Let me tell you about an interesting experience I had today.
I had just finished teaching class and was walking to the bus stop when a big black pick-up truck slowed down enough for its passenger to yell out the window “I would not fuck you!” I was the only woman on this stretch of the sidewalk at the time and, unless he was very forcefully asserting his ideas of no-homo I have to assume the comment was directed at me.
Now, I’ve been cat-called before (normally about the size of my breasts; it’s always so helpful to be reminded that they are larger than average) but I’ve never before been…what is this even? un-cat-called? and I have to admit I find myself more confused than upset.
Do men seriously think women care about whether they find us fuckable? Does it make them feel better about themselves to proclaim their sexual preferences to women walking down the street? The gargantuan size of the pick-up truck leads me to believe this particular individual was trying to make up for something else - is that how they do it? Do men yell profane sexual things at women to make up for the size of their penis?
Well, buddy, joke’s on you, because my asexual self doesn’t want your creepy tiny dick anyways.
sherlock is walking home from bart’s after solving a ridiculously, almost frustratingly simple kidnapping case and his eye catches on a shoebox that looks to have been tossed on the edge of the sidewalk. the box moves a bit. sherlock tilts his head to one side and stops, crouches down, and lifts the lid to peer inside the box and see a tiny, skinny puppy with eyes that could hardly open yet and short fur that should be white but almost looks a sort of tan color now from dirtiness. sherlock inhales sharply then promptly takes off his scarf, wraps up the puppy, and texts john “Buy dog food” before standing up and walking the rest of the way home to baker street with the puppy held closely against his chest
I DID THE THING I’M SO SORRY I COULDN’T HELP MYSELF
It hadn’t even been worth the trip to Bart’s, really. If Lestrade had actually been paying attention when they took the father’s statement he would have realized the girl was with her uncle. Trace wool fibers found at the scene had just confirmed that she was on a sheep farm with dense, loamy soil. The local force should find her within about half an hour, rather confused but quite safe, and there would be sure to be a tearful reunion with her mother.
Dull, and a complete waste of a day. He could have been working on the radio interchangeability experiment. That would have been mildly interesting, at least. He was just about to call for a cab when he noticed a battered old shoebox on the side of the road. He really should leave it – John was always complaining that he didn’t take enough precautions when opening up strange packages. But it had been a boring day and he needed a bit of excitement and besides, what were the chances that someone had left some nefarious package here on the off-chance he would open it?
The box shuddered a little just as Sherlock lifted the lid and he almost cried out in surprise at the contents.
A little puppy. Tiny, really. The eyes were barely open and it mewled pathetically at him, blinking in the sudden light. Sherlock knelt down and took off his gloves to examine it. The fur was brown, but he seriously suspected that was just dirt; he rubbed a bit at the thing’s ears and sure enough, there was white poking through underneath the layer of grime and a few fleas. He noticed that the puppy was cold, as well, and he didn’t even take a second thought before he was plucking it out of its sad little box and wrapping it up in his scarf. Would that be warm enough for it? The weather was a bit chilly and damp, after all. Deciding to err on the side of caution, he opened up his coat and let it absorb some of his own body heat. One hand cradling the puppy, he tugged his mobile out of his pocket. John should be home from work by now.
We need milk. SH
He wanted to get back to Baker Street as soon as possible, but he was also well aware that most cab drivers weren’t keen on the idea of animals in their taxis. He’d have to walk – it would take John a bit to pick up the milk, anyways.
Get your own damn milk, Sherlock
Sherlock rolled his eyes in annoyance at the response. Now was not the time to be squabbling over whose turn it was to go to the shops. Besides, it was John’s turn anyways.
No, John, this is important. We need milk. SH
Fine. I’ll go to the Tesco on the corner. Anything else you need while I’m pretending to be your errand boy?
Sherlock glanced down at the tiny little bundle in his arms. What exactly did puppies need? Redbeard had been older by the time he’d joined the family – not an adult dog by any means but certainly self-sufficient. This puppy was anything but. He would need to replicate the perfect environment if he expected it to survive.
I need some hot water bottles ready. SH
What the hell have you done?
John. Milk. Hot water bottles. Some old blankets in a box – use my duvet if you can’t find any. SH
He looked down again, noticing with a bit of distaste the mud now on his suit jacket.
And some baby shampoo. SH
It was a lengthy list, he was aware, but luckily Mrs. Hudson was in, and between the two of them everything was ready by the time Sherlock stepped into the flat. Sherlock took the stairs as quickly as he could without jostling the puppy, elbowing past John to get to the kitchen sink. First things first: wash off the grime and make sure there aren’t any injuries.
“Sherlock, are you going to exp- oh. Oh, God.”
“Certainly can’t be the first time you’ve seen a dog,” Sherlock muttered, filling up the basin with warm water.
“No, but – you have a puppy.”
“Yes, quite aware, thank you. I found it outside Bart’s and I, well, it’s small, I just, couldn’t leave it there.” Sherlock was expecting John to jump into a tirade about how he was always bringing things into the flat and maybe they should have discussed it before Sherlock brought a dog home, but it never came.
“Are you going to name it?” John glanced down at the creature in the sink, now whimpering fretfully as Sherlock tried to clean up the dirt without getting soap in its eyes or mouth. “Her,” John amended.
“I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” John only nodded in response.
“There’s a towel there to dry her off,” he said, putting some milk onto the stove. “What were you going to use for a bottle?”
“There are some eyedroppers with my chemistry equipment.”
“No,” John cut him off. “I’m not trusting anything from your stuff, it probably hasn’t seen any cleaning agents for the past seven months. I think I’ve got some stuff in my kit.” By the time John returned, the milk was pleasantly warm and the puppy was considerably cleaner. Now that the fur was visible she was clearly some kind of spaniel breed, almost completely white bar the beginnings of a few light brown splotches. John filled up the clean eyedropper and handed it to Sherlock, who proceeded to simply sit down right there in the kitchen with the tiny dog in his arms and feed her, ever so slowly and carefully. After several minutes of just watching, John grabbed his laptop from the sitting room and joined Sherlock on the floor – it seemed like he needed to do some research.
“This site says we should feed her every few hours. We can take turns if you want?”
“I was planning to be working on the radio experiment tonight, anyways,” Sherlock replied. “I can certainly take care of her, as well.”
“You mean the experiment where you bought 14 different radios from a bunch of secondhand stores, dismantled them, and then tried to put them all back together with the wrong parts? That radio experiment?”
“Yes,” Sherlock sniffed. “Clearly you did not understand the aim of testing how interchangeable the parts were.”
“Sherlock, are you…intending for her to be around for awhile?”
“What?” John asked.
“Her name is Curie. After Marie Curie, of course. It was the best I could come up with on such a short notice.”
“Right,” John chuckled. “Well, if you’re intending to make Curie a permanent addition to the flat, you do realise you can’t leave radio bits all over the sitting room floor anymore, yeah?”
“She’s my dog, John. Please don’t insult her intelligence.”
When she finally seemed to have her fill of the milk, Sherlock set about reheating the water bottles and placing her tenderly into the little box John had put together, tucking the hot water bottles carefully underneath the old towels Mrs. Hudson had donated for the occasion. He then set his phone alarm to remind him hourly to check on her. John thought he would hardly need the assistance – it didn’t look as if he’d leave her side for the next week or so.
The night went on fairly normally, all things considered. John ordered Chinese, convinced Sherlock to eat some of it, and then watched the latest “Doctor Who” episode while researching further puppy care. They should probably get Curie into a vet soon: John highly doubted she was up-to-date on her shots. Through it all, Sherlock continually hovered over the dog, giving her another two feedings before John finally went to bed around one in the morning. Sherlock barely seemed to notice his departure, too busy staring intently into Curie’s little den.
The sight that greeted John when he shuffled downstairs in the morning for some tea was, in all honesty, completely adorable. Sherlock, asleep on the sofa, the little eyedropper in his hand. Curie, asleep on Sherlock’s chest and under several of their softest blankets, looking quite content. The TV on, muted, playing some sort of nature documentary. John had to admit, he hadn’t been exactly pleased when Sherlock showed up in their flat the day before with a tiny helpless puppy, but seeing him like this – tender, utterly devoted and besotted with the thing – was worth all the headaches that were sure to come in the future.