Part 3: Rewarded.

John would likely disapprove, but for the last several months, Jim has been sleeping in the consulting detective's bed. He has a large, perfectly snug basket for napping, but more often that not, he'll curl up beside Sherlock. It's not like Sherlock hasn't tried to stop him; he has. Even locked his door to keep him out.

But Jim whimpered and howled and clawed at the wood until his nails broke and bled.

So he leaves it open a crack for the puppy to push through and merely throws an arm over his face and groans whenever Jim sneaks in in the middle of the night with his orca dangling from his mouth and snuggles up beside him.

…

One evening, John stomps up the stairs and bursts into the flat, bellowing, 'SHERLOCK! Did you make Anderson cry at a crime scene today?! You are unbelievable - you know that? Only you could be so bloody horrible!'

'Shhh!'

The dismissive hush pulls him up short for about three seconds, before he grits through his teeth, 'Sherlock-'

Sherlock plucks another string, repeating more critically, 'Shhhh!'

There is an audible snap of John's jaw, nostrils flaring. 'Sherlock Holmes, do not shush me-'

Finally tears his gaze away from his violin, Sherlock butts in, 'Keep your voice down.' His voice is a harsh, demanding whisper, and he nods to where Jim is curled at his feet, tense and wide-eyed, gaze flitting between the two men. 'You're scaring the pup.'

'Me?' John says in disbelief, poking his chest. 'I'm scaring the pup? Do you even -' He smears a hand across his mouth. 'You were here last Monday? You were, weren't you? I'm not making that up? Because I seem to recall a God-awful screeching coming from a certain someone's violin that I swear could be heard from the other side of London.'

'That was different.'

'So he wasn't scared, then? That's what you're saying? He didn't… I don't know - cower under the bed or anything? Because that's where I found him.'

'He was hiding from Mycroft,' he replies dryly. Sherlock raises his violin in front of his face and inspects the polished wood, before holding it to his ear and shaking it a little. 'Frankly, I don't blame him - does this sound off to you?' He pulls another string and tweaks the pegs, mouth broodingly pursing.

'I don't think it was Mycroft he was afraid of.'

'How do you know? You've seen my brother. Wouldn't you run, too?'

A ghost of smile appears on John's lips. 'It may have been a combination of the two,' he admits, before turning serious. 'But you should be more careful where you host your little brotherly spats in future. Jim is not a fan. Of Mycroft or your violin playing.'

'He'll acclimatize,' he argues, stressing, 'To both.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. But bear it in mind, yeah?'

Sherlock sighs and grudgingly agrees, 'If you insist.' Then, snatching his bow and aligning the instrument under his chin, he mumbles, 'He likes Bach.'

'Jim's favourite, I know,' John mollifies, turning to the door. 'Oh, and Sherlock?' He waits until he has his full attention. 'Apologise to Anderson, will you?'

Sherlock resumes playing, but not before flipping him the finger.

…

'What's puppy doing, huh? What's puppy at?'

In recent weeks, Sherlock has taken to speaking to Jim in the silliest of tones when he's in an upbeat mood, particularly after several nicotine patches or whenever he's in the midst of an exceptionally thrilling case, rallying around with a slight bounce to his step and a grin that looks too jolly to logically fit on his face.

Lately Jim himself has been responding even more positively to the belittling baby-talk, preening at the attention and rolling over at the drop of a hat. 'Silly puppy. You just want to play, don't you? Such a cutie. Such a little cutie.' He furiously rubs the pup's belly and scratches under his chin. Jim goes wild. He drools over Sherlock's wrist (and by association, his impressive, shiny watch), and joyously kicks his paws.

Any other day, and he would have been alerted to their company instantly, but today he is hundreds of miles away, floating on cloud nine. He doesn't hear a thing.

'Well, that's just creepy,' Lestrade mumbles as he freezes at the door, John hovering awkwardly behind him. Both heads snap around.

Clearing his throat and sitting back, while Jim wriggles out from underneath him to survey their guest, Sherlock responds coolly, 'Nothing wrong with it, Detective Inspector.' His expression is stony, but Jim can tell he's a little caught off guard and he wonders how no-one else notices it. 'It's just a bit of fun.'

'Yeah, well, there's fun,' the police officer counters, 'and then there's too much fun. If you catch my drift.'

Sherlock bristles and this time the defensiveness is detected at once. 'I don't think I like what you're implying, Lestrade. He's a pup. Isn't this what people do? Lavish them with attention?'

'Alright, alright,' Lestrade appears to recognise that he's hit upon a sore spot and raises his hands in surrender, 'Don't get your panties in a twist. I don't actually care. Just gave me a bit of start, that's all. I can mind my own business.'

'Then knock next time.'

'He did,' John cuts in, looking apologetic. 'You never answered. I was just crossing the street when he got here, so I let him up. Thought you were out.'

'Oh. Well.' Sherlock visibly shakes himself. Then, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred, he enquires with a sneer, 'What did you need? Run into a spot of trouble in your investigation? Again.'

Lestrade breathes a sigh of relief at the return to normalcy and immediately launches into his explanation as Jim picks up his squeaky toy, protruding from his bulging mouth, and carries it over to the corner, flopping down and bracing himself for days, maybe weeks, of Sherlock's divided attention.

He decides he hates having his belly scratchies interrupted and he's not too fond of the copper, either. It's his fault Sherlock gets so many cases. If he weren't so stupid, if only he were better at his job, then Jim would have his pet detective all to himself.

Except for John, that is. But their friendship doesn't inconvenience him too much. Not when John's got a girlfriend.

…

They've always made a point to reward Jim for good behaviour. Treats doled out in the form of two or three mint sweets, a rich-tea biscuit, or a bone-shaped cookie. Sherlock is always most generous while he's in demand and this time is no exception.

Jim is spoiled rotten with a range of delicacies to make up for the consulting detective's absences; never needing to bat an eyelash or make goo-goo eyes to get what he wants.

The only thing Sherlock won't budge on is the strict ban on chocolate. Jim's never been allowed chocolate. But it doesn't feel like he's missing out. Truth is, he's forgotten what it tastes like.

…

Four days after the incident with Lestrade, John brings round takeaway to make sure Sherlock's eating while working on the case.

It's obvious he feels guilty about staying at Mary's so often, so the night is more geared towards male-bonding and easing his own conscience than purely making sure Sherlock takes a much-needed break, though that's definitely part of it.

They catch up over an hour-long documentary about melting solar icecaps and drowning polar bears, which doesn't really appeal to either of them, yet no-one changes it over. (Sherlock is too stubborn to agree to a compromise, preferring they suffer equally, and John doesn't seem to have very high standards when it comes to telly, anyway.)

Jim grows bored of the depressing story and dodgy reporting pretty quickly, and begins nudging Sherlock with his nose. He hasn't been feed yet and the thick smell of their greasy takeaway is making his stomach growl. He smacks his lips and there is the wet slap of a tongue stirring. Without even looking, Sherlock tears off a huge chunk of his burger, at least half, and allows Jim to sink his teeth into the red meat and soft, seedy bap, daintily nibbling from his hand.

John frowns, glancing between the two of them for several moments. 'Is that a wise idea?' he finally asks. When Sherlock appears confused, he tacks on, 'Giving him your food. Should you be doing that?'

'Why? What's wrong with it?'

'It just doesn't…He shouldn't really have those sorts of foods. Especially when he's not used to it.'

'But look at him, John,' Sherlock wheedles with a near-pout. Right then, Jim makes a special effort to look pathetic. 'He likes it!'

'It won't…I don't know. Give him a tummy ache or something?'

'You're acting like this is the first time the pup's gotten indigestion. Remember that chicken casserole Mrs Hudson baked last week? He loved it. Gobbled it down in seconds. Nearly choked, poor darling. I've warned him not to eat so quickly, but obviously he never listens. A crushed up rennie in one of his meals usually does the trick.'

John is shocked. 'You've been feeding him your leftovers? All this time?'

'Not leftovers, John,' Sherlock corrects with annoyance. 'My dinners. I don't have time to fritter away eating and sleeping. There's too much to do. And I had to do something with the casserole. I couldn't just leave it in the fridge to rot. You know how it upsets Mrs Hudson. Besides, I needed the space for my sheep stomachs. The freezer's full.'

'Sherlock…'

'Spare me the lecture, will you, John? It was a couple of times.' He rolls his eyes. 'Honestly. I hardly think it matters.'

'It matters a whole lot to me,' John counters. 'And it should matter to you, too.'

'Well - it doesn't. Get over it. I eat enough, I'm not dead yet. Look - my ribs have yet to make an appearance since you showed up. Doesn't that count as progress?' Funny thing is, Sherlock thinks he's being comforting. 'Seriously, John. You've got nothing to worry about.'

Exhaling wearily, John stabs his food with his fork, the screech of metal scraping against the plate piercing the air.

'Sure, I don't,' he mutters sourly. 'Nothing. Nothing whatsoever.'

…

Across the street from the flat, a crowd of luminous jacket-wearing men have been labouring since five a.m. sharp. Sherlock wasn't the only one jarred out of a peaceful night's rest by the sudden thunderous convulsions as they drilled deep into the heart of the earth, and owns up to feeling more than a little cross himself, but his own mild inconvenience doesn't come close to rivalling the wrath which has permeated Jim ever since.

At first, it was rather comical how the pup sprinted up and parked himself at the foot of the window, but then he simply…stayed there. Staring… Barking. And just generally being an illogically angry pain in the ass.

Jim appears to have made it his sole duty to express his displeasure. Vocally. Constantly. Forever, it seems.

Sherlock humours him; it's easier than intervening.

Pausing in puzzlement when he arrives at the flat with an armful of groceries after staying at Mary's the night before, John hesitates, before enquiring, 'What…what is he doing?'

'Jim? Oh, he's been like that all morning. By my estimate, we are approaching the..' Sherlock glimpses at the clock. 'Fifth hour, it seems.'

'The - the fifth?' he cries in disbelief. 'You're joking.'

Sherlock makes a concurring thrum at the back of his throat. 'Yes. He's very dedicated, isn't he?'

'I'll say. Haven't you tried moving him?'

'I tried, John. Trust me - I tried. It was…not an improvement.'

At that moment, the drilling stutters to a halt and before either man can breathe a sigh of relief, it starts up again, impossibly more deafening than before. Sitting up on his knees, ram-rod straight and scowling darkly, Jim kneads the floor with irritation and yaps for the thousandth time.

'Uh-huh, puppy,' Sherlock says indulgingly, flipping onto the next page of his book. 'You tell 'em.'

John shoots him an incredulous look and stands in shock for a moment, before blustering, 'Well, no wonder he's still at it! Did you even try to discourage him?'

'Why would I? It was funny.'

Jim barks again, swiping at the dirty window, who has taken the brunt of his anger - smudged with a whole compilation of misty prints.

'Yes, yes. I know. Loud noises are annoying,' Sherlock responds with a condescending eye roll while John scrubs his forehead and exhales noisily as if to say, I can't believe this. When the workmen then have the audacity to turn on a thundering digger to winch up the piles of dirt, the pup glares over his shoulder at Sherlock in outrage. 'Yes, loud noises are still annoying. What do you want me to do? Run out and yell at them in my dressing gown?' He chuckles. 'I don't think so.'

Jim honest-to-God snarls.

At John's gobsmacked expression, Sherlock explains offhandedly, 'Oh, you didn't know? I'm the reason anything bad has happened, or ever will happen, in the history of bad things happening. He blames me for everything. The other day, a fire engine flew past with the siren blasting and startled him out of sleep. Clearly my fault, yes? Jim certainly thought so. Even refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. Well,' he pauses, smirking, 'You know what I mean.'

John hmm's, remarking wryly, 'Can't imagine what that's like. To have someone sulk irrationally for days on end with little prompting, blaming everyone and everything, and firing at the walls because he's bored again…Goodness, no. Sounds dreadful.'

'I recognise your sarcasm and I don't appreciate it.'

'Well,' John half-shrugs, 'You know what they say. That's karma for you.'

'Karma? Karma? Don't be ridiculous, John,' snaps Sherlock. 'As if I extend any faith towards something so preposterous as karma. Ooh,' he flutters a hand, faux-excitement written into his sunny features, 'I helped an old lady cross the street; now I'm sure to receive that promotion at work!' Abandoning the bubbly tone, he scoffs, 'Give me a break. Puppies have an incredibly abysmal understanding of cause and effect. That's all there is to it.'

'Alright.' John holds up his hands in a placating gesture and steps back. 'If you say so.'

'Don't you have groceries to unpack?' Sherlock says snidely, sitting forward and slamming down his book. 'They're not going to put themselves away, you know.' He surges to his feet and trudges out of the room, dressing gown flapping behind him.

It could be his imagination, but John swears he hears Jim make a huffy snigger from his vantage point at the window.

…

Sherlock leaves on a Monday.

He hightails it out of the flat and he doesn't come home.

When John informs him that Sherlock had informed him, via text, 'Had to stop off in New Mexico. Won't be long - SH,' Jim can only stand there in shock. Not only had Sherlock left, left just like that, but he is hundreds and hundreds of miles away in another continent all the way across the Atlantic.

Stunned and at a complete loss, he pads over to his basket and collapses in a mountain of confusion and hurt while this slivery sensation latches onto him and won't let go, a breathless quaking that he absolutely refuses to acknowledge is the result of panic and anxiety. The little world he's built for himself has tilted off kilter and he doesn't know what to do. The weight of John's worried eyes never leaves him, as he sits and stares at Sherlock's empty chair, cuddling his orca.

He doesn't eat. He barely sleeps.

At night, he howls to the point where Mrs Hudson stomps up the stairs at three a.m. to complain.

'What on earth is going on up here?' she cries. 'Sounds like there's been a bloody murder.'

'I am so, so sorry, Mrs Hudson,' John apologises profusely, and hadn't he went to bed? 'Sherlock just upped and left this morning and he's…' He scratches his head, 'he's a little upset.'

'A little?' she repeats incredulously. 'That doesn't sound like a little, dear. No wonder he's making such a fuss. Poor thing must be scared out of his wits.' With a soft, sympathetic expression, she kneels down beside the still-whining Jim and eases her frown. 'It's alright, pet. He'll be home soon, don't you worry,' Mrs Hudson murmurs soothingly as she reaches out to rub his back, before directing over her shoulder to John, 'He's not used to sleeping on his own, I suppose?'

'Well, uh, no. I don't think so.'

'Maybe you should take his basket into your room,' she suggests. 'Just for tonight. Might help calm him down a little. Grab an old shirt of his, too, will you? Should do the trick.'

'You think so?'

'It's worth a try.' John leaves and hurries back with the sought-after item, and Mrs Hudson's smiles slightly as Jim's cries quieten down as she lays the shirt over his shoulders, before her brows knit once more. 'I'll be having words with that Sherlock one once he gets back,' she states sternly, 'Mark my words. We can't have him running off whenever he pleases. It's such a big disruption for this little one. Especially when it's so sudden. He's got responsibilities now, you know.'

'I know. I tried telling him.'

Mrs Hudson sighs. 'He's not one for listening, is he?'

'Nope. Never is.'

At that instant, Jim yawns and they spy his eyes drooping as he nuzzles under the shirt.

John blows out a slow breath of relief. 'Thank-you so much, Mrs Hudson,' he whispers. 'I honestly don't know what I would have done.'

'Don't mention it, dear,' she responds pleasantly, before heading to the door and adding over the shoulder, 'Though if it happens again, Sherlock's arse won't be the only one I'll be kicking.'

…

Today is the day Sherlock is coming home and he can hardly wait.

Jim sits dutifully by the window and watches the commotion on the streets, and John leaves him to it. When the black cab finally pulls up in the early afternoon, his breaths stop altogether.

The door slams shut from downstairs and Jim skitters by the hallway in anticipation, to John's dismay. He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at this point.

A familiar figure comes into view and Jim is overwhelmed by so many emotions, it would be impossible to pinpoint them all: joy, relief, adoration, a powerful gale of warmth.

'Come here, boy,' he says simply, patting his thighs and clicking his teeth, 'Come here.' Jim barrels towards him and wriggles in delight, stretching to dab a pink tongue over his chin. 'Who's a good boy? You are. Yes, you are.' He feels like he's going to puke he's so excited, brain short-circuiting with happiness.

IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou'resoamazingandsmartandImissedyousomuchIloveyouloveyoulovelovelove

'Alright, alright. Calm down,' Sherlock laughs. 'I'm not going anywhere.'

Jim falls back, panting and grinning up at him in something like worship.

'Bit keyed up, isn't he?' Sherlock downplays, blinking in perplexity and looking to his flatmate for answers.

John scrubs his forehead and blows out a ragged sigh. 'You don't know the half of it. Someone,' he states pointedly, as Jim leans forward to sniff at Sherlock's hand, 'was acting like another someone had D-I-E-D.' He spells it out, but it's not necessary. The puppy is oblivious.

Sherlock arches a brow, curious. 'Had your hands full, then?'

'God, yes.'

'Well - um. Thank-you,' he says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. 'For taking care of him. I appreciate it.'

'I'd like to say it was my pleasure, but it was really not. Don't ever do that to me again.'

'Agreed.' Sherlock cracks a smile alive with mirth at his friend's aggressively averse tone and John shakes his head and punches his shoulder, but he's grinning, too.

…

When Molly comes by, Jim is past the point of recognition. She is simply a skittish stranger, whose generously applied musk of lavender and honeysuckle can't quite disguise the scent of Death that clings to her. It makes Jim wary.

But the thing about Molly is - she's nice. You can't help but fall in love with her gentle manner and odd quirks.

And although she is as uncomfortable as he is at first, she softens up after petting him a bit and Jim quivers animatedly over making a new friend, and she chuckles when he tumbles over his own feet after getting a tad overexcited.

Her voice adopts an affectionate, cloying quality and she says Jim is nothing but a big softie. She gives him a great big cuddle before leaving and afterwards, Sherlock muses that she'd make a good dog-sitter for whenever he's out of town, and Jim agrees. Anyone's gotta be better than John.

And Molly is lovely and sweet and he loves her loads already.

…

Sherlock glances down when he feels a tug on his shoelaces. He slowly extracts the thin cord from between slippery teeth and glares down at the perpetrator. Jim falls back and kicks out his legs, gazing back innocently.

'You little scamp. You're more trouble than you're worth,' he tells him, rubbing the pup's belly.

They both know he doesn't mean it.

…

Lazing out in a square of sunlight before the window, on his back with half-lidded eyes and an unfocused gaze, Jim teeters on the edge of sleep while Sherlock experiments with a bloody pound of flesh in the kitchen.

His white t-shirt is scrunched up and exposes the creamy skin of his stomach, with the elastic band his obsolete boxer shorts proudly on display. His lethargic limbs are sprawled out in a starfish sort of shape, curled ever so slightly inwards, and Old Jim (or Moriarty, as he's now referred to, as if he's a separate entity) would have been loathe to admit it, but the idle position he's adopted is unquestionably analogous with that of a dozing dog.

Sherlock takes one look at him and smirks.

He's contented and comfortable, and the gaping hole in his gut that the razing and the maiming and the soulless butchering previously absorbed, is utterly quiet as he twitches and yawns, lazily watching the clouds shuffle across the sky.

How long has it been? Two years, maybe. Could be three. Jim doesn't think about it.

He's got a loving family, composed of his best friend and slightly-less-best-friend and a handful of surprising others, and he's happy. What more could he ask for?

World domination? Nah. He doesn't require a public throne. Not anymore.

Who needs the world when Jim can reign over this little household, only having to whip out The Look to fulfil his heart desires? Anything else would be too much effort.

He has his toys and his belly scratchies and his Sherlock.

This is it now.

This is home.

~ Fin ~