AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Let's say, for the sake of this story, that you'd very much like to one day settle down as Mrs Holmes in a cottage in the British countryside with your husband and dog.
CONTEXT: When Y/N (much to Sherlock's delight) has to look after her friend's dog for a couple of days, the experience accidentally changes a few things in 221B for the better.
__________
It was a brittle January afternoon. Snow is drifting lazily down from the dull grey sky, but not enough to be satisfying. The flakes aren't fat and heavy like downy feathers, they're minuscule and prickly like sugar crystals dusted onto a cookie.
Y/N's Christmas holiday was slowly trickling to an end, while, much to her annoyance, Sherlock's still ploughed on---not that he wanted it to. He wasn't even formally on a holiday, rather, he was forced to take one because crime always seemed to dry up around mid-winter. Perpetrators may be hardened criminals but they seem to be just as sensitive to the cold as everyone else and prefer to commit their various offences during warmer times.
You would think that this arid spell would mean life in 221B---especially now that the weather made going outside very unappealing also---next to unbearable. After three weeks without a case, Y/N had estimated that Sherlock's boredom would reach fatal levels by New Years and he'd be dead before seeing his birthday.
Each morning she would sleepily stumble into the kitchen, expecting to see him slumped diagonally in his chair, complaining loudly about his brain shrivelling into a raisin due to lack of stimulation.
And each morning she was pleasantly surprised to find that her estimation had been incorrect.
The days went on, Sherlock's birthday came and went, and he continued to be in a surprisingly amiable mood. He'd do experiments at the table, find things to stare at under his microscope, read in his chair, or even sometimes just watch television. He seemed to have relaxed, uncoiled enough to enjoy simple things, even asking Y/N to play board games with him, or let him join her while she pursues her own interests. Well, this behaviour isn't exactly new. These are typical between-cases-Sherlock habits. What is new is the length of time he's been doing them. Usually, a week is the absolute limit, but now it's been at least three, and he doesn't seem to care.
Lestrade had joked that if he didn't know any better he'd say the detective was in love. Or perhaps at least 'getting some', as he put it. Y/N had wondered this too, despite how unlikely it seemed, and watched him closely but he never really left her sight. Not long enough to carry out a relationship---serious or casual---anyway. Thus, she put his good mood down to the simple fact that he enjoyed this time of year and left it at that. She'd rather put it down to that. It was much easier to accept than the rather ill-tasting mental image of him dating. It's not that Y/N didn't want Sherlock to be with anyone---she did, she wants him to be happy, of course---she would just rather that the person he was with, the person that makes him happy was her.
At present, Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and a dressing gown and was hunting around in the kitchen cupboards for left-over mince pies. Y/N had been the one to put them away, and he knew this, so kept asking her for directions, which she wouldn't usually mind, had she not been on the phone.
"You said they were in the top cupboard," his voice drifted over, muffled by various tins, jars, and that one Tupperware box Y/N didn't want to look in.
She covered the mic with her hand not holding her mobile to her ear and whispered at him: "They are, shhhh."
Despite being rather tall, Sherlock still had to push himself up on tiptoes to see into the storage space, and now sank, defeated, the rest of his bare feet back onto the tiles. "No, they're not."
Electing to ignore her friend, Y/N released the phone's microphone and continued her conversation. "That's a shame, what are you going to do instead?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to ask for more help, then saw Y/N's face as she gave him a warning look. He shut his it quickly and just stood in the middle of the kitchen chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. Then an idea must have come to him because he darted over to his desk drawer and started hunting through that instead.
Y/N's eyes followed him with amusement as the familiar female voice of an old friend, Laura, crackled through from her end of the call. Y/N knew she was due to be going on her honeymoon this very evening, but her dog-sitter had fallen ill and cancelled at the last second, putting her plans in jeopardy. Y/N knew why Laura was calling and wished she'd just skip to the part where she pretends to suddenly have the genius idea that Y/N could dog-sit, then beg her until she concedes. But she, like all people feeling guilty for putting others out, insists on dancing around the subject, sort of nudging Y/N into suggesting it herself. "You can't cancel, it's your honeymoon."
Finding a pen and piece of scrap paper, Sherlock went back to the dining table and scribbled something onto the A4. He held it up for Y/N to read. It said:
'THEY'RE NOT IN TOP CUPBOARD'
Rolling her eyes, Y/N strode over to the kitchen and opened the other top cupboard and pulled out the box of uneaten mince pies, pushing them into the now slightly embarrassed Sherlock's chest. Still talking into her phone: "Surely there's someone else who can look after him?"
Sherlock, content now that his stomach was getting what it wanted, had sunk into a chair to enjoy his treat and started watching Y/N's side of the conversation. He does that a lot, watch her, Y/N realised, as if she's a fish in a tank, or a character on that videogame, The Sims. Not watching her in a critical or strange way, just as if he...enjoyed looking at her.
'Maybe he's more bored than he lets on,' she thought. "Me?" They'd (at last) got to that part where the person asking for a favour gets bored of hinting and finally just comes out with it. It's moments like these that Y/N realises she'd probably spent too much time around Sherlock; his clipped ways of socialising are rubbing off on her. "I don't know, Laura, it's pretty short notice."
At this, Sherlock's ears metaphorically pricked up, and he scrawled on his scrap paper, holding his quarter-eaten mince pie between his teeth, a new note:
'WHAT IS?'
Still to Laura: "I mean, I live in an apartment." Y/N paused, listening to the reply. "Yeah, I guess you're right, it's only for a week. And he is an older dog, isn't he? He probably doesn't care about running around outside all the time anymore anyway."
Sherlock must have pieced together the general gist of the discussion and what was being asked of Y/N because he wrote hurriedly, standing up to show Y/N the paper:
'SAY YES'
"I mean, I'd have to ask my flatmate---"
'I DON'T MIND'
"---and my landlord."
More excited scribbling. Another almost-illegible note:
'SHE DOESN'T MIND EITHER'
Y/N was trying to hold in a smile. She's teasing now, although she doesn't know who she's teasing more, Laura or Sherlock. Of course she'd dog-sit Basil, he's probably one of her best non-human friends and has been since he was just a butter-coloured, chubby, bouncy ball of baby retriever. Just past the point of middle age, Basil has mellowed to a floppy, affectionate, not-so-bouncy ball of retriever, always greeting Y/N with a sloppy grin on his face and a firm face-licking. Well-trained and docile, he'd make an excellent (and very welcome) house guest. Not to mention Y/N always kind of wanted a dog, but she knew city life and her full-time job made her unsuitable for pet ownership. Unless that pet was a lizard. Or perhaps a goldfish.
Sherlock had covered the room in two quick strides, coming over to where Y/N was standing and took her arm in his hand, giving it a gentle yet obviously desperate little shake. He'd turned the paper over to its blank side and written in massive print:
'PLEASE'
Unable to hold in a grin anymore, Y/N made a show of sighing as if she'd been reluctantly won over. "Fine, Laura, seven days."
Sherlock did a triumphant jump for joy.
Laura said she'd be over to drop Basil off on her way to the airport later, and when they'd said their goodbyes (with many 'thank you's thrown in from Laura's side), Y/N ended the call. No sooner had she put her phone on the counter Sherlock exuberantly took the sides of her face and kissed her forehead, beaming, his emotions finally outrunning his self-discipline.
"We're looking after a dog?" He asked. He knew the answer, he just seemed to like the sound of its clarification.
Her brain like a bicycle someone had wedged a stick into the wheel of, Y/N had to blink a few times before she could answer. "Yeah. You're going to help me walk him, though, okay?"
Rather than grudgingly accepting, he looked elated. "I get to walk him?"
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him, still standing close enough to her to wipe a crumb from his cheek from when he'd shoved half a mince pie in his mouth so his hands were free to write. "God, Sherlock, who knew you were so obsessed with doggos? Didn't you once say you only bother with, what did you call it? 'Important' things?"
Sherlock's cheekbones sprinkled with a light pink blush, at Y/N touching his face or at the fact that he'd let slip a previously hidden part of himself, she wasn't sure. He stood up a little straighter, trying to slip back into his old metaphorical coat of nonchalant indifference. "I'm not obsessed. And I only bother with 'relevant' things."
Raising one eyebrow; "And yet you know all the words to One Week."
His blush deepened by a shade but he'd turned back to the table, hiding it by retrieving another mince pie. "Just tell me about Basil, please."