Laura and her new husband, Ted, dropped Basil off, quite literally; so eager to get to the airport that they barely slowed the car down to a complete stop. Ted leapt out of the passenger side with the dog's lead, bed, bowl, and a few toys bundled in his arms, pushed them into Y/N's, then dived back into the car, both occupants screaming thank yous from the rolled-down window. Y/N would have waved at them but the pile of belongings she clutched was like a stack of cards; she didn't dare free one hand in case it all came crashing to the floor.
She hadn't gotten a good look at Basil when he'd been hurried out of the Volvo he'd no doubt been enjoying a pleasant nap in the back of. He'd just been a blur of fur, darkened with age to a deep marmalade. Y/N looked down at him now, sitting patiently by her feet, wide mouth pulled back in a doggy grin, tongue hanging out even though it was less than warm. He looked just as cuddly as the last time she'd seen him and Y/N wanted to take his big dopey face in both her hands as soon as possible, so turned to go inside, and nearly bumped into Sherlock.
"When'd you get there?" She asked, but he wasn't paying the least bit of attention.
"Can I pet him?" He asked like a child seeking permission to unwrap a Christmas present.
Y/N couldn't help her lips tugging up into a smile at his expression. And the fact that he'd come outside in a dressing gown and pyjamas just to see a dog. "Yeah, he won't bite or anything, if that's what you mean." She watched with amusement as Sherlock stepped---with more respect than she'd ever seen him give a human being besides maybe herself and Mrs Hudson---up to Basil, who watched him curiously with his large, dark eyes.
Sherlock crouched down in front of him and held out a hand for him to sniff; the dog equivalent of introducing yourself. Basil roved his moist nose over Sherlock's pale, large hand casually several times then licked his fingertips, probably tasting remnants of mince pie. Sherlock's face split into a grin and he started petting Basil's coat, (much to Basil's obvious delight), submerging his hands into his fur when he got an encouraging tail wag in response.
If Y/N's arms were not starting to ache, and if a brittle little snowflake hadn't just flown straight into her left eye, she would have been happy to stand there and watch her best human friend and her best animal friend forever. It was like they were communicating via telepathy, or something, Basil's eyes now closed in what could only be described at absolute bliss as Sherlock massaged the bases of his ears, supporting the heavy weight of the dog's head with his palms. Y/N didn't want to interrupt them, to break this show of uncharacteristic (or maybe it was very characteristic but she'd never encountered anyone worthy of it) gentleness on Sherlock's behalf, but now she really was worried she'd drop something.
"Can you help me carry something upstairs, please?"
"Oh, of course," Sherlock said apologetically, and Y/N held out some of her burden so he could alleviate her of it. But he didn't, instead, much to Y/N's shock, he scooped Basil---all thirty-two kilograms of retriever---up in his arms and stood to his full height, cradling the dog to his chest like an oversized, fluffy baby. He started carrying him inside, Basil beaming back at Y/N, thoroughly enjoying the ride.
"I didn't mean carry the dog!" Y/N cried at him, following behind and nudging the door closed with her foot. She had to do it with her foot because she had no hands free thanks to her less than helpful flatmate.
Sherlock ascended the stairs effortlessly, Basil's shaggy tail beating a happy rhythm into his waist and brushing the wall every now and again. "You should have been more specific."
...
Once they were in the flat, Y/N arranged Basil's water and food bowls in the kitchen and placed his bed near to the fire that purred contentedly away in the hearth. Sherlock carried Basil all the way to his bed and placed him upon it, his smile not having disappeared or showing any signs of leaving. Basil made several circles before flopping down with a slightly-old dog groan, which Sherlock found absolutely delightful because not nearly a second later he was pampering him again, rubbing his thick, glossy coat as he sat cross legged at his side.
Y/N had wondered if Basil would miss Laura and Ted---had wondered whether him howling in the night would be an issue---but now she didn't know why she'd bothered. He was clearly in absolute heaven, rolling onto his back to expose his tummy, begging Sherlock to extend his caresses to his undercarriage.
Which he did.
Because of course he did.
Y/N's new concern was getting Basil to return to his rightful owners at the end of the week. Sherlock and the six-year-old dog will clearly be inseparable within an hour, let alone five days.
"Like him, then?" Y/N asked, sitting down to join the two now firm friends at the fire.
Sherlock gave her a grin, still ruffling the luxurious mane of fur at Basil's neck. "Yes. Thank you for saying we'd look after him."
Joining in with the petting (Basil's eyes closed as he soaked up the attention), Y/N settled herself at Sherlock's side. They'd never had an animal in 221B---at least not while Y/N had been living there, and yet it didn't feel strange. Nothing was out of place, if anything, everything seemed to have slipped satisfyingly and easily into place. There was a quietly euphoric and boyish joy emanating from Sherlock, so close she could smell his cologne, his dark fringe falling in his face as he sought out the places Basil liked to be petted the most. This joy was selcouth, unseen by Y/N before. Apart from twice; when he'd ground an entire case to a halt just so he could ask a man if he could befriend his alsatian (he and the alsatian are still in touch to this day) and that time Y/N had bought him a jar of Nutella (which she never did again because he consumed the whole thing in two days).
It was no secret (to Y/N at least) that Sherlock Holmes liked dogs. And chocolate. And, now that she thought about it, cats and mince pies and---loads of things she hadn't expected. The cold, calculating persona he wore during cases (for clients, she now assumed) was so different from the man now doting on a retriever in her living room, and it made her wonder what other parts of his personality he kept hidden away. And why he kept them hidden in the first place. Why does he act as if affection disgusts him, even though he kisses Mrs Hudson on the cheek every time he greets her? Put crime-solving on hold to say hello to a dog or a cat or even to follow a rare butterfly he'd spotted? Ask everyone, regardless of status, to call him by his first name, treating them kindly until given a reason to do otherwise?
"Shall we have dinner and then walk him? Or do you want to go while it's still light?" Y/N asked after several minutes of admiring...her new temporary pet? Or her friend? She didn't know, really. Maybe both, and the interactions that went on between them. People that struggle with humans tend to have a way with animals and Sherlock, it turns out, is living proof of this.
He turned to give her a hopeful, interested look. "You're coming too? I thought you said I had to walk him?"
"I did, but now I think it might be nice to go as well. If you want me to."
He smiled widely. "Yeah, I want you to. Can we eat first?"
...
Y/N and Sherlock often take constitutionals around London; out of boredom, for health reasons, or just as something to do. They'd talk about nothing, really, and yet somehow all those nothings meant more than so many somethings.
They'd bundled up in warm clothes, clipped Basil's lead to his bright red collar and set off into the night. There's always something...aesthetic about central London at night, something you can't truly understand unless you've been there, your shoes sounding on the often-uneven cobble of the streets. It had stopped snowing now, although it had barely been snowing in the first place, the ground slick and shining orange with the street lamps. Despite the cold, people were still everywhere, travelling in little clumps in and out of bars, restaurants, homes, all aglow with friendly, inviting chatter. That was one of the many wonderful things about London, Y/N pondered; one never feels alone. Even if you're not with anyone at the time you always know---can always feel---that there's life; someone pottering around the apartment to your left or your right, a shop still open at two in the morning somewhere, a long, people sitting in winding tube train sliding unnoticed below the surface of the city.
Sherlock's features had softened too, Y/N noticed in the corner of her eye, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing. Or maybe he'd just been watching Basil trot along cheerfully in front of them, his long fur swaying with each step, giving him a jaunty swagger. The effect was mesmerising and Y/N blinked a few times when she realised Sherlock was saying something whilst frowning at his coat sleeve.
"We've looked after Basil for not even a day and I'm already covered in fur," He didn't sound angry, though. More fondly irritated, like a father whose child had drawn on the walls but it was a nice drawing so he didn't really mind.
"See!" Y/N exclaimed, stepping over a large puddle. "That's why I don't understand your deduction thing. If you looked at us, right now, you'd guess we own this dog. You wouldn't even need to see the dog, you'd just notice the fur on our clothes and guess we have a dog. Or, like, you'll see someone with faded jewellery and guess they've worn it for ages, it's a gift from a deceased relative and they don't take it off out of respect---or something. But in actuality that jewellery is second hand and has no emotional value to the person whatsoever. You're just saying things that could be true."
Sherlock fractionally inclined his broad shoulders in a nonchalant shrug. "Exactly. I guess. That's all it is, guessing. But the people paying me don't know that, for all they know I'm correct in my assumptions and that's all that matters."
Y/N almost stopped in surprise. "But---you say it all so confidently."
"I have to. Most of my job is just acting like you know things when really you don't know anything, not for sure."
Y/N didn't know whether she admired him for his performance, or felt horribly cheated. "So you just lie?"
"No. Well maybe sometimes accidentally when I'm wrong. But I'm not usually wrong so it doesn't matter. You didn't really believe everything I said when I deduced people, right?"
They'd come to a halt so Basil coils sniff a clump of dandelions that had broken free from the road verge, stuffing his nose into their yellow heads until he snorted a loud sneeze. Sherlock had turned to Y/N with a small hint of a smug smirk twitching at the corner of his handsome mouth.
Y/N's cheeks coloured, although she didn't know why. "No. Occasionally."
"I'm disappointed in you, Y/N," Sherlock teased, nudging her in her side with his pointy elbow. "I rather thought you were cleverer than that."
"So it's all just a trick?"
"It's not a trick. It's just guessing, then judging which is the most likely circumstance. Like that lady there." He tilted his head to a middle-aged woman across the street, exiting the driver's side of a red Volvo. "See how the front seat she just got out of is farther back than it should be for someone of her height? That suggests the car belongs to someone taller than her who usually has the seat farther back. She's wearing a wedding band and the car is a family-friendly model so we can make an educated guess that that's her husband's car and she's borrowing it for a short errand."
"How do you know it's a short errand?"
"Well, if it was a long one she'd move the seat forwards, right? But why bother to mess up the way her husband likes it if she's just popping to the shop?"
The lady had retrieved a bag from the boot of the car and was now entering the squat little corner store Y/N had barely noticed before. Sherlock had noticed it, obviously. Y/N nodded. "Okay, I get it. But you could be wrong. She could have just bought the car and not got around to moving the seat forwards, the seat adjuster might be broken---"
"Yes. But my conclusions are the most likely, so if I was investigating her and had to deduce her for a client I'd stick with my house-wife-on-an-errand-to-buy-nappies-for-her-small-child hypothesis."
"What makes you think she's getting nappies?"
"I don't only think she's getting nappies, I know she's getting nappies."
Sputtering with disbelief: "I bet she's not, you can't possibly know that."
Basil had finished with the dandelions and was now eager to continue his exploration of his new environment but Sherlock didn't heed his wishes, and caught Y/N when she started walking.
With a light behind his eyes, that confident look that both annoyed Y/N and made her fall a little bit in love with him, Sherlock asked: "What are you willing to bet?"
Y/N chewed her lip thoughtfully. She should know better than to doubt her friend's phenomenal abilities, and yet he had just stood there telling her it's all some elaborate guessing game, so maybe she actually stood a chance. "If you win, if she comes back with nappies I'll go to that shop and buy you some Nutella."
"You're on." He held out his gloved hand for her to shake and she did, knowing she'd already lost and was now mentally counting the change in her wallet.
...
The lady returned to her car with a jumbo-sized bag of Pampers under one arm and Sherlock just gave Y/N a grin that made her roll her eyes so far back she could see her brain. "Okay, how did you know? I know you're dying for me to ask."
"No, I'm dying for you to pop over there and get me that Nutella."
"Tell me how you did it first."
"I shouldn't need to, it's obv---" noticing her expression, Sherlock---smartly---shut up very quickly. "The back of the car has one of those child booster seat things, I saw it when she opened the boot. There aren't very many reasons why someone would rush to a shop this late in the evening, so, using what clues are available to us we can draw to the most likely conclusion that she's got a small child and has run out of something. What is vitally important for small children and easy to run out of? Food and nappies. It's unlikely their whole house has completely run out of food, and given the time, a meal could probably wait until morning. Thus, nappies. Now, my Nutella, please." He was giving her that stupid proud smile and Y/N raised her eyebrows at him.
"You think you're really clever, don't you?"
"I have my moments."
...
Y/N had bought Sherlock his winnings and their walk continued now that they weren't watching and betting on middle-aged women buying Pampers. Sherlock had handed Basil's lead to Y/N and removed his gloves so he could scoop the chocolate spread from its jar with one finger, placing it between his lips and humming in appreciation at the taste.
He noticed Y/N staring at him and asked around a mouthful of chocolate goo: "What?"
Y/N sighed in the same way Sherlock had sighed at Basil earlier; in fond disapproval. "I'm walking a dog with Detective Winnie The Pooh."
"Winnie ate honey, not hazelnut spread."
"I've seen you eat honey with the same amount of gusto." Y/N's mind filled with the memory of her flatmate at breakfast a few days ago, his pink lips stained with glistening sugary syrup. It had been both an erotic and disgusting display, not that he'd meant to display anything, and it had required all of Y/N's willpower not to look like she wanted to lean over and kiss that sinfully teasing sweetness right off his face. She'd then spent the rest of the day thinking herself pathetic.
"I like honey."
"I know."
Sherlock offered Y/N the Nutella pot. "I always liked the idea of keeping bees, then I'd have my own honey. You know those white hives you can get that look like houses? I always wanted one, I was going to get one for my seventeenth birthday but then we found out Mycroft is allergic to the proteins in stings."
"It doesn't seem fair that you should miss out. He could have just stayed away from them."
"That's what I said!"
...
"Do you think when a great dane looks at a chihuahua it knows it's also a dog? Or do they see them as different species?" Sherlock pondered out loud. They'd planned to walk in a circle, encompassing several blocks, but, like most of their walks, had decided to branch out and go further afield. Now they were meandering up and down weaving roads, letting Basil---who was very much in the lead---decide which routes they took. There was no chance of them getting lost because Sherlock knew his city better than the lines on the palms of his hands.
"I guess they work mainly by smell rather than sight."
A long pause while Sherlock mulled this information over. Then:
"...Do you think dog breeds smell different?"
Y/N furrowed her brows in thought. "I'm not sure. How would we test that?"
"I have no idea."
It was properly night time now and Sherlock was tipping his head back to observe the sky. Y/N had thought he was mourning the stars smothered by a thick layer of light pollution, but then she realised she'd been completely wrong because he said suddenly:
"Glass and concrete are made of sand. So...if you think about it, all these buildings are just really big sandcastles."
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. "What was in that Nutella?" which got her a good-humoured chuckle, the sound low and mellow and warming Y/N's chill-kissed skin with delightful tingles.
"Nothing. I was just thinking about it. Although, realistically, I guess everything is made out of one fundamental ingredient so you could say that about anything. Books are tattooed tree slices, clothes are strings of plants---"
Unable to hold in a laugh: "You need to stop."
"I swear that's what it says on my family crest, but in Latin."
...
"I had that dream again."
They'd stopped so Basil could explore the multitudinous array of scents a phonebox has to offer. Y/N reached up to wipe the smudge of Nutella she'd spotted on Sherlock's cheek and his cheekbones went slightly pink at the contact. Or because he'd been walking around with Nutella on his person.
"Did she have a face this time?" Y/N inquired with interest.
"No. Well, I think she does have a face but I just never get to look at it for some reason. And this time the bedsheets were blue."
"I can't believe you don't even know what the person in your own dreams looks like."
Basil had finished with the phonebox (or maybe just decided that it is disgusting) and they picked up their pace once more, now strolling past some pretty-looking houses lined up and identical. Like those paper dolls you can make by cutting folded paper.
"I don't know what she looked like but she sounded like Meg Ryan."
Intrigued: "You like Meg Ryan?"
Sherlock's lips twitched at one corner into a bashful smile because they were analyzing his love life (or lack thereof) under a metaphorical microscope. "No, but remember that film where she was in the restaurant with Billy Crystal and she started pretending to have sex? My brain seems to be using that as a reference."
"Why?"
"Give it a little credit, it's doing its best with the litter material it's got."
"You've never...? Or have you just only been with really quiet people?" Y/N couldn't help wondering how anyone could be quiet whilst being with Sherlock Holmes, and quickly dipped her head, hoping her hair would cover the hot flush of colour that was spreading over her cheeks. There's those silly, juvenile thoughts again. Maybe she's sick?
"No."
"Huh." She didn't know what to say to that. What so you say to that?
He turned his head to examine her expression through curious, narrowed eyes. "You sound surprised, why are you surprised?"
"It's just you're very attractive so it's surprising no one's ever....you know."
He hummed. Y/N couldn't place her finger on in what way. If she didn't know any better she'd say disbelief, but that couldn't be true. No one thought higher of Sherlock Holmes that Sherlock Holmes.
They were silent for a while, watching the street of pretty houses dwindle off into regular, towering apartment buildings. Y/N recognised this area and realised they'd started to loop back towards Baker Street. She wondered if Basil had led them that way or if somehow they'd naturally gravitated towards it like birds coming home for winter, then almost started as Sherlock said:
"When Harry met Sally!"
"What?"
"That was the film. When Harry met Sally. Where meg Ryan was in the restaurant."
Unable to hide her obvious surprise: "You've seen when Harry met Sally?"
"Yes."
"Did you like it?"
Sherlock said nothing and Y/N took that to mean yes. Fan of romcoms. Y/N added that to her mental list of unexpected Sherlock facts. The list had lengthened significantly in a very short time.
"Hey...maybe it means something."
"What? When Harry Met Sally?"
"No, your dream. With the faceless lady. Maybe it means something."
He stared ahead, watching Basil weaving over the path, following invisible trails they couldn't see. "Dreams don't mean anything. And I told you, she has a face, I just never get to look at it."
"They do mean something sometimes."
Smiling, Sherlock arched a dark eyebrow at her. "What about that dream you had where you were shaving a cat? What did that mean?" He'd been so busy giving Y/N a mocking, amused expression that he almost walked straight out into the road. Y/N caught his arm with well-practised ease, pulling him back onto the path. She has to do that a lot. And it's nearly always because he's giving her some kind of look.
"That dream didn't mean anything, but yours might."
"Like what, dare I ask? That Saturn has aligned with Jupiter so now is a good time to mingle at work as someone new and exciting shall enter your life, as will a hobby you haven't tried before but should?"
"Shut up, Mystic Meg, I don't mean like that. Although the mingling might be a good idea, maybe this is your body's way of saying it wants to meet someone."
Sounding absolutely appalled: "I don't want to meet someone!"
"It seems your subconscious disagrees." Y/N did wonder why she was saying any of this. The idea of sending her crush off to be with any woman that was not her sent her stomach into a nervous knot (the wave of guilty self-disgust tightening it to an uncomfortable degree) but it wasn't this time. Maybe she felt safe, immune, because she knew he wouldn't follow her advice. Although she had no idea why. He acts like a married man staying faithful, and yet he isn't married, he isn't even dating.