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fan_flashworks2016-04-30 04:18 pm
Identity Challenge: Sherlock Holmes (ACD): Fanfic: Bull Pup
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (ACD)
Rating: Gen (no slash)
Length: 890
Content Notes: POV Watson; non-violent dog death
Summary: Watson is a dog man.
Much to my amusement, I received a letter yesterday from one of my more imaginative readers, informing me that my descriptions of my friend Sherlock Holmes, his habits, eccentricities, moods, and attitudes, had so suggested the feline mentality to her that she had, in fact, named the new kitten in her household, ‘Sherlock Holmes.’
Sherlock Holmes may be a cat man (more precisely, a cat and a man), but John Watson is, and forever will be, a dog man.
I could be nothing else. Watsons have had canine companions at their heels for generations, and these beasts feature prominently in many of the yarns that have made their way into our family lore; humorous anecdotes, poignant tales of sacrifice, epic stories of heroism, all passed down over pipes and in front of fires since Watsons first began drying their feet and smoking on cold winter nights.
So when I returned to London after being injured in Afghanistan, one of my first endeavours was to obtain a bit of canine companionship, which ended up taking the form of a bit of a grey bull pup. I mentioned the dog to Holmes at our first meeting and he raised no objections to the animal accompanying me to 221B Baker Street.
In the days that followed, I slowly settled into my new home, but my furry friend did not fare so well. Within a week, he took ill and despite days and nights of tender nursing on my part, quickly succumbed to the ailment.
With my nerves still shaken by Afghanistan, it seemed a cruel trick of Providence to compound my suffering by forcing me to stand vigil over the death of something so weak and innocent, no matter how brief our acquaintanceship. I was, in a word, heartbroken, though I kept the pain of my loss carefully guarded.
It is true that on that day in early March Holmes and I found ourselves in a hansom cab furiously headed toward Brixton Road, in route to the case that would later be known to my readers as A Study in Scarlet. It is also true that when we climbed into the cab, the dull weather was contributing to my depressed spirits, but the death of the pup played a far larger role in my mood than temperature or rain.
As I settled into the seat, I felt something at my back.
“It seems this cab is already occupied, Watson,” said Holmes.
I turned as Holmes slipped a gloved hand behind me and produced a bundle wrapped in a dark blanket. Unfurled, it was a creature who might have been the ghost of my former canine companion, save that this one was an even brown all over and not white with brown spots.
“I believe this is your area of expertise, Doctor,” said Holmes, shifting the bundle onto my lap. I brought the animal to my chest, ostensibly to examine it for clues as to its owner or signs of its well-being or mistreatment, but in reality I wished to be on the receiving end of the nosing and licking that creatures of his breed and blatantly amiable disposition are want to bestow on those who regard them with slightest bit of affection.
The pup and I were bosom friends by the time I pointed out to Holmes that we had reached Brixton Road.
“I suppose we should turn him over to the cabman,” I said as we disembarked.
The man in question grunted at Holmes in an alarmed fashion.
“My good sir,” said Holmes. “There is a handsome reward waiting for you should we find, upon returning from our errand, our companion,” he placed a hand on the pup, “in this carriage, warm, dry, well-fed, and content. A reward of, say, a day’s fares.”
The cabman grunted and grumbled, but then nodded.
The pup was, indeed, in the hansom when we returned, and he accompanied us to the telegraph office, then to Audley Court, then back to Baker Street. Along the way, Holmes paid the cabmen for their care of the dog, and at each stop, the drivers succeeded in finding articles for the dog so that by the time we reached out final destination, he had a collar, a brush, and a pair of bowls for food and water. The sums that Holmes parted with, however, were exorbitant, to the point that I pressed him on the matter when we alit for the last time.
To my inquiry, he only replied in that cryptic, yes, my dear reader, Sphinx-like manner of his,
“Investments well-spent.”
The pup became a member of our household that day, and if I never mentioned the dog in my official chronicling, well, it is because I am a superstitious man, as you’ll find most men of war are, and I did not want to court Fate’s displeasure by publicising my joy. Even more selfishly, I never wanted his original owner to recognise him and subsequently attempt to claim him.
My beloved companion died yesterday at a ripe old age, after a long, full life of bringing endless delight to me as well as the occasional smile and quip to my friend’s lips, so today I state proudly that I, John Watson, am a dog man.
And Gladstone, God rest his soul, was my dog.
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I like Watson's reason for not mentioning him, too.
And that lead in about the reader's cat was a great extra.
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A truly inspired interpretation of the story behind the "disappearing" bull pup.
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