Sherlock Puppy

Part 9

by Cyberwolf (wolf at

Chapter 9: "Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated"

All disclaimers in Part I.

AN: Had some difficulty writing this chapter; hopefully the next chapter will be easier to write, as we can get back to humor. I've got the end planned out; the parts in between are a little more troublesome. (sigh) Anyone out there with an idea for a situation we can get them into?

Holmes was hugged and cuddled desperately for what he estimated was about five minutes before he realized what was making Lestrade so unhappy. He was nearly frantic during those minutes, wondering if perhaps some unfriendly international power had targeted New London with nuclear missiles, if one of her family was dead, if New Scotland Yard was just blown up by terrorists, if Grayson had just fired her...and as in the park, with Lestrade’s well-being in question, the real puppy inside him had ‘woken’ and was nuzzling Lestrade, whining anxiously, licking her cheek and doing what all devoted dogs do when faced with a master in distress, while Holmes tried to figure out the problem.

And then she whispered, "Holmes is dead." Not to him -- to herself, in the tone of voice he had heard in other people, when faced with something they didn’t want to admit.

He had frozen stiff -- well, he had mentally, the puppy-mind kept the body nuzzling Lestrade -- and then cursed himself. How had he overlooked that? That his disappearance would be noted by Watson, and with the compudroid knowing his route, probably connecting the accident with him. And there must have been eyewitnesses as well. So now they thought he was dead.

He gave a quick shake of his head, his way of ‘clearing’ his mind and regaining control of the body. He looked up, at Lestrade’s bleak, frighteningly still face. No tears, yet somehow managing to convey the sense of silent weeping. And he felt horrible for not thinking enough ahead to realize what this would do to Watson and Lestrade -- his best friends, and that was not a term that came lightly to Sherlock Holmes or to those he applied it to.

Of course she’d grieve -- although, Holmes had to admit, it was a bit startling to see the apparent intensity of the emotion. He hadn’t realized he was her life. Or, actually, to be honest -- maybe he did. After all, he admitted that she was a rather central aspect of his life -- she had been the one to bring him back to life, and she was his New Scotland Yard liaison, and...she was a friend. A very good one, a friend in ways that not even the original John H. Watson had been.

But how important Lestrade was to him, and he to Lestrade, were not thoughts he would examine now. He had more important things to do. So, he shoved the matter to the back of his mind, where he shoved such things as eating, sleeping and diverse other random stuff while he was on a case.

Holmes wriggled out of Lestrade’s hold; her arms momentarily tightened around him, and then slackened. He jumped off her lap, and, casting one last worried glance at her, trotted out to her study.

A swivel-chair was in front of Lestrade’s personal computer system. Holmes looked at it, using his human eyesight to calculate the distance for his puppy body, and lining himself up as best as he could, gathered himself and leapt. His forelimbs barely reached it; clinging desperately, he kicked out with his hind legs and finally managed to laboriously clamber on.

He stood, hind legs on the chair and front legs propped against the table-top, and used his small black nose to poke the ‘power’ button. Several lights blinked green, and a reassuring whir came from the computer. Holmes breathed a sigh of relief -- though it looked more like a pant from the puppy -- and leapt down, running back to where Lestrade was.

Lestrade slowly became aware of something tugging at her. She turned her head and looked down at the puppy currently gripping the side of her white tank top in his teeth and pulling. In a distant way, she hoped he wouldn’t tear the material. When he saw her looking at him, he released the shirt and began to bark. This was the first time he’d barked, Lestrade thought vaguely.

When barking didn’t seem to get her attention, Seeker growled and began to tug at Lestrade’s shirt again.

Holmes was frustrated. He had been barking, tugging, and doing everything else he could think of to make Lestrade follow him for the last ten minutes. And for the past ten minutes, she had just sat there and ignored him.

He glanced around him, eyes alighting upon the bookshelves -- so rare in this day and age -- filled with books. Including Watson’s journals.

He ran to the shelves, seized one of them in his mouth, and ran back to Lestrade. He was holding the book very gingerly in his mouth, hoping devoutly that no permanent damage would come to the book from his actions, but of course Lestrade didn’t see that.

She bolted to her feet -- finally! thought Holmes -- and took a step towards the puppy. Holmes ran for the study, dragging the book with him -- which was quite a feat, since it was more than half his size.

Lestrade of course followed, intent on reclaiming the journal. She stopped dead when she saw her computer on and her dog scrambling up onto the chair. She advanced cautiously, picking up the journal Seeker had dropped on the floor.

She came near enough to notice that Seeker had placed his front paws on the keyboard. She sighed, and was about to pick up her dog when she noticed something. He had typed. He had typed words.

i am shherlocvk holmes.

She stared at the dog, who gave a soft ‘woof’ and then....she rubbed her eyes....typed again.

weierrdm accudenrt; i woke up and i wasd liked thies

She was still staring at Seeker, who gazed back at her with pleading blue eyes. Maybe it was the eyes, those blue eyes so rare in dogs and which so matched Holmes’. Maybe it was the way that Seeker had not been acting like a normal puppy since she had gotten him; and of course there was this typing thing -- which despite the mistakes could be clearly understood.

In any case, she gaped at the puppy she now knew to be Sherlock Holmes. Within one heartbeat and the next, the odd heat behind her eyes and the dull pain in her chest disappeared, to be replaced with a soaring elation -- he’s alive! -- which was then replaced by a soaring rage.

"" she was at a loss for words. She took a deep gulp of breath, clenched her fists. She glared at him, not noticing the twitching of her right eye.


Sherlock's 'typing' was done with his paws; of course there'd be mistakes! BTW, I typed those parts out with my hands made into fists.

On to Part 10!

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