Disclaimer: I own no part of Sherlock or its characters.
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Gladstone the Dog.
Genre: Gen, humor. But incredibly gen.
Rating: PG/K+ (John gets sweary.)
Word Count: 951.
Summary: Sherlock gets a dog named Gladstone. From Baskerville. And Dr Stapleton. John does not approve.
Notes: Aaand another kinkmeme fill. I know. I have no excuses. Also, this is incredibly non-compliant with Reichenbach. It does come after Hounds, though.

In retrospect, John realises that he probably should have noticed it sooner, but, to be fair, he'd had a few other things on his mind. Things like If he ever experiments on me again, I'm binning that... whatever it is... under the sofa, the one that he thinks I don't know about, and I wonder why Lestrade gave me that look when I said Sherlock was driv—oh, that tit. I knew there was something off about the licence.

And, yes, on the ride home there had been the odd snuffling sound from beneath Sherlock's coat, but after those incidents with the lab mice and then the tarantula, John had learnt to ignore any and all strange noises coming from his flatmate's person. The alternative—actually thinking about the sounds—was not at all conducive to either a happy living arrangement or the stability of John's mental health.

And, fine, Sherlock's offer to do the grocery shopping when they got back to Baker Street really, really ought to have tipped him off, but at the time, John had thought his flatmate was still... apologising. Obviously, it'd been a very stupid, very wrong idea.

All of which amounts to John not observing what ought to have been obvious to him from the moment they left Dartmoor, thus landing the doctor in the state he's in now: sweaty and shaking and still scared half out of his mind, having just been woken from an awful nightmare about the bloody Hound being in Afghanistan (well done there, subconscious, well fucking done) by a glow-in-the-dark puppy that's just pissed all over his bedroom floor.

John does the only thing he can do at the moment.

He bellows "SHERLOOOCK!" at the top of his lungs.

Half an hour later, John is looming over his flatmate, furiously seething as Sherlock sulkily and half-heartedly attempts to mop up the mess on John's floor with a towel.

The mess made by a glow-in-the-dark bulldog smuggled out of Baskerville's top-secret, government-funded, Army-secured laboratories, where it was worked on by the likes of Dr Stapleton.

Who named it Gladstone, for some reason.

Right now, the damn thing is frolicking in the background, chewing at John's bedsheets and nuzzling up to Sherlock by turns.

"Explain," John grits out, his teeth almost painfully clenched.

"Explain what?"

"Explain this!"

Sherlock looks up at him confusedly. "Why? I told you I was going to see a man about a dog. You voiced no objections, so I gathered you were fine with the arrangement."

"You went—a man about—Oh, for..." John stares at his flatmate in disbelief. "You actually went to see a man about a dog."

"Obviously. Dr Stapleton's colleague left it with—"

"You do know that's usually just an expression, don't you?"

"...Ah."

"Yeah, ah." John sighs, sitting down on the edge of his bed and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look. We're not keeping the dog."

"What?" Sherlock actually has the nerve to sound bewildered. "Why not?"

"Why—You can't be serious. For one thing, it's government property! Experimental government—"

"Oh, that. Mycroft took care of it. Part of the negotiations to get into Baskerville: I do three as-yet-unspecified cases for him, no objections, he throws in a dog. He's owed me one since I was five, anyway. His stupid allergies were the reason our mother got rid of Barbarossa."

Oh, god. Not only is that entirely the Brothers Holmes in a nutshell, but John resolutely does not want think of the kind of hell-hound Sherlock would name after a famous pirate captain. Mycroft's allergies were probably the least of Mrs Holmes' worries.

John shakes his head and tries another tack. "Fine. But Mrs Hudson—"

"Doesn't mind. I asked her when I went out for groceries."

"The noise and mess—"

"I can train him out of it."

"Dogs are expens—"

"I have money."

John's lips thin. "I am not going to take care of it, do you understand? I'm not feeding it, walking it, washing it, or in any way taking care of it. And since you'll just forget—"

"Mummy said the same thing about Bar—"

"Sherlock!" John bursts out, frustrated. "I'm serious! We're not keeping the dog."

Sherlock looks down, placing his hand over Gladstone's head and scratching behind his ears. He sighs heavily, completing the tableau of dejection. "No. No, of course not."

John lets out a relieved breath. "Good. That's good. I'm glad we've come to an—"

"We are not keeping anything. I, on the other hand, am."

Naturally, it only takes three weeks before John is the one buying puppy kibble, bringing Gladstone to the vet, and waking up at five in the morning to take a fluorescent ball of enthusiasm and slobber out on walks.

"You planned this, didn't you," John states as he towels down the dog in the middle of the living room. Sherlock looks up from his microscope, eyebrow cocked in that infuriating way that means I plan many things. Which ones are we talking about now?

To which John rolls his eyes and clarifies: "You counted on me getting attached."

"Hmm," the detective replies non-committally, the corners of his mouth deepening into a smirk.

"Bastard," John growls.

He means for it to sound threatening, he really does, but he's sitting on the floor of their flat in damp clothes, Gladstone twisting in his lap to drool on his shirt and lick at his face, while Sherlock glances over at them, very obviously trying not to smile, and then Mrs Hudson is in the doorway with tea and biscuits and treats for Gladstone, and all John can really do is think, How is this my life? before he bursts out into fond giggles.

Notes: Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed the silliness.