Dogged

[rabidsamfan]

When my new acquaintance confessed to our prospective landlady that he had recently acquired a puppy, it was with a certain amount of trepidation. I didn't miss the sideways glance that meant to measure my own reaction, but as I had already deduced the approximate age of the canine from the state of John Watson's shoelaces, I schooled myself to looking hopeful and did my best not to think of Victor Trevor's toothy little companion.

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson, whose ancient terrier had greeted our arrival by snuffling under the edge of the door to the kitchen, was amenable to the presence of another dog in the house. That possible barrier to happiness overcome, the bargain was quickly set. Mrs. Hudson collected the first quarter's rent, and distributed keys, and I saw my new fellow lodger into a cab back to his hotel, preferring to walk back to my old lodgings and learn something of my new neighborhood along the way.

I spent the night packing up my things, abandoning with glee the decrepit collection of pots and plates with which I had attempted to provide myself adequate nourishment, as well as the paperthin linens and blankets which graced the ancient bedstead. My books, yes, and my chemical apparatus, those were things Mrs. Hudson's establishment could not provide, but on the whole I was looking forward to living in a proper abode once more.

A carter on his way back from market provided me with the wagon I required to transport my goods for the price of a few shillings, and I arrived at Baker Street shortly after dawn, fully expecting to have first choice of rooms. I was rather surprised, therefore, when a small, frantic bull pup skittered out the door the moment I opened it and tumbled down the steps. It landed on a patch of ice and spun twice around before righting itself onto tiny stick legs and shaking its head with comical bemusement before setting off down the sidewalk at a brisk waddle.

"Gladstone!" Dr. Watson nearly collided with me as he limped through the door. "Gladstone, here, boy!" He tipped his hat with the hand that wasn't occupied with his walking stick, "Excuse me, Holmes."

"Of course, doctor," I stood aside as Watson made his way – much more carefully than the dog had – down the steps. Judging from his unshaven cheek, the lack of a collar above his overcoat, and the gloves which had fallen to the floor of the entryway, the man was not yet properly awake, and judging by the leash which dangled from one pocket, it was the dog who had roused him from his bed for a necessary constitutional.

I saw all that, as well as the thin patches of ice which had formed on the sidewalk overnight, and found myself predicting imminent disaster. I put down my suitcase and leaped down to intercept the doctor. "I'll fetch the dog," I said, plucking the leash from Watson's possession. "If you would be so kind as to superintend my luggage as far as the hall?"

Watson, who had nearly come to grief on the same patch of ice that had bedevilled his pet, only gaped after me for a moment before dipping into his pocket. "Here!" he called. "You might need this!"

I turned to catch the crust of bread which Watson tossed to me and saluted before taking off after the dog. It was astonishing how quickly those stubby little legs could travel. But with the help of the bread and a small street Arab, I cornered the puppy outside of a butcher shop the next street over, cementing the allegiance of the one with tuppence and the other with a pennysworth of gristle and a firm grip on the lead, before starting back to my new lodgings.

The return trip took rather longer than the outset had, given Gladstone's determination to investigate the base of every corner, pillarbox, snowbank, and tree, and my natural inclination to conduct similar observations at a higher altitude. We exchanged our conclusions, I in English, and he in a conglomeration of yips, sniffs, grumbles and significant looks which proved remarkably comprehensible. Still, not twenty minutes had passed before I turned the corner back onto Baker Street.

When I reached 221b, I found the carter still unloading the last of my boxes, and no sign of Watson. "He took a fall, sir," the carter explained when asked, "trying to help me with one of these here boxes, and the lady of the house insisted he go in out of the cold."

"Did he?" I said, mentally adding stubborn to the list of adjectives I had begun to assemble concerning my new fellow lodger and dictatorial to the smaller list concerning my new landlady. "Just let me get the dog inside and I'll see if I can't do better."

"Bless you, sir, I'd just as soon get the boxes into the hall myself. But if you care to take a few of them up those stairs I shan't say no."

I nodded and went on in, catching up the handle of the valise that held the equipment I had been assembling to make disguises, as it was the smallest and most readily transportable of my possessions and my other hand was still occupied with the leash.

Of course, ascending the staircase was complicated by the relative size of the steps versus the dog. Gladstone leapt up the first twelve steps valiantly, scrabbled up three more, and then settled with his chin on the sixteenth step, panting wistfully as he contemplated the remainder of the climb.

"I'd collect him," Watson said, equally wistfully, from the entrance to the sitting room, "except that I'm not sure that bending down is the best idea for me just at the moment."

I took in the darkening bruise on the left side of his face, and the restricted position of his left arm, and concurred. "Just let me get my valise on the landing," I said, "and I shall be glad to provide whatever assistance may be required."

"Thank you." Watson began to nod, and then didn't, closing his eyes and tightening his lips against a bout of disorientation. Without his overcoat and hat, the signs of his interrupted sleep were all too obvious -- the nightshirt tucked into his trousers, the absence of a waistcoat, the misthreaded lace on one boot -- but whether it was that lack of sleep, or the blow he had taken to his head which was causing him to sway was immaterial. What was needed was action.

I disposed of my burden hastily and scooped the dog up under one arm, where it barked indignation as I went to catch Watson's good elbow. "You should sit down, doctor," I said, "and reassure this fellow that I mean him no harm."

Watson let himself be guided to the overstuffed settee without protest, only opening his eyes again when I deposited the dog onto his lap. The puppy promptly braced its hind feet on his legs and its front legs on his chest and woofed reproachfully a few times before beginning to wash his face. "Steady, boy," Watson said, making a token effort to fend off Gladstone's enthusiastic tongue with his right hand. "Easy! I've not been out of your sight all that long."

"No," I agreed, although I shared Gladstone's sense of concern. "But you did manage to alter your appearance in the interval. Would you like me to procure some ice for that bruise? There's plenty on the window ledge."

"You need to see to your things," Watson answered.

It wasn't precisely an objection, so I went to the window and opened it, selecting a likely looking chunk of ice to wrap in a clean handkerchief. By the time I had returned to Watson, his eyes were closed again, and his posture was eloquent of his need to rest. "Do you think you are concussed?" I inquired.

"If I am, it is only mildly," he replied, accepting the ice. He was still being very careful of his left arm, which made it difficult for him to arrange dog and ice and himself, so I collected the pillows from the other chairs and piled them on the settee so that he could lay back. "You don't need to fuss," he added, when he opened his eyes to observe my arrangements. "Mrs. Hudson has already sent the boy after a physician, and I'm certain he will confirm my diagnosis."

"I'm not," I said. It would be interesting to see whether Mrs. Hudson's maternal instincts would win over Dr. Watson's pride as his convalescence progressed, but given the current circumstances, I thought it best to offer a sop to that pride. "I'm saving myself the trouble of chasing after the dog again. If you will be so kind as to restrict his activities to the settee, I shan't find him underfoot as I bring up my chemical apparatus. The glassware would be difficult to replace."

"Ah." The corner of Watson's mouth quirked upward, indicating that he didn't entirely believe me, although he nodded acceptance and stretched out against the pillows, propping the ice on his cheek while the dog attempted to rearrange itself alongside him. "I'm sorry he's so much trouble," Watson said, helping the process along as best he could. "I hope you don't mind."

"Not in the least," I said, reaching down to scratch the soft ears. The puppy promptly slumped against Watson and let its tongue loll out with a blissful sigh. I experimented with moving my hand further down its head and watched the small tail begin to wave back and forth.

"I haven't had one since I was a boy, and I wouldn't now if it weren't that I'd won him in a poker game." Watson smiled crookedly down at the puppy, which had closed its eyes and squirmed closer to his warmth. "Poor little fellow. I shall have to find him a good home."

I paused mid-scratch. Clearly, Watson had no real desire to be rid of the dog, and the dog was more than content to stay with him. "Why not this one?"

"Because I barely made it down the stairs this morning in time to save Mrs. Hudson's carpets, and even then he got away from me." Watson said, bitterly.

"Because I opened the door unexpectedly," I pointed out. "I have no doubt that you would have managed otherwise."

"Perhaps," he said, but his expression was doubtful. "But if I can't take proper care of him, I should give him to someone who can."

"Give him to me then," I said, surprising myself. "Or better yet, we can share duties. I'll take on his morning constitutional so that you can sleep in, at least until the snow is off the ground, and you can attend to providing him with bones and things. Would you like that, Gladstone?" Upon hearing his name, the dog opened one sleepy eye and tipped up his face to lick at my hand. "There, you see? He approves."

Watson studied me, and then a slow smile spread across his face. "I suppose he does," he said, and held out a hand. "Very well, Holmes, we'll try it."

Comments

[pebbles66.livejournal.com]

I love it as is. In fact, I've just been grumbling at the lack of any exceptional Holmes-fic lately. This was a wonderful surprise after a long day!