Disclaimer: Hey, guess what? I don't own Sherlock! Wanna know a secret? Sherlock belongs to the BBC. Dang.

He could've sat there for hours. He would've stayed there too, pulling his fingers through Redbeard's fur, leaning against the wall in his room. He would've let himself continue to stare absently at the canine's open, panting jaw.

But he couldn't. It just wasn't who he was.

Redbeard always seemed to have something to smile his derpy smile about. He envied that about the fur-covered creature. The simplicity. Good things made him happy, bad things made him angry. Easy as that.

There were no deductions for Redbeard to make, no cases to solve, no secrets to discover, and no family to keep away. He never had to worry about getting anywhere on time, or doing anything he didn't want to.

There weren't any social requirements for dogs. That was a plus. He never could manage to read the social cues. Perhaps he was too busy reading the people.

It really was too bad. People worried over such little things. Such trivial matters, really. They worried over their lunch dates. They worried over their gas money. They worried over their social status.

He'd never seen Redbeard worry.

Dating. Mating.

Dogs took them so lightly. The dating was nonexistent. The mating took minutes. Then they split apart.

People, on the other hand… Dating lasted for years. The constant trials each party would put the other through, testing them, and making absolutely sure that they were right.

Mating took forever and an eternity.

What was the point? So they could bread more imbeciles? He scoffed at the idea. Mentally, of course. Showing his emotions –even now– was something he'd learned not to do, at any cost.

It was a lesson well learned.

He walked out of his mind-palace, leaving that train of thought for another time, and locked the door behind him. He gave Redbeard one last pat on the shoulder, as he came back to reality, gradually realizing that somehow, Redbeard had managed to get his head into his lap.

He wanted to smile at that. Then again, he wanted a lot of things.

He wanted to take Redbeard for a walk in the park. He wanted to play games with his older brother. He wanted to throw a yellow tennis ball and watch Redbeard go bounding after it. He wanted his mother to have to tell him to eat his peas. He wanted his father to have to teach him how to hit a baseball. He didn't want to turn sports into careful calculations of mass, acceleration, and gravity.

He wanted to be normal.

But he wasn't.

So, he stood. Then, Sherlock walked away.

Redbeard whined.