Deleted Scene: For your reading pleasure and to satisfy the curiosity of those who asked, I will now tell you the story of how there came to be a dead dog in the storm drain. This is set sometime in the three months before Annora's death.

Trigger warning for animal cruelty.

The Dead Dog

Sherlock had been trying to sleep for the last two and a half hours. He actually wanted to sleep. This was a rare evening where he would welcome it. However, there was a dog. A dog outside barking.

It was loud enough to be heard from deep inside the California mansion and to ruin his ability to concentrate on anything of value; but no one else seemed to be disturbed by it. Apparently, the owners were just letting it bark and none of the other neighbors had demanded it be shut up. To make matters worse, the house was quite. It seemed that neither Jim nor Moran were being kept from sleep like he was.

Time to play the violin. Sherlock did not care if he woke up the rest of the house. The criminal had done the same to him numerous times and would fully understand (though he may be displeased). Then the detective would no longer be the only one kept up by that obnoxious beast wandering the streets.

It was two in the morning. Jim wanted some ice cream.

The thing was they didn't have any in the house. He'd already checked the freezer and there was no ice cream. (Annoying, because it wasn't like he didn't distinctly remember telling Moran to pick some up with the other groceries.) Well, he'd just have to go get some himself. But where to go this late at night. Even though L.A. was a huge city, the chances of an ice cream parlor still being open were slim. Well, there was always a connivence store, he supposed.

Perhaps, Sherlock would like to come. But the house was quiet; the detective was most likely either working on something or sleeping, either way the criminal doubts he could to be torn away for a mere ice cream run. (No matter how delicious it promised to be.) Sherlock certainly did not have Jim's sweet tooth.

The criminal is just about to slip out, when he hears the shrill pull of Sherlock's bow on the strings of his violin. So, not in the middle of something. Quite the opposite, Sherlock was restless.

Jim knocks on the detective's door and then ducks his head into the room.

"I'm going out to get some ice cream." Sherlock fixes the criminal with an appraising expression. "Want to come?"

Sherlock shrugs and putting down his violin.

"Let me get dressed."

Jim is scrolling through his phone when the detective joins him in the living room. Sherlock sees the out of place mechanics, one of Moran's guns on one of the living room side-tables, immediately; odd because the colonel generally kept his firearms out of sight. His glance stays on it a moment too long, considering.

"There's a convenience store down the hill," Jim explained, slipping his phone in his pocket with an excited smile. He started for the door: "You don't mind walking?"

Of course not. Sherlock's about to follow when he hears the blasted dog again, and that decides it; he pockets the weapon without second thought and adds a spring to his step to catch up with the criminal.

Ding-dong!

The clerk, who glanced up at the sound of the door registering customers passing through it then he went back to his magazine, ignoring the two well dressed men looking for ice cream at three in morning. Apparently, this sort of thing had more common in Bel Air than one would think.

Jim stops short at the ice cream freezer. When the carving came upon him, Jim had wanted the a rich spicy-chocolate. But then they didn't have any of that at the house and it was a specialty flavor, so he had to think of something readily available at a store. By the time they got down the hill, the criminal wanted something fruity. There wasn't much debate as to which kinds they wanted. Jim ended up choosing a rainbow sherbet push-up and Sherlock quickly snatched up an Oreo cookie ice cream sandwich, which caused the criminal to question his assumption of Sherlock's disinterest in sweets.

After paying for the treats, the consultants sit on the newspaper stands outside enjoying the warm night air.

"This is fun," the criminal was glad the detective came, which reminded him how close he had been to leaving without Sherlock. He could see that the man was tired and yet there he was angrily playing the violin: "What was troubling you?"

Sherlock said he could not sleep. There was this yapping dog. He waited hours for it to shut up, but it never did. Said he was more than half a mind to shoot it. Then the detective asked if the criminal heard it; which upon recollection Jim supposed he had vaguely in the distance, but he was on the phone.

"Ah..."

"Maybe it will have quieted by the time we get back."

"And if not, you'll keep me company."

"Oh?" But Jim's smirking.

Walking back Jim relayed the conversation that he'd had earlier that night when taking business calls. A prisoner had gotten in touch with him for advice. Not on how to arrange an escape or hire protection for the inside; but for Jim's suggestions on ways to improve the crime he was caught committing and was now serving a sentence for.

Sherlock scoffed, sometimes the clients Jim attracted were hardly worth the effort. They were crossing a small bridge over the ravine just near the house, when Sherlock looks over at Jim, but instead sees something just past the criminal. It moves. Sherlock sees a dog. That had to be the dog.

"And that's not even the funniest bit! Wait, till you hear what he was arrested for-" the criminal pauses, glancing around. The detective's about ten paces behind him staring at some dark moving shape on the other side of the street. "Sherlock, are you listening?"

The shape yelped.

"That's not-" Jim starts and Sherlock's nodding his head, still staring at the shape. The detective has this very determined look in his eye, like he might do something rolls his eyes. Time to be getting back.

It howled again; voice hoarse and the same one that had been plaguing Sherlock all night. It had to go. The detective reaches into his pocket for the sig. There would be no more yapping. The detective was doing the public a service.

"Maybe we should-" Jim starts, but Sherlock, before he's even finished his thought; Sherlock takes out a gun. And Jim can hardly believe it. The detective takes three steps closer to the dog before he starts firing. And he doesn't stop, advancing on the injured thing until he's unloaded half the clip into it.

Sherlock squints at it, before kneeling down to make sure it's really dead. He turns back to Jim, who's looking at him slightly confused.

"Since when do you carry a gun?" the criminal asked sardonically.

"Here, help me out," Sherlock said as he examined the now lifeless furry being, deciding the best way for them to pick it up.

Even from across the street, the criminal could see it was scraggly and most likely infested with flees. Like hell, Jim would touch it.

When the criminal does not move to assist him, Sherlock looks up to Jim staring down at him with an expression of distaste: seriously. Sherlock straightens, huffing in exasperation. Fixing Jim with a look of expectation, to which he receives a shaking head.

"No," the criminal was adamant. "You killed it; you get rid of it."

"Oh, good grief," the detective grumbled, as he picked up the carcass walking it over the railing, only to throw over the edge of the bridge. There's the expected splash of body on water and then he hears something else. Choked sounds. He turns around to find the criminal stifling laughter.

"You've just polluted a water source." Jim barely gets through a fit of giggles.

"Oh, no!" The detective's sarcasm voiced his irritability. "Now, I've got dog guts all over me!"

"And who's fault is that?"

"Your's, clearly," still short, but then Sherlock gets this glint in his eye, Jim can see the detective thinks he's had the perfect idea. He starts walking towards Jim with his arms stretched out as if to embrace someone; namely Jim. It's two seconds before the criminal's eyes go wide.

"Jim," Sherlock keeps walking towards him. "Can I have a hug?" The criminal raises an eyebrow. It's not even two seconds of consideration before there's a flash of a knife smile:

"Only if you can catch me," which wasn't the outright 'no' the detective had been expecting. Then criminal turns on his heel and bolts.

Sherlock knew from experience that Jim is fast and could outrun him.

The detective still gives chase