasn't visible anywhere in the room. A fire was burning in the fireplace, and there was a magnificent Christmas tree (untoppled) with presents underneath.

Sherlock took a closer look at one of them, then at Gladstone: "You chewed on the present over there," he said, "bad dog."

Gladstone wagged his tail even more vigorously. When Sherlock picked up the slightly damaged present (a book, from the looks and feel of it), the puppy sat down expectantly, staring up at Sherlock as if he were Santa himself.

"This isn't for you," Sherlock told him and put the book on the table. Gladstone tilted his head and began to hiccup. With a sigh, Sherlock sat down on the rug, which the puppy perceived as an invitation to play; he leapt up and lowered his chest to the ground with outstretched forelegs, still wagging his tail. Sherlock teased him by pretending to try and grab him, and Gladstone gleefully jumped back and forth.

They were interrupted when John came in. He sighed when he saw the ruined book: "It's no use to punish him now, he wouldn't understand why," he says. "Hi Sherlock, by the way. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," Sherlock answered. Gladstone, sensing that he the attention wasn't on him any longer, clumsily climbed into Sherlock's lap, settling down with a yawn. Sherlock was tempted to push him off, but the little dog's warm weight was rather pleasant, and he was peering up at the detective with one large, brown eye as if daring him.

"He's definitely grinning now," John said, crouching down next to them as Sherlock gently scratched the puppy's belly, which was mostly hairless yet: "You're such a clown," he said affectionately, stroking the small head. Gladstone wriggled a bit, obviously enjoying their joined ministrations, and nibbled at John's fingers.

When Mary came in with drinks a few minutes later, John and Sherlock were still sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, and Gladstone was napping in the detective's lap, his hand still on the animal's belly. Mary paused for a moment, taking a mental picture of the scene; when she had met John, Sherlock had been gone, and he had taken a large part of John's soul with him. He had taken a long time to even remotely recover, had done his best to move on, if not for himself, then at least for her.

She knew he had made an effort to be his old self, but in comparison to now he had still been reduced to something incredibly fragile; he had been hollowed out, a shell, ready to break any moment. People who didn't know him very well merely saw lovable, sturdy, reliable John Watson, soldiering on with admirable braveness. He almost fooled Mary as well when they first met, but there were moments when his susceptibilites showed through. The closer they became, the more distinctive she perceived his pain.

On the anniversary of Sherlock's death John seemed like a wraith, drifting through the day without seeing anything, or anyone. That night, he had clung to her, sleepless, tearless, staring into the darkness with wide-open eyes, not wanting to see the pictures which haunted him when he closed them. Mary had turned on a lamp, which had at least slowed down his racing heart a bit. Later, he had wept, and she found that she possibly loved him even more.

She looked at the two and was happy for the both of them, glad that their suffering had come to an end. Before Sherlock had returned, she had felt sympathy and concern for John, but never for his allegedly dead friend, simply because she hadn't known him. She had of course read the papers and had listened to what John had told her about him, but he had still been abstract, a stranger out of reach.

A shudder ran down her spine when she realized that it'd be different now; she'd be grieving for this man, would take it hard. She remembered something Mrs Hudson had told her once: "Sherlock Holmes has a way to get into you heart," she had said, and Mary understood her now.

Sherlock had definitely made his way into her heart, somehow. Perhaps it's all the loneliness he exuded when he sat quietly, wrapped in his coat and silence; perhaps it's the way he alienated people by being rude, which Mary took as the opposite: he didn't want to offend everyone, he just couldn't help it. He needed people to see through his mask, which most of them were incapable of.

It's a sign how much he valued John (and, she liked to think, her by extension, hoping she's not entirely wrong) that he's here on this evening, that he's calm, had even brought his violin.

She blinked and moved towards the coffee table before the men realized she'd been contemplating them; when she put the drinks tray down, she saw the chewed-on book. "Gladstone! You naughty dog!" At the mention of his name, Gladstone briefly opened one eye to look at her; he wagged his tail once, then lay still again, obviously comfortable in Sherlock's lap. Mary didn't have the heart to tell Sherlock that he was very likely going to be covered in dog hair; he'd find out about that soon enough.

Mary was a good cook, dinner therefore was very enjoyable. John had gotten crackers which he insisted they pull between desert and espresso, and he told Mary how Mrs Hudson as a joke had gotten antlers for Sherlock on the first Christmas they spent together.

"You didn't wear them, did you?" she asked.

"No," Sherlock said curtly. "Only briefly for her to see what they looked like. She wouldn't let it go otherwise."

Mary laughed at the image of Sherlock with antlers.

"I tried them too," John admitted. "Though they looked better on him."

"Yeah, not many people can get away with that look." Sherlock smirked.

He didn't stay overnight. Mary went to bed around midnight, and he and John sat on the sofa a while longer, alternately talking and being silent; they both had had a little too much wine, and after a while, John dozed off.

Sherlock quietly put his presents under the tree and his violin back in its case. He had just put on his coat in the hall when he heard quiet footsteps behind him.

"You're not going to stay?" John asked, sounding woozy with tiredness and a little disappointed. He seemed to have anticipated something like that, however; before Sherlock could answer, his friend handed him a wrapped present: "Here. This is for you."

"Thank you." Sherlock gave him a small smile.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"Merry Christmas, John."

Mrs Hudson had put up the Christmas decorations in 221B before she had left; the fairy lights, which were being run on a timer, were still on when Sherlock got home. He put the violin case and the present down and went over to the window; there was no snow that night, only a cold wind blowing. Baker Street seemed empty, abandoned.

You're tired, Sherlock told himself. Go to bed.

In the end, he stayed up until the early morning.

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To Be Continued

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PS I'm aware that in ACD canon, Gladstone is a Bulldog. I know nothing about Bulldogs, however, so I decided to change his breed.

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