"Human Sacrifice, Mass Hysteria…Am I Missing One?" (Sherlock Holmes AU), July 11 Prompt
Title: Human Sacrifice, Mass Hysteria…Am I Missing One?
Author: gardnerhill
Rating: G
Characters: AU Sherlock Holmes
Summary: So kill me, I like animated Disney animal-avatar films.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1300
Author's Notes: For the July 11 prompt (kitten and/or other furry animal).
***
I've been a protector for most of my 28 years, and I helped the ones who helped the hurt people. I did my job in a loud, hot, terrible place full of the stink of weapons and the smell of blood, and I did it well - I got my full share of treats and pats and those precious "Good boys" every protector lives for.
But one day the loud terrible pain found me and my human partner too - and when I woke up I was missing a foreleg and and on my way home with the other wounded. My trainer was too badly hurt to help me, and the hospital was for humans and unequipped to deal with me; so I found myself that most despicable of my kind, a city-street stray. For days I foraged for rubbish and painfully learned to walk and run on three legs; to my shame, I was forced to flee bigger stronger strays because I could not fight yet.
One day, while sleeping under a bench in the park, I heard a welcome voice. "Alsatian! Smell my ass, it is you!"
I scrambled to my paws in pleasure. "Stafford!" The Staffordshire Terrier and I had trained together to help the human doctors.
My friend whined in distress after we'd exchanged the usual greetings. "You're thin as a whippet and you stink of hunger. Did those ingrates throw you away when you lost your foot?"
"My partner is worse than I am," I said, hackling a little in defense to hear my human ill-spoken. "When he's well I'll go back to him. But for now it's skips and alleys."
"You shouldn't be alone, Al," he said. "You should join a street pack or at least find another stray so you can keep each other safe."
I whuffed a humourless bark. "A three-legged rescue dog who can't fight. Who'd want to share a crate with me?"
Stafford cocked his head and his ears at the same time. "Well sniff me, but you're the second one to say that to me in two days."
My own ears and tail perked up at that. "There's some other dog out there in a bad way? I don't mind sharing - and I'm neutered, so dog or bitch doesn't matter to me."
Stafford gave me a strange look. "Shock's a bit … odd. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill stray. You might change your mind."
"Introduce us and I'll make up my own mind." I began hobbling after Stafford at the steady pace I'd learned to set. "Shock, you say? That's a strange name."
We wound up in a busy street full of good smells from the bakery across the way (ah, that would mean good rubbish here) and down an alley between two of the buildings. "Shock?" Stafford called.
Eager to meet this fellow stray, I hobbled in ahead of my friend. A black ragged-earred cat leaped onto a crate and hissed at us. I hackled all over at the cat's sudden appearance - every Alsatian born despises that race - and barked to scare the little sneak off. The cat didn't even hop off the crate; insolently, it sat down and began to wash itself right in front of me. Oh, if I'd had all four legs I'd have given it a chase it would never forget.
"Out of here, mouser!" I barked. "I'm looking for Shock!"
"You found him, army dog," the cat responded coldly, washing behind one torn ear.
I was so startled that I stopped barking. A cat? No wonder Stafford had said he was odd. Privately promising to tear off one of Stafford's ears for this prank, I began turning to leave the alley when the cat's words sank in.
I looked back at the black-furred creature, whose white eyes stared back at me with no fear. "You called me 'army dog.' How did you know that?"
"I notice things," the cat - Shock - said. "You were an army dog, in a hot country full of fighting, and you helped the medical people before you and your trainer were both injured. Your trainer is unable to help you now, so he's either dead or in hospital, and you need someone to help watch your back while you live the life of a wounded veteran on the street." He ran a paw behind one ear. "Do stop panting, it makes you look ridiculous."
I closed my mouth. This was too much all at once. I'd never believed those pup tales that cats could read minds, but now I wasn't so sure. "How - how did Stafford know about you?" was all I could think to say. The thought of my friend associating with tailchasers confused me; Staffordshires hate cats as much as any Alsatian does.
"Oh, sooner or later everyone in town knows me," Shock said. "Everyone - the cats, the rats, the pigeons, the starlings, the mice, the people. Even the dogs." I bristled at how he mentioned dogs only as an afterthought. "I found Stafford's tag when he lost it a few months ago, so he owed me a favour. You, I take it, are the favour."
I stared at this fearless, scrawny black scrap of fur with the unsettling eyes. I was torn between wanting to break his back with one snap of my jaws, and wanting to ask him how he knew so much about me.
My stomach pinched with emptiness and I shook off my pride the way I wished I could shake away the fleas and ticks in my fur. What pack would have me right now? Stafford had his own family to see to - a family that would take one look at me and send me to a shelter where I'd never see my trainer again. This was my corner to lie in.
I bared my closed teeth to show the cat I meant no harm. "I can't fight very well right now," I said bluntly. "But I'm big, and I have a loud bark, and I can turn over a dustbin in no time. Sometimes I get lonely and howl at night."
The cat groomed his tail with both forepaws. "I do some singing at night myself. Sometimes I go off and don't come back for days - and I might be a bit bloody or missing some parts. Angry dogs, mostly. That's why I moved here - I got some very big, very stupid mastiffs angry at me across town and I was forced to move. Right now I'd rather pair up than take my chances alone. If there's one thing dogs hate, it's someone who's smarter than them who knows it."
"You're not wrong," I growled.
The cat's tail perked up and Shock cocked his head to look at me again. "You're honest. I like that. We can help each other without liking each other. Agreed?"
I wagged my tail.
"Good." The cat turned and sprang off the crate and onto a skip. As it did, it dislodged something that fell at my feet with a clatter and a wonderful smell - an opened tin half-full of kippers. "I have things to do, army dog. Good evening."
I'd already bolted down half the tin, but my honor pricked me. Maybe that tin falling was an accident, except that I already believed that Shock did nothing accidentally. "Johnny!" I called, giving Shock the most private thing that was all my own - my name. "My trainer called me Johnny!"
"That's nice," the cat said, and was gone.
I bared my teeth again, not in politeness. This promised to become very hairy.
Author: gardnerhill
Rating: G
Characters: AU Sherlock Holmes
Summary: So kill me, I like animated Disney animal-avatar films.
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1300
Author's Notes: For the July 11 prompt (kitten and/or other furry animal).
***
I've been a protector for most of my 28 years, and I helped the ones who helped the hurt people. I did my job in a loud, hot, terrible place full of the stink of weapons and the smell of blood, and I did it well - I got my full share of treats and pats and those precious "Good boys" every protector lives for.
But one day the loud terrible pain found me and my human partner too - and when I woke up I was missing a foreleg and and on my way home with the other wounded. My trainer was too badly hurt to help me, and the hospital was for humans and unequipped to deal with me; so I found myself that most despicable of my kind, a city-street stray. For days I foraged for rubbish and painfully learned to walk and run on three legs; to my shame, I was forced to flee bigger stronger strays because I could not fight yet.
One day, while sleeping under a bench in the park, I heard a welcome voice. "Alsatian! Smell my ass, it is you!"
I scrambled to my paws in pleasure. "Stafford!" The Staffordshire Terrier and I had trained together to help the human doctors.
My friend whined in distress after we'd exchanged the usual greetings. "You're thin as a whippet and you stink of hunger. Did those ingrates throw you away when you lost your foot?"
"My partner is worse than I am," I said, hackling a little in defense to hear my human ill-spoken. "When he's well I'll go back to him. But for now it's skips and alleys."
"You shouldn't be alone, Al," he said. "You should join a street pack or at least find another stray so you can keep each other safe."
I whuffed a humourless bark. "A three-legged rescue dog who can't fight. Who'd want to share a crate with me?"
Stafford cocked his head and his ears at the same time. "Well sniff me, but you're the second one to say that to me in two days."
My own ears and tail perked up at that. "There's some other dog out there in a bad way? I don't mind sharing - and I'm neutered, so dog or bitch doesn't matter to me."
Stafford gave me a strange look. "Shock's a bit … odd. Definitely not your run-of-the-mill stray. You might change your mind."
"Introduce us and I'll make up my own mind." I began hobbling after Stafford at the steady pace I'd learned to set. "Shock, you say? That's a strange name."
We wound up in a busy street full of good smells from the bakery across the way (ah, that would mean good rubbish here) and down an alley between two of the buildings. "Shock?" Stafford called.
Eager to meet this fellow stray, I hobbled in ahead of my friend. A black ragged-earred cat leaped onto a crate and hissed at us. I hackled all over at the cat's sudden appearance - every Alsatian born despises that race - and barked to scare the little sneak off. The cat didn't even hop off the crate; insolently, it sat down and began to wash itself right in front of me. Oh, if I'd had all four legs I'd have given it a chase it would never forget.
"Out of here, mouser!" I barked. "I'm looking for Shock!"
"You found him, army dog," the cat responded coldly, washing behind one torn ear.
I was so startled that I stopped barking. A cat? No wonder Stafford had said he was odd. Privately promising to tear off one of Stafford's ears for this prank, I began turning to leave the alley when the cat's words sank in.
I looked back at the black-furred creature, whose white eyes stared back at me with no fear. "You called me 'army dog.' How did you know that?"
"I notice things," the cat - Shock - said. "You were an army dog, in a hot country full of fighting, and you helped the medical people before you and your trainer were both injured. Your trainer is unable to help you now, so he's either dead or in hospital, and you need someone to help watch your back while you live the life of a wounded veteran on the street." He ran a paw behind one ear. "Do stop panting, it makes you look ridiculous."
I closed my mouth. This was too much all at once. I'd never believed those pup tales that cats could read minds, but now I wasn't so sure. "How - how did Stafford know about you?" was all I could think to say. The thought of my friend associating with tailchasers confused me; Staffordshires hate cats as much as any Alsatian does.
"Oh, sooner or later everyone in town knows me," Shock said. "Everyone - the cats, the rats, the pigeons, the starlings, the mice, the people. Even the dogs." I bristled at how he mentioned dogs only as an afterthought. "I found Stafford's tag when he lost it a few months ago, so he owed me a favour. You, I take it, are the favour."
I stared at this fearless, scrawny black scrap of fur with the unsettling eyes. I was torn between wanting to break his back with one snap of my jaws, and wanting to ask him how he knew so much about me.
My stomach pinched with emptiness and I shook off my pride the way I wished I could shake away the fleas and ticks in my fur. What pack would have me right now? Stafford had his own family to see to - a family that would take one look at me and send me to a shelter where I'd never see my trainer again. This was my corner to lie in.
I bared my closed teeth to show the cat I meant no harm. "I can't fight very well right now," I said bluntly. "But I'm big, and I have a loud bark, and I can turn over a dustbin in no time. Sometimes I get lonely and howl at night."
The cat groomed his tail with both forepaws. "I do some singing at night myself. Sometimes I go off and don't come back for days - and I might be a bit bloody or missing some parts. Angry dogs, mostly. That's why I moved here - I got some very big, very stupid mastiffs angry at me across town and I was forced to move. Right now I'd rather pair up than take my chances alone. If there's one thing dogs hate, it's someone who's smarter than them who knows it."
"You're not wrong," I growled.
The cat's tail perked up and Shock cocked his head to look at me again. "You're honest. I like that. We can help each other without liking each other. Agreed?"
I wagged my tail.
"Good." The cat turned and sprang off the crate and onto a skip. As it did, it dislodged something that fell at my feet with a clatter and a wonderful smell - an opened tin half-full of kippers. "I have things to do, army dog. Good evening."
I'd already bolted down half the tin, but my honor pricked me. Maybe that tin falling was an accident, except that I already believed that Shock did nothing accidentally. "Johnny!" I called, giving Shock the most private thing that was all my own - my name. "My trainer called me Johnny!"
"That's nice," the cat said, and was gone.
I bared my teeth again, not in politeness. This promised to become very hairy.