Hi, all! So I wanted to do a Christmas themed fanfic this year, but since my Marvel stuff is in progress and I couldn't find an organic way to fit it in (since it's currently summer with Tony and the gang), I decided to go a little off-book. I'm a HUGE fan of Sherlock, so I thought, "Gee, why don't I try and dive in there?" Well. Thinking maybe I shouldn't have. I've read so many good ones, and Sherlock is a challenging character to get just right.

Hopefully this doesn't totally suck. This will be a little two-part ficlet, just for the Holidays. Please be gentle, this is my first fic in this fandom. Let me know how you like.

Enjoy!

And Happy Holidays!

PS-Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about Darcy and Bucky. The next chapter for "Jet Plane" is just around the corner!

Sarah :)

The Curious Case of the Four-Legged Flatmate: A Sherlock Christmas Tale

Milton wasn't particularly fond of life on the streets. While London was often pleasant in the summer, it was brutal in the winter, bitter cold, and damp enough to make your joints creak.

But Milton made due. He scrounged for food and often kept warm under and behind the rubbish bins, or against the lingering warmth of a can fire in the nastier parts of the neighborhood. Sometimes people on the street even stopped to give him little snacks and treats. Water could be a little trickier—even he knew the river that people called the Thames was, in a word, gross—and he sometimes found himself unbelievably thirsty.

But he was a survivor after all. He'd been born and bred to be such. It was in his nature.

It wasn't as though he was the only stray dog in the Wimbledon neighborhood.

When his owners—James and Cynthia—had moved and been unable to take him along, it had hurt to tell them goodbye at the shelter. He didn't understand why a simple dog couldn't go along, but it wasn't as though there was anything he could do about it. He couldn't exactly argue.

But then the shelter had burnt down.

He felt okay about it, now that it was over, and okay in the knowledge that all his fellow animals had gotten out unharmed. Hopefully they'd all found a way in the two winters since. Maybe the Burmese cat that had occupied the kennel across the way from him had already been taken in off the street by some well-meaning family, a little girl who dragged her father by the hand to show him the kitten, bedded down and shivering in an alley full of rubbish bins and empty boxes.

Or, at least, he hoped.

Fate, after all, hadn't been so kind to him. He had to assume that people noticed his remaining collar and tags—the shelter hadn't had time to change them out before their fire—and figured he belonged to someone and was simply out on walkabout.

He wasn't.

But home was a distant concept now. The streets were his home, all the people on them his owners, especially the kind few who paused to pet him.

He was just making his way back from the seedier part of the city, where he'd bedded down for the night. The houses here in his old, fancy neighborhood were all done up, now, for Christmas. Wreaths decorated doors, and holly hung, the lamps had bows in bright crimson red, nearly the same shade of his burnt umber coat.

He was very thankful for that coat in these cold temperatures. Clearly, this winter would be no different from the last in terms of weather.

The people on the streets paid him no mind as they hurried on their way to work, or the tube station, briefcases swinging, cabs trundling, high heels clacking hollowly on the pavement. One woman ahead pulled her fur coat—he would frown if he truly could—more tightly around her in the bitter chill and tugged her small daughter behind her, rushing like they were late.

"Come, Mags," she snapped impatiently.

The little girl looked up and saw him, and smiled.

It took all the control Milton had not to approach them. He'd learned not to do that the hard way, getting shoved, smacked, and screamed at one too many times, the people assuming he was just a mangy beast. But everything in him wanted to go to the little girl, press against her and feel her nice warmth, maybe be able to smell the warm sweetness of her, maybe some lingering smoke from a hearth fire still in her hair. She'd stroke his coat and giggle and for just a moment, it would feel like he was back home again, before his owner's daughter and grown and left.

And then they'd left him.

The two passed him by, the little girl pointing at him and waving on their way.

He looked away, his heart throbbing in old, now familiar homesickness.

A man in a suit was next, rushing along the street, his pea coat folded tightly shut and his collar up against the wind, his camera phone pressed to his ear.

"No, Shane, I told you I cancelled the meeting, remember? Yeah. No, it's fine. I'm going to stop for a coffee. You want anything? No? You sure? It's Speedy's, you know you love Speedy's. Alright, just one, got it. I know, I know, you're watching your figure for Amanda. Say no more."

He saw Milton and they watched each other for a moment, lingering on the pavement outside the bustling café.

"You should see this dog. No, he's just here on the street. Well, he's got tags. He must be someone's, right? Gosh, his coat is gorgeous—I mean, it needs a good washing up…"

He stepped up to the doors.

Milton's heart—stubborn and foolishly hopeful—sank.

"Just one, I know, I know, you bloomin' idiot."

He disappeared inside.

Milton paused for a moment on the street, watching the movement inside the little sandwich shop.

All those people.

Living their lives.

No room for him.

Of course, they had their own problems, he knew.

The people always assumed that dogs didn't know much, didn't catch on to things like self-awareness, just figured if it was an animal, it must not be intelligent or have deep-thinking moments.

But Milton did.

Huffing a sigh, he moved on.

But he'd gone not half a dozen steps when—

"Oi!"

He turned.

It was the man with the coat, and his phone was gone now.

"Yeah, you, mate! C'mere, boy!"

He glanced over his shoulder. No one behind him.

"Come on, mate! Got you something, fella!"

Heart leaping, he trotted back to the café front.

The man in the coat knelt down on the pavement and unwrapped a wax paper wrapper, smiling as he spoke to him. "Thought you might be hungry, boy. I got ya a treat. I mean, it ain't pot roast, and it sure ain't healthy, but I'd wager you need all the calories you can get, eh?"

He held out a rolled sweet. His nose remembered the cinnamon, and the sugar, the rolled shape.

A…cinnamon roll?

The man offered it. "Go on." He set it on the pavement. "That's for you, mate."

He leaned down and took a tentative bite. Yes, a cinnamon roll. He remembered these from his home.

"There you go."

He took a larger bite, determined not to inhale it, but savor it, slowly and with much enjoyment. Who knew when he'd get such a kind treat again.

Warmth spread through him.

"There now. Listen, I gotta get to work. You be safe and warm and then you go on home, eh? Bet someone's missing you, you hear?"

He looked up at him, cocking his head to show he'd heard and understood.

The man laughed, then reached up and patted Milton's head, standing again. "I'll see ya round, mate."

And he was gone, hurrying back up the street in his snug, warm-looking coat.

For ten minutes, Milton made that cinnamon roll last, sitting there, in front of the busy café, people rushing around him.

It was wonderful.

And it was still warm when he swallowed that last bite.

Then he stood, looked around at all the people, and continued on his way. There was an alley just down the way where he sometimes spent his days. It wasn't far.

He nearly bumped into another person behind him as he turned.

The man carefully skirted him, but paused in front of Speedy's, phone pressed to his ear, too.

Boy, the humans really loved their…was the word 'gadgets'? That seemed right.

"No, Sherlock, I'm not staying so you can show me a broken rubber band. I just want to pick up that box and be on my way. I just got Gemma down for her nap and Mary's got a shift coming up. I need to get back."

Intrigued at the thought of any importance being attached to something as frivolous as a rubber band, Milton listened hard.

"I don't care if it proves a case, Sherlock."

The man was…of average height for a human, slim, and blond, with it combed slickly back away from his face, though the wind was threatening its staying power. He had pale bruises under his eyes and looked tired. It was clear he'd dressed hastily, jeans, and a jumper under a thick corduroy coat, all in shades of gray and tan.

He mentally rolled his eyes, like humans sometimes did when they were impatient. "Sherlock, I seriously can't this time. I'm just coming up for a minute."

And he went over to the flat entrance next door, where the black door was marked 221B, opened the door, and went up the stairs within.

Milton stood there a moment, rattling this information around in his brain.

Why would any human consider something like a rubber band—a toy, it seemed to Milton, a small tool designed to hold other human belongings together—important in any way?

And why was that man in such an impatient rush? Of course, he'd said that he had family to get home to—Gemma was likely a small child, so Mary a wife with work looming? So he couldn't stay. He'd learned that humans kept very busy schedules. They rarely left time for anything of enjoyment. But this man's impatience seemed long-tired and exasperated.

He decided to wait.

After all, he was curious.

And it wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

Time ticked by.

People continued to rush past.

Did they ever stop to consider things, he wondered?

Like, life, for instance?

Or even each other?

The way Milton remembered it, Christmas was a time to slow down and consider each other. He remembered long weekends in front of the fire, carols low on the radio, and his owners doing nothing for long periods of time, laughing, eating, drinking, and unwrapping curious little packages covered in paper and often containing things that brought each other a strangely large amount of glee. Sometimes there'd even been boxes for him, with delicious treats or toys that squeaked.

Togetherness.

He didn't have that, now, and he wondered why no one else noticed how wonderful it all was.

Of course, he'd learned in his five years that humans often forgot things like that, lost in all the hustle and bustle of their lives. Not necessarily because they didn't notice or appreciate things. But the human brain seemed very prone to overcrowding, distraction, and an overwhelming need to get things done at a rapid pace that seemed to outstrip everything else.

He wished, often, that he could speak, speak Human, so he could ask them how they could change that, or if they even wanted to.

The door opened again, and the blond man stepped out, followed by another fellow, this one taller and thinner, almost alarmingly so on both fronts.

"Sherlock, I've got to go. Really. I'm sorry, mate. Maybe tomorrow."

"No, John, it's got to be now, and I need another set of eyes," the second man said, pulling a long, thin hand through his dark brown curls, his face set in a look of determination and impatience.

The blond man—John—chuckled and shook his head, adjusting the small cardboard box in his arms. "The Great Sherlock Holmes, admitting he needs something from someone else? You must be desperate."

The dark-haired man—Sherlock, apparently—scoffed, and waved a hand. "Nonsense, I…I just…" He fumbled, visibly, looking away, the crease between his brows tightening. "It's…too quiet. I can't…" He huffed, as though the words were wrenching from him by their own painful will. He clenched his hands, fisting them. "I can't think, in the quiet, John. My mind—it's too chaotic."

John, a bit more soberly, merely smiled. "You thrive on chaos, Sherlock. You scatter it about wherever you go, in fact." He even gestured with his hands.

Milton found this all very entertaining. If nothing else, it was a distraction from not only the biting wind—the dark-haired man was in only a blue, thin dressing gown over what was clearly his pajamas—but also the craving for another cinnamon roll clawing through his belly.

"Forget it," Sherlock said suddenly, already stepping back into the doorway.

Now John looked guilty, stepping forward. "Well, Sherlock, don't be like that—"

"No, no, since my frustration is so funny, you go on home to Mary and the baby. Maybe you can teach her a new verse of Round and Round the Garden."

And he slammed the door, the knocker rattling.

For a moment, John stood there, face slack in surprise and irritation. He shook his head, glancing up and down the street. "For years, he acts like he doesn't feel a thing. Now he acts like I've abandoned him. Sod it." And he went on his way, back up the street, past Speedy's, around the corner, and was gone.

Milton wished there was a way to mediate. Clearly the two were having a case of poor, miscommunication—Sherlock seemed less than talented at voicing certain thoughts, if his subtle facial tics were any indication—and Milton was sure he could straighten it out.

If only he could speak Human.

He huffed out another sigh.

Just then the door opened again and he jumped.

Sherlock was back, leaning out the door.

Milton turned, glancing back up the street, expecting John to be returning.

But there was no one.

In fact, the streets were thinning of people, the morning rush eased as work was reached for many.

"No. You," the man said, his voice low and deep and quiet.

Milton turned back to find the man's silvery blue eyes hard on him. Milton.

"You might work."

Milton blinked.

"Wait here."

He disappeared.

The door slammed again.

So he waited. This was new.

A few moments later, the man named Sherlock was back, and out on the stoop, dressed smartly in black slacks and a button down in what used to be Cynthia's favorite color: violet. Milton could see the color under his pewter Belstaff and just peeking out from behind his blue scarf. Sherlock tightened it around his throat and started off down the block.

Milton blinked.

Sherlock paused, turned, and gave him a look. "Are you coming?" He didn't wait to see if Milton followed, but kept on up the street at a rapid pace, his long legs having a head start.

But Milton followed along after on his four legs, curious just what this day was becoming.

They walked for a while in silence, passing the odd person here and there, mostly older people out for their days of retirement. And they walked at quite the brisk pace, Milton's four legs the only thing making him a match for Sherlock's long-legged strides.

He was a singular man, Milton could already tell, his pale face held in a concentrated frown, his dark brown—nearly black—curls bouncing slightly in the wintry breeze.

The steam from a heating vent they passed on a shop front distracted Milton for a moment, the warmth setting his fur blowing before he realized Sherlock had paused. With a raised eyebrow, he waited while Milton caught up, shoulders hunched in embarrassment.

"I've mostly been pretending John's still round the flat," he suddenly said, starting in the middle as humans often did. "He moved out, see, got married, had a baby, few months back." He wrinkled his face in what appeared to be confusion. "I mean, not that I'm alone in there—all the time." He shrugged, like he had to justify it for Milton. "But, you know, I need someone with me…on cases. And my usual replacement is…busy. On Christmas." He sighed, pulling leather gloves from his pocket and sliding them on, the right, then the left. "Got called in. Surprisingly, holidays can be…a busy time in the department.

Milton tried to gauge where they were going, but North Gower could be taking them anywhere.

"I'm not…in the habit of pouring my heart out, really. At all." Sherlock glanced down at him with a sardonic smirk, just a twitch of damning emotion. "I've been repeatedly informed that I don't have one. I took that as a compliment…once." He looked ahead again, that crease reappearing between his brows. "A long time ago." He reached up to tighten his scarf again, and Milton deduced that this curious Sherlock fellow was nervous. It was funny, he thought, what people said to the dog when they thought no one else would understand. Did they assume the dog would? Or did they just like the mental construct of a sounding board, someone or thing to use to hear their thoughts spoken aloud? After all, Milton understood every word.

Milton also got the feeling that Sherlock wasn't often nervous.

"Not that I'd ever tell John that. Still believes in heroes, I suppose. Though I think I finally convinced him I'm not one of them." He shrugged his shoulders.

Milton made a mumble of agreement in his throat as he glanced up at the man.

Sherlock looked down at him. "You know, you remind me of someone. Someone from a long time ago."

They passed a street vendor selling wreaths and garlands of holly.

"Wreath for your front door, sir?" he asked, gesturing to his wares, a pine circle with a red bow, and Milton inhaled the wonderful, crisp, clean smell.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said with a gentle, surprisingly kind smile, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"That's a mighty impressive dog you got there," the vendor continued.

Milton allowed just a tiny bit of warmth to seep into his heart at the concept of having someone to belong to again.

Sherlock didn't bother to correct him.

The man raised a hand. "Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas," Sherlock replied, his voice low and warm.

They continued onwards.

"John would be surprised I bothered to reply," Sherlock commented as they crossed the street. "People like to assume that I'm a heartless monster. Admittedly, I'm less than…warm with most people I meet. But…I'm hardly an 'Ice Man'—or a virgin, for that matter." Another sardonic smirk. "Did my share of experimenting at Uni. Just found it…not worth my time." Yet another shrug. "Well. Until now."

Milton suspected the slight color in his cheeks hadn't been there for some time now, not since his childhood at least.

"This isn't a complicated case. Elementary, really. Nothing exciting, not even a real mystery. If the man who hired me had bothered to look at the evidence in front of him, he'd have realized immediately that the disappearing money was being funneled into a drug ring by his head of floor management." He sighed. "Course, I'd rather not deal with his thugs in person, but since..." He looked down, his expression changing yet again. "Since the baby…I've been…alone for these dangerous bits." He turned a sudden and unexpected smile down at Milton. "Nice to have someone with me again." He paused then, and knelt down on the pavement, raising a hand to gently stroke it down Milton's head. "You really do remind me of someone."

Milton tilted his head back and shut his eyes, reveling in the warmth of his large hand as it folded around an ear.

"Been living rough for a while now, hm? Milton, is it?" His other hand sifted through his tags and they jangled softly in the cold mid-day air. "These are scuffed and worn round the edges. Shelter burned down not far from here, two summers ago." His fingers combed the shaggy tangles of his once-fine red coat. "Been down by the docks. You've not been properly fed for some time. The ash in your coat tells me quite a lot, Milton."

Milton raised his paw and set it on Sherlock's knee.

The man sighed. "You ready? Might be dangerous."

Milton let out a hoarse, gentle bark. He was a little rusty; he'd been largely silent for a long while.

Sherlock smiled again and stood, tugging at his collar to pull it up behind his head. "The game is on, then."

He stepped off the curb and took a left.