Bring Me Back A Dog

"Godgivealittlelove; bringmebackadoginthenextlife. Wanttobeadoginthenextlife." - IAMX

Chapter One: A Study In Gold

This was great. In fact, it was better than great, it was fucking fantastic.

John hated his cage. It was rectangular in shape, just tall enough for him to stand and just wide enough so he wouldn't scrape his elbows on the cement sides when he ate. It gave him just barely enough room to make a small circle. Of course, he was relatively shorter than the others and he did not envy them constantly brushing their heads on the tops of the cramped cages. The floor was padded, but he could still feel the unforgiving sidewalk under the thin support. John would have preferred prison over this. John would have preferred anything over this.

After spending years in the military, doing everything he was told and helping countless people including some very highly decorated generals, he got to sit in a cage: a small cage. Worse yet, he got to sit in a cage and wait to be adopted like some kind of animal; a pet. He supposed that was all he was now, though, an animal.

Years before John Hamish Watson was born, scientists all over the world were working on what was thought to be the biggest medical break through in history; a cure for cancer. To their credit, they were very successful. All success came with some consequences, unfortunately for John's generation and many, many generations to come. No one really knew the full story, it was blacked out and drowned in so many lies and misleads that it was impossible to tell what was true anymore. The current word was that the cure worked but in the process, it altered the very DNA of the patient it was injected with. Regardless of the reason, the conclusion was clear; humans injected with the cure were permanently changed.

That wouldn't have been a problem at all, considering in most cases, the changes were small and sometimes even unnoticeable. Sometimes they'd grow a strange color of hair, or fur, or perhaps their eyes were a little different or they grew fangs. Most of the time, they were animal attributes. The tiny things could have easily been overlooked by most of the population given enough time. It was a cure, after all. A cure that saved thousands of people in only the first month. No one could possibly throw that away in the face of something so insignificant.

Then the greed washed over the achievement the same way it did over everything else. It wasn't a cure anymore, but instead, they made it into a weapon. The breakthrough was far more than just saving something. It was creating a new species far more fitting for dangerous tasks than humans. They could make people less human, more weapon, more hardy, and less expensive. Though they would argue that it was better for the population, the government began to change the cure with little regard of the people they infected it with. Sometimes John wondered if the world would be better without a cure.

John Watson had been born with a very specific cancer. He had never believed that completely. It had been blacked from his record and every record like all the rest of the people infected with 'the cure'. If he had ever had any disease, it was eradicated from his being. In exchange for a cure, which for all he knew, he never actually needed, his parents had to promise his life away to the military. As a whole, it had never been that bad of a deal.

For his entire childhood, he was treated different from his healthy sister. He was special and he often caught his parents sobbing over him. Sometimes his mother would just hold him and cry and pet his golden ears. John hadn't understood in the beginning. He hadn't realized there was anything wrong with him. He was treated different by his fellow students, as well. Fortunately, there was a handful of others like him that made school life a little more bearable. In the early years, he was treated different only because of his looks. Some of them would stare and some of them would try to pet him. Often times, John would let them.

Later on, he was treated with much less kindness. Instead of being the 'adorable puppy boy' he turned into the 'I don't want you anywhere near my child'. He kept to his own kind to prevent any unnecessary conflict and only interacted with those he knew wouldn't react badly to him. He managed to secure a spot on the rugby team for a little while, until they decided that he was 'cheating' for being able to run a little faster and jump a little higher than the others. It probably didn't help that he'd had an unnatural obsession with chasing his tail. He'd just discovered he couldn't catch it! Of course he spent every moment trying to. Fortunately, John knew better than to fight for something so pointless. When the conflict came up, he swiftly tucked his tail between his legs and hurried away from the spot.

In the last of his years before he turned eighteen and his life was yanked away, he was treated differently because by then, everyone knew he was the reason they didn't get drafted. Healthy humans were typically not allowed anywhere near the military. There were a few units made entirely of healthy humans, but it was a disastrous idea to stick them with the infected. The stressful environment caused the infected to be unstable and dangerous. Some of the healthy humans appreciated it, and others despised him for it. In general, though, they put even more distance from him. After all, John was an unruly, untrained dog that could possibly flip at any moment and rip their throats out with the canine teeth slightly too big for his mouth. He thought that was a little melodramatic, but he was glad they kept themselves away.

In a way, John was glad he was summoned away on his eighteenth birthday. It meant he could be with people like him and things could be at least a little bit normal. Not that there was anything normal with being swatted with a newspaper on a daily basis or sharing a cabin with a tiger, two cats, a sheep, and an assortment of other infected human hybrids.

His first week was spent taking tests. After his health and mental state were approved, he was tested for occupation. John, unsurprisingly, tested to become a doctor and therefore, trained as a doctor. Despite the circumstance, he really did love it. He loved his nose and he loved being able to smell everything. He thought the training was a little unconventional, but it worked. When the actual fighting came along, John volunteered to go.

In the end, he supposed that had been a terrible, terrible idea. The likelihood that he would have been sent out anyways was incredibly high, but he still wasn't entirely sure why he thought it would be a good idea to assure him a spot on the front line. Perhaps he was a little more Golden Retriever than he wanted to admit to. Even though he was a doctor, he still managed to get himself into a heap of trouble. Unfortunately, that 'heap of trouble' turned out to be more of a bullet to the shoulder. Wounded and stretched a little too thin, he was relieved of duty.

John didn't find out until after he was shot that being sent home was not a good thing. He was thrown into this cell and here he was. He was wounded and up for adoption. John hadn't even realized that there was a field open for this kind of thing. As far as he knew, the other people here were people like him only they were the ones that refused to serve. He knew of only one other that had been shipped back wounded and he- he disappeared a few days after John got here. He didn't want to think about it.

They were still people! John couldn't believe that this was even legal, and it was very legal. He didn't want to be put to sleep, the thought still sent shivers down his spine, but this wasn't much better than that. They were expecting him to be adopted and he already knew that was highly unlikely. He was older than everyone else here and he was hurt. He wasn't a pet under any light and he had to admit to himself, people would only see him as a pet from now on.

According to his 'doctor', which John would argue was counterproductive, he was also suffering from post traumatic stress disorder and a psychosomatic limp. John wasn't sure how he knew that since he couldn't bloody move! Regardless, he wasn't going to be adopted any time soon. He was too broken to do any manual labor and he wasn't cute. Some of the people here at least stood a chance. Some of them were worse off than him, more animal than man, and some of them were better off with only the smallest changes to their colors and maybe some teeth and nails. He was a full grown man, though, with a man's face and manly wounds. The kinds of people that adopted them were little rich families and no rich family was looking to adopt someone like him. He couldn't even be a body guard (dog) due to his shoulder injury. At this rate, he really would be put down. That was better than being a burden on his family.

John knew he couldn't expect to get a job like this, either. He could barely be out in public by himself without the police on his tail and being given nasty looks from the healthy people. They would all assume he had refused to serve like he was told to. They wouldn't dare ask him, of course. He was an unruly beast that would surely bite them in the face and give them rabies. He wondered if the healthy people even knew that they were immune to rabies, and several other diseases. No. Probably not. Not that it mattered whatsoever. At the end of the day, he was still an infected creature in a tiny cage.

A very sad infected creature in a tiny cage.

"This is disgusting." The entire room went into hushed silence as the doors opened and people entered. Every so often, healthy people would come through, like any normal pound, and they all knew that no one wanted to adopt a loud, noisy pet. Apparently, despite being 'unruly' creatures, they were still expected to be intelligent enough to keep their yaps shut. John would be more than happy to give them a well deserved nip given the chance. He wasn't stupid, though, and if he wanted to leave here alive, he knew to keep his teeth in his mouth.

"Why on earth would she have come here?" John could just barely see the little group of three, two being led, one leading through the lines of cages. He pulled himself to the mesh fence of his cage, leaning against it halfheartedly to get some sort of attention from the strangers. He had to at least try to get out of here. Giving up definitely wasn't going to get him out of here.

"She was an activist, Sherlock. She probably came down here to free them." They must have been talking about the young woman that came by a couple days ago. John remembered her because she was very insistent on trying to adopt them all without any money. He was glad for her cause, but he knew she was useless to him. If she really wanted to help, she would be stopping things like him from happening before he had a chance to get to the pound. That would never happen. It was still a cure and no one would respond well to having that taken away.

"Sherlock," John repeated almost sadly as the pair of men walked past his cage. It was best not to make a sound, but they obviously wouldn't pay him any attention if he didn't. Just because he was wounded didn't mean he forgot all of his training. He didn't forget any of his training, in actuality. It was too bad they didn't live in actuality. One of the men was thin and tall and quite obviously well taken care of. The other was older and worn looking. Pale eyes glanced down to him at once and John stared back with exhausted eyes.

"What's wrong with this one?" The older man questioned curiously. John had to wonder how bad he looked. He hadn't been anywhere near a mirror in over a decade. They were probably a couple but neither of them smelled too well off. Even so, couples were never looking for older pets to take home. He didn't stand a chance. The woman, one John was getting use to being around, sighed softly. She was nice enough and even treated them like people most the time. John sniffed at the strangers through the diamond wiring and shifted a little closer as the older one leaned down to where the retriever sat.

"I'm afraid he's given up," she explained glumly. "He's too injured to work properly and we can't find him a home." With John's luck at receiving attention, the others in the cages around him began to call, whine, and whimper out to the man, yelping Sherlock's name over and over again as if it would bring the man to their cages next. Anything was worth a try.

"Hey!" The woman worker called swiftly. "Quiet! Naughty!" She scolded loudly and the noise quieted down a little, but didn't stop completely. It would be impossible to try and get them to stop now.

"Do they always do that?" The taller male questioned. His friend placed a hand on the fence and John weakly met it with his own. Fortunately, his hand was very human. He didn't even have claws and that earned him some sort of sympathy factor. People often felt bad for him but that didn't mean they were going to take him home. John really hoped it did this time, just like all the other times.

"They're in cages, Mr. Holmes. They'll do anything to leave."

"Then let them out." Sherlock Holmes stated pointedly and sharply as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. John liked the way he thought. It was that easy.

"I wish it were that easy," she murmured back softly.

"See the little latch there? You unlock it and the door opens and they walk out," he explained patiently and just a little bit teasingly. John could almost smile, but he didn't think it reached his face.

"I am aware how the lock works." The worker scowled and an angry line wrinkled above her nose. "I can't just let them go. That's illegal," she assured him firmly from between her clenched teeth.

"Nicotine patches will make you sick," John murmured softly. The man kneeling at his cage gave him a strange look and retracted his hand from the fencing. He pulled his sleeve down a little, straightening out the little wrinkles and needlessly covering his patch a little more.

"I think I'll be okay," he assured him. John adverted his eyes away from him, however, and instead stared at his partner.

"Not you. Him," the Golden Retriever corrected himself. The taller man gave him a bewildered look. Sherlock didn't step any closer to him or his cage, but his attention was clearly on the dog completely. "You're wearing three of them."

"How do you know that?"

"I used to be a medic. I'm trained to smell disease," John responded with the short, sweet answer. The second man stood again, leaving John desperate for some more much needed attention, but he refrained from whining. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and John adjusted himself a little almost as if to primp. He watched the man search through his pocket and after a moment he pulled out a piece of pink fabric.

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock's partner demanded irritably.

"Didn't I tell you? I found her suitcase." He shrugged innocently and turned his attention back to testing the infected man. He crouched so he was eye level with the lax creature and held out the piece of fabric between the holes for John. Naturally, John sniffed at it. Immediately, he knew it smelled strange. He could smell perfume, lilac, hotel soap, he wasn't familiar enough with the current hotels to tell which, and the distinct smell of salt water from some larger body of water.

"What can you tell me about this?" Sherlock questioned with a pointedly blank tone.

"It belonged to a woman. She was healthy, but this smells faintly of several distinct men. It's been washed a lot." John sat up a little in his cage and took the cloth in his own hands, sniffing at it wholeheartedly now. He'd forgotten how much he loved to do this. "Not since the last one. Aspirin. He took a lot of it. Cologne, but not a lot. A man handled this indirectly." He couldn't help his interest. His golden tail betrayed him and it began to twitch happily behind him. "A man with an aneurysm."

"You can smell all of that?" The older man gaped. He looked impressed and John knew the man had never been around a creature like him before. He was trained specifically for things like this. This was a practice run for him.

"I can smell that your wife is sleeping with a pool cleaner." John answered rather casually. The man gave him a sharp stare and Sherlock smirked.

"I'll take him."

"What?" the dog responded stupidly.

"I'm taking you home," Sherlock confirmed. John's tail went absolutely crazy with relief, flinging against the side of the walls and the padded floor with small little 'thump' noises. He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain that laced through his knee as he did. this had better not be some sort of joke. That would just be cruel.

"Sherlock," his partner said with disapproval. "You do realize you actually have to take care of this thing, right?" So now he was a 'thing' again.

"He's a full grown man. I'm sure he can take care of himself," Sherlock scoffed dismissively.

"I can," John cut in swiftly, perking his tail up. "I can cook and clean and even bathe myself on occasion," he added in sarcastically. He was still a completely intelligent person capable of everything they were, plus some. Just because they were selling him as a pet didn't mean he actually was one.

"Mr. Holmes," the young woman said anxiously. If she ruined this for him, John was going to bite the bloody hell out of her the next time she dared to come anywhere near him. He was getting out of here! She should be keeping her mouth shut. "John needs a lot of attention. He's a special needs hybrid. He has PTSD."

"I limp a little, that's it," John insisted desperately, wrapping his fingers against the wire fence tightly. How could she honestly be trying to keep him here? Even if this man was terrible, he couldn't be anywhere near as bad as being in this tiny cage. Sherlock glared at her viciously.

"I don't believe I asked what he had," he assured her pompously.

"You really need to think about this, Sherlock," his friend said again, working with the lady to keep him locked up in here.

"Your wife's a whore!" John snapped at him rather suddenly and instantly regretted it. Well, there went his chance.

"John!" the woman snapped at him in horror. He was definitely getting the newspaper for that.

"Get him out of that cage and bring me the paperwork," Sherlock demanded. John was shocked. This was real. This was actually happening. He was getting adopted. He was far more excited about this than he should be. He was getting out of this damned cage! She glared at the taller man, but thankfully did as she was told. He unlocked the latch to the mesh door and pulled it open. John darted out of the little area as quickly as his limp would allow him and was instantly glad that he was allowed to properly stretch his legs.

"Thank you. Thank you so much. I could just-!" His excitement got the best of him and on instinct alone, he licked the man's face with his thick, dog like tongue. Sherlock shoved him away at once and wiped the wet spot off with the back of his lather glove.

"Don't you ever do that again," he sniffed impatiently. Even that couldn't dull John's happiness. This was just too fantastic!

"Sorry. Of course. Sorry. I just- I thought I was going to die in here," the dog admitted needlessly, patting down the floppy ears in a way to primp himself for his savior. The man straightened his shoulders a little and took a quick pace out of the room. John followed as swiftly as he could, finding it a bit more difficult than he remembered it. They allowed the infected outside, of course. It would be inhumane not to, but John's leg made it nearly impossible for him to get any walking done in those times.

He was given a change of clothes to leave in, of which John more than happily changed into. Even though they were plain and a little itchy, it was better than having to wear the grey jumpsuit that had probably been worn by dozens of different people. No amount of washing could get the smell of death off of those clothes. He was also given the clothes he had arrived in back, his partially ruined uniform and tags. The male nurse led him into the back to fit him with a new pair of tags and an under the skin tracking device. John habitually growled at him when he stuck the needle in his skin. Though they meant he was officially owned again, John was happy for his new dog tags.

JohnWatson. GoldenRetrievertype 3. Honorabledischarge. 33-118-94. One side read, shining with the seal of authenticity. SherlockHolmes. 221bBakerStLondon. xxx-xxxx. Was engraved on the backside. The second tag assured everyone he was up to date on his shots and alerting them that he was injured. It also would have told them if he was aggressive but since he wasn't, there was no need for it. As long as he had his tags, he couldn't be taken back here. The tracker was just in case he decided to run away, which he wasn't, but it wasn't a choice.

It felt fantastic just to be able to leave, to be outside and not in some elaborate cage meant to contain them. John dearly hoped that this meant he could get back to real food and actual human things. He hadn't read a paper in years and if he could just have one cup of tea again before he died, that would be fantastic.

The older man, who John overheard as 'Lestrade', didn't seemed pleased with this at all, but he was friendly none the less. He helped John limp out to the car as his new owner finished the last of the paperwork and paid for him. John expected to work off the cost later even if he was still very bitter about having to be paid for in the first place.

"You should be careful with Sherlock," Lestrade warned him carefully as he opened the door to the backseat. John climbed in, habitually sniffing out the area to make himself more comfortable with it. There'd been a lot of people in this car. He did suppose it was a police car.

"It's not like I'm going to bite him," John answered indignantly, turning his nose up to search the ceiling before turning back to the older looking man. He wasn't an animal and even an animal knew better than to bite the feeding hand.

"That's not what I mean. I could care less if you took a nip out of him. He deserves it half the time. I mean, he's different." It took Lestrade a whole of two seconds to realize what poor choice of words he'd chosen. John stared at him irritatedly.

"No. I mean, you should be careful. He's a sort of eccentric. What I'm trying to say is, you might be in a little over your head. He's known to experiment. He barely cares about the rights of actual people, sorry," he stabbed in an apology as if it would make discretion softer on the dog. "Let alone someone like you. So, he will treat you like everyone else, but he treats everyone like shit." Was this man really trying to convince him that it was a better choice to be in the pound than with Sherlock?

"I've been in a cage for two months, Lestrade. I've been eating the equivalent of dog kibble because it's cheaper, using a prison-like-bathroom, and have been showered in cold water and dish soap by nurses. because everyone assumes that we infected will either attack each other or riot if we're put together. I don't have a bed. I don't have personal items. I don't even had friends or family. I've been to war and I've seen people like me be punished cruelly and inhumanely and even killed because we're so disposable. I think I can manage some eccentricities," John assured him firmly. He could tell the man felt guilty immediately and he should. John was out of his cage, but he wasn't free. He would never be free. Even if the proper tagging, he'd never get a real job, he'd never be allowed to purchase himself a flat, and the likelihood that he would get married was nearly nonexistent.

"Thank you, Lestrade, but I can take care of myself."

"Of course. If you need anything, just let me know," Lestrade offered. John hoped he was exaggerating about Sherlock, but he wasn't too worried about it. John hated any kind of special attention, after all.

"Yes. Well. I'm sorry for what I said about your wife. That was none of my business," John apologized. He was hurt and in a cage, he had said a lot of things he probably shouldn't have. God knows when he first arrived here, he was completely willing to do anything to get them to let him go. Thankfully, those things would remain between him and the workers. Desperate people said desperate things.

"I'd be upset with you, but you're right," Lestrade scoffed. The retriever wasn't sure if he was joking or not. Sherlock came stalking out swiftly, obviously intent on getting away from here as soon as possible John couldn't be happier for that. He had to guess that his new owner hadn't gotten along too well with the little worker. Lestrade hurried out of the way to prevent from being shoved as Sherlock climbed into the backseat with his new pet.

"Can you follow this scent?" The fabric was nuzzled against his face again, though John already knew well what it smelled like. He nodded swiftly.

"Of course." If he could find a wounded man in the middle of no where, he could find one man in the city. The window opened and John gladly stuck his head out of it. He hadn't been in public since he was seventeen. This was incredible. For the first time in a long time, John could smell everything. He loved it and found it was a little difficult not to get distracted by his newly lengthened leash. Every time they passed a restaurant, John drooled a little. He could feel Sherlock smacking his tail away behind him but he couldn't stop it from thumping against the man in his excitement. This was more thrilling than when his mother took him to the park when he was little.

"Pull over," Sherlock demanded when he couldn't take it anymore. John watched him get out of the car and instead took up the passenger's seat. He fixed his scarf and brushes a few little blonde hairs from off of his thick coat. Oh! John could groom himself now with an actual brush and his own toothbrush. He really did like his fur, it was nice when it was clean and brushed. He would admit, he was looking forward to that much more than he should have.

John ended up leading them all over London, but that didn't mean he had gotten distracted. This man had been all over the place and the scent was so faint on occasion that it took John a while to sort out his from everyone else. When the sun started to set, Lestrade began to get a little impatient. It wasn't like he was helping at all, having gotten coffee twice while John was stalled. Coffee wasn't helping him smell!

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" the man finally asked. They didn't seem to be any closer than they had to being with but John knew better. He wasn't sure what this man had done, but he'd obviously known his way around London. John was just doing what he was told and following it to the key. They were getting close, though. The scent was getting strong and more concentrate. John's ears pricked up suddenly and his tail went stiff.

"Hard left!" He yipped. "Right! Stop!" The car came to a halting stop and John squeezed himself through the window a little more, swishing his nose around to assess the scent. This was where it ended. He could smell the same cologne and he could clearly smell the disease in the man and it made John jumpy. He was trained to heal people regardless of what they'd done and John hadn't the least idea what he'd done. In fact, this was probably an awful idea. He was pretty sure Lestrade was a police of some sort, he smelled like a police man, but he hadn't seen a police in years. For all he knew, he was helping two men kill someone. However, he could smell death in the building. Surely their motives were at least a little well-meant.

"He's in there," John assured the duo, tail swishing as a sign he was proud of himself. "With a woman." He added on swiftly. "She's dead." She hadn't been for long, the smell was faint, but it was strong enough to know they couldn't help her now.

"I'm calling for back up," Lestrade confirmed, but Sherlock was out of the car in a heartbeat, already beginning toward the empty building with large steps.

"Stay there!" he instructed the police and dog firmly. John pressed his ears down anxiously. What part of 'back up' didn't he understand?

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him. "You can't go in there! He's dangerous!" However, Sherlock paid no attention to his partner and disappeared into the building. John was getting the idea that they weren't very good friends. He tucked his tail between his legs worriedly as he waited for something to happen. After a few minutes of nothing, he could smell the anxiety on Lestrade as well. What was Sherlock doing? More so, what did he think he was doing because John saw no reason this was going to turn out well.

"He's going to get himself killed one day," Lestrade murmured. That was it. John couldn't wait here anymore. It was his duty to protect people, especially people that kept him out of the pound. He hopped out of the window with relative ease and darted for the building, completely ignoring the man shouting at him. If Sherlock did this on a regular basis, they needed to be a lot more worried! Instantly, John went about sniffing him out. He'd spent all day with Sherlock in the small car and it was easy to follow his owner's scent straight up to the open library.

"The gun."

Define the situation: Sherlock was facing down the barrel of a gun from a man who had just killed a woman. Diagnose problem: Sherlock was going to die and John would be taken back to the pound and put down. Conclusion: Disarm threat at all cost and preserve the life of his owner. John launched himself across the room with a single powerful jump and threw his entire weight against the offending man. They knocked to the ground with a heavy 'thump' and the chair toppled over. The man yelled loudly and John heard the gun slide across the floor and promptly out of reach.

"John!"

Threat disarmed: incapacitate. John smashed his forehead firmly against the human's, rendering him unconscious immediately and possibly concussed. John's skull was far thicker and far more stable than his healthy counterpart's. The collar of his grey shirt was grabbed and he was yanked away by a surprisingly strong Sherlock. Beige eyes stared at the man in confusion.

"What did you do?" the man snapped at him viciously. John didn't know what to do. He didn't understand.

"He was going to shoot you!" he reminded his owner pointedly and equally as loud. Usually life saving came with more 'thank yous'.

"It wasn't a real gun," Sherlock sniffed angrily, releasing the retriever's shirt and allowing him a step away.

"Well I'm sorry I didn't think about that. I was too busy saving your life." He hadn't exactly had enough time to stop and check to see if Sherlock really was going to be shot in the face.

"I wasn't in any danger!" Sherlock argued.

"Like hell you weren't! Dead woman in the room, in case you forgot!" John bared his teeth at the man but Sherlock failed to be intimidated whatsoever. The groaning from the man was enough to lure their attention away from their little disagreement. Sherlock approached the mad man quickly, stepping on his wrist to prevent him from pulling anything from the pocket he was reaching for.

"You're going to tell me who you work for," Sherlock demanded. The man only laughed a sickly sounding laugh.

"John," he began and John perked his ears up to listen. "You saw that he had a gun, correct?" That was what they were just having an argument about.

"Yes?" he answered, though he wasn't sure where this conversation was going.

"And he was a direct threat to my life, yes?"

"Correct."

"Then it wouldn't be a surprise if they found your teeth marks on his neck, would it? You are trained to protect people at all cost," he continued on. John knew where this was going now. He padded over and with no further need for instruction, casually placed his canine teeth around the man's throat. At once, the man tilted his head away but that only gave John more room to bite.

"Now then. Who do you work for?"

"People don't say his name and I won't either," the older man insisted, but John could feel his pulse quickening in fear. His teeth rested carefully on the taut skin.

"That's unfortunately. John probably never wanted to do this again," Sherlock answered nonchalantly. The retriever growled low in his throat and felt the man's heart quicken another notch. His pulse was getting dangerously high.

"Careful now, John. The swifter the better."

"Mor-Moriarty!" The man yelped loudly. John retreated at once, flickering his tongue over his teeth. Now he tasted like aneurysm. Gross. He examined the man again and quickly noted that he wasn't breathing. A quick sniff and a pulse check assured him the man was dead. He glanced up to his owner uneasily.

"He had a heart attack," John informed. They couldn't take him back to the pound for this. Sherlock only shrugged, though, seemingly uncaring not in the least worried. John wasn't sure what to say. He was trained to obey, which he decided he should probably rethink when it came to this man, but he wouldn't have actually killed the mad man. At least, he was almost positive he wouldn't have.

"Come along, Watson. Our work here is done," Sherlock informed him stiffly. He began to leave and John hurriedly hopped on his heels to prevent from being left behind.

"What work is that, exactly?" he finally asked, hoping desperately it was something legal. John had no idea what he would do if it wasn't. He didn't have much of a choice, of course, but he wasn't sure he'd be able to actually help them do illegal things.

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I created the job," Sherlock sniffed proudly. John had no idea what that was. It sounded fishy, but relatively harmless. He followed the man out of the building and was met with the sight of the arriving police. Thankfully, they seemed to be on the same side. He listened to Sherlock and Lestrade quietly argue, and fortunately, it made far more sense of the situation. Serial murderer. He killed a serial murderer, indirectly. John breathed a sigh of relief. After the two men were done arguing, he and Sherlock were allowed to go home. Well, actually, Sherlock just kind of walked away in the middle of Lestrade's sentence and dragged his new pet along by his dog tags. They weren't followed, though, so he assumed this kind of thing happened on a daily basis.

"You're probably hungry," the man sniffed as though it were an afterthought. "Do you eat Chinese food?"

"I eat food," John assured him. He wasn't picky. As long as it wasn't kibble, he'd gladly give it a try. He didn't want to see another piece of kibble for the rest of his life. As they began down the street, a car with tinted windows pulled alongside of them and instantly, John perked his ears and stiffened his tail in defense. He was serious about not going back to the pound. Even if he knew he'd get caught, he could at least try to run.

"Sherlock," the posh man said firmly as he stepped out from the back of the car. "Mind explaining that to me?" He pointed to the Golden Retriever viciously and John growled in response. Most people at least attempted to be nice at first.

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered plainly and indifferently. "This is my new flatmate John Watson."

"That is not a flatmate, Sherlock. That is a disgusting creature that will kill you." 'Mycroft' scolded the younger man ruthlessly.

"I do understand you," John snapped, an audible noise form between the clasp of his teeth.

"I know what they do to these things and it isn't safe to keep in your house," the man continued with no sign that he had heard the dog talk whatsoever. John already didn't like this man. His nose told him that they were related and considering their age, John concluded that they were brothers.

"I think I can make the decision for myself," the shorter of the two men insisted pointedly.

"This isn't up for debate," Mycroft sneered.

"Good. I wasn't debating." Sherlock patted his thigh to summon his pet and John naturally followed the come hither movement. A small flicker of his curved, blonde tail told the older man off. He was perfectly safe to be around. Even while in the midst of war, he did his best to not kill anything. He was a doctor, of course, and that did help. Regardless, he had a conscience and he was mostly human. He wished more people would understand that.

"You're not limping," his owner said after a few moments of silently walking. John glanced down to his knee. He was right. He wasn't sure when that had happened, but his knee didn't hurt like it had before. His knee had never actually been injured, but this was surprising. He thought he would limp for the rest of his life. That was incredible.

"Thank you," John murmured. It was thanks to Sherlock, after all. The man had saved him and now healed him.

"You're welcome," Sherlock answered smugly.