Phew, ok. Well, here I go. First Sherlock story. I've got this!

Welcome all who come to this little one-shot collection! And yes, the title was taken from the Of Monsters and Men song, Dirty Paws.

This story was inspired by ausherlock's Little Companion story collection.

If you like this story, go and check them out!

Disclaimer: I do not own anything Sherlock. Not the books, nor the movies, nor the tv show. I own nothing.

As soon as Mike Stamford stepped through the door to his flat, Sherlock knew he'd brought some sort of surprise for him.

There were many ways to tell. The smile on his face, the way he held his hands behind his back, the way his eyes kept glancing back behind him at the opened door as he made, what Sherlock deemed dull, small talk. However, perhaps the most obvious sign was Mrs. Hudson's cooing he heard from downstairs.

Obviously an animal of some sort. Or a child. Sherlock didn't consider either prospect enjoyable.

The consulting detective went back to looking at the amoeba at the other end of his microscope, "Whatever it is Mike I do not want it."

"Oh, come now Sherlock. I haven't even shown you what it is yet!"

"I'm not interested. Especially not in anything living. Bring me a dead specimen and I'll reconsider."

"And leave you by yourself? I'm just giving you something to help you, surely you get bored up in this place all on your lonesome."

Well, Sherlock at least gave the man some credit, that was true. Obvious to even the stupidest of ordinary people, but still a good observation. There had been a sort of dry-spell in cases recently. And by "dry-spell", of course he meant more than a week without a new case. Lestrade seemed happy about this for some reason or another, but it was driving the detective mad. His mind rebelled at the stagnation of it all. He would take anything right about now, even the simplest of cold cases left in the Scotland Yard archives.

He looked back at Mike, maybe Sherlock could take him up on his offer. Depending on what it was. It would certainly make a break in this period of stagnation.

He immediately changed his mind as Mrs. Hudson came up the stairs, "Oh, Sherlock! Look at him, he's quite a darling fellow isn't he?"

On the end of a leash, in the doorway of his flat, stood a dog. A bloody dog.

A list of all the effects the animal could have on his home and himself went through his mind: scratched floors, ruined furniture, hair everywhere, thick saliva, defecation in the hallway, high percentage of it getting into his experiments, not to mention the smell.

He sent an irritated glare at Mike, "No."

Mike either ignored him or didn't hear his comment. Sherlock suspected it was the former.

"This is John Watson. Recently retired from Manchester's canine police unit. A search and rescue dog, as well as a brilliant bomb and drug detection dog."

Hm, slightly more interesting, but nothing that made Sherlock as excited as the prospect of a case did.

Mike went over to the creature and unhooked him (for the dog was clearly male) from the leash before handing it to Mrs. Hudson, thanking her for the tea she obviously offered while she went back downstairs.

"Don't let it loose!" Sherlock shouted from the kitchen stool, affronted, as the dog wandered leisurely around the flat, sniffing at things.

The clicks from its claws against the floor were off-beat, and Sherlock noted the way the dog's left foreleg stuck out awkwardly from the shoulder joint as it walked, giving it a slight limp. It gave the dog a lazy drawl of a walk, and Sherlock could see stitches nestled in the skin on a shaved patch of fur.

It didn't seem to be of a certain breed, although the light blonde coat and expressive eyes suggested Labrador Retriever. The long muzzle and sleekly muscular body were definitely of a German Shepherd decent, so it had purebred genetics, probably from it's mother considering how prominent they were. So Labrador-German Shepherd mix.

But, no. There was a third breed in his lineage. The fur was long, but not quite long enough to be a hassle. That could have been from the Shepherd, but there was just as much of a chance it was another. The muted blue eyes and half-fold of his ears suggested Siberian Husky, Malamute, Australian Shepherd, or possibly another sledding or herding breed. Sherlock couldn't be entirely accurate without a DNA sample.

"No," he restated, and went back to his experiment.

Mike sighed, "I haven't even proposed anything to you!"

"You're going to ask me to keep an ownerless dog, one with a handicap no less. I don't want it, take it to the animal shelter."

"What? John? No! Look, I ran into your brother a week ago and he told me about how you were here all by yourself and suggested that you could use a companion."

Sherlock scoffed, silently shouting many inappropriate words to Mycroft in his head, of course his brother would be behind this. Trying to interfere with his life, as always. He'd get an earfull the next time he dared to show his face at Baker Street.

"Oh, please, I'm perfectly fine. I've got my skull friend….and Mrs. Hudson."

"John is an extremely well trained dog. I think it'll be good for you-"

"No, Mike. The canine species can be filthy and temperamental. He'll not do to stay with me. Surely he will eat me in my sleep."

He heard the clicking of the dogs nails increased in pace, and it seemed John (Really? What kind of name for a dog was "John Watson"?) finally noticed him sitting on his chair, and walked up to him, light brown ears perked up. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the dog sat next to his chair.

At first he said nothing, and let John judge him in his animalistic way. The mutt, with his brown nose, sniffed at his ankle, then up his leg to his knee. Seeming satisfied, the dog pressed its nose against his thigh before trotting over to Mike, tail wagging lazily as the man scratched him behind his ears. Pathetic.

Sherlock went back to his experiment once more. The amoebas were much more entertaining.

"He was a very good police dog, one of the smartest too. He's only about a year old you know? Bloody brilliant. He was even sent over to Afghanistan with his owner to help sniff out and navigate mine fields over there."

Sherlock didn't respond. Dull. He could do that in his sleep.

"Let me guess," he said, not that he ever guessed, "Took a bullet in the line of duty? Based on the stitches in his shoulder, it happened about two weeks ago."

The pause that followed held a somber aura, one Sherlock didn't need to see to notice.

"He was shot protecting his owner, yes," Mike said.

Ah, yes, the sob story. Sherlock knew it was coming and there it was.

"His owner, Captain Conan Riley, who was a friend of mine, died two seconds afterward from a shot to the head."

The amoebas were moving rapidly under his scrutiny. He wondered if more acid would affect them enough to-

"John didn't leave Captain Riley until the body was back over in the UK."

Now that, that made him pause. He looked back down at the pup, for dogs were technically puppies until around three years of age and this one was only about 13 months old at the most. Just slightly off from what Mike had guessed.

He focused back on Stamford, "The veterinarians didn't take him?"

"Well, he would snap and growl if they tried to. Didn't care if the doctors handled Captain Riley's body, but wouldn't budge when the animal caretakers went to retrieve him and treat his shoulder. That's why he has that limp. The tissue wasn't treated for days. And then, since I was Riley's friend, they handed John over to me. Unfortunately, I can't keep him. I've already got two dogs, and…well, yeah. That's why I thought you might like to take him."

So, a puppy that was shot in a war zone, and was loyal enough to stay with his dead owner until they were forced apart.

Sherlock hummed, "Interesting."

He hopped down from his stool at the kitchen table for the first time since Mike came in.

The pup stood at attention, almost soldier-like, when it noticed Sherlock come up. Sherlock noticed that John's paws were the same light shade of brown that was on his ears and muzzle.

Sherlock stared him down, willing the pup to look away first, fighting silently for dominance, for the position as alpha. John held his gaze long, but didn't seem to mind losing the fight as he went and limped into the kitchen to sniff out what lay hidden up on the table.

John jumped onto his hind legs slightly to see what the smells were coming from before trotting off to a different portion of the flat.

Sherlock watched John move about. Perhaps having the creature would be interesting. It would certainly keep him at least slightly entertained for a while. He'd just bring John to the pound once he got bored.

Mike watched him with hopeful eyes, "So will you take him?"

Sherlock nodded with a stoic expression, and no this was not excitement he was hiding. There was no a way a dog could be exciting.

"Why not? If it gets my brother off my back, so be it."

Mike let out a breath of relief, and Sherlock thought it idiotic the man would be that worried about the dog, "Good, good, that's great! You won't regret it Sherlock. You'll never find as good a dog as John is."

Mike looked at his watch casually, "Well, I guess I should be going, I have to head back to St. Bart's. Just call if he gives you any trouble."

"Yes, sure."

And then the door to his flat shut, and he was alone with the dog.

John stood across the room from him, tail wagging softly, as he watched Sherlock.

The detective didn't know what to do with the animal, so he went back to his experiment.

As he sat down, he sent a glare to John, "If you mark your territory anywhere in this flat I will toss you in the street."

John said nothing, as dogs don't, but went up to Sherlock. He circled the stool the detective sat in before painstakingly laid down at the detective's feet.

Sherlock watched him. John did seem to be well trained, as Mike had said. Now that he thought about it, having John around keeping the flat and Mrs. Hudson safe from unwanted intruders when he wasn't able to sounded like a good idea. Perhaps, if things turned out well, this would be a good decision.

John lifted his head from his paws and looked up at Sherlock, panting with a the dog version of a smile and wagging his tail.

"Well, John Watson, welcome to 221B Baker Street."