(Untitled)

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Scritchity-scratch-scratch creeeeeeeek, goes a door in the Staff and Other Important Areas part of the bar.

A gray and black form slinks out at the creeeeeek noise and darts through the sea of patrons' ankles, tail held high and slobbery paper something-or-other clutched in his jaws. The dog- not quite two feet tall at the shoulder, somewhat

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[hello_freak]

Sherlock had been sitting at the bar, leafing through today's paper and counting the number of patrons of a non-human morphology. Aliens. Robots. Lizardmen. Some strange thing with tentacles for a mouth and a glowing sphere on a tether.

And now a dog.

A dog with a purpose, it seems. This is not something one sees every day, even in a bar at the end of the universe. Clearly, this needs investigating.

Sherlock folds his paper neatly, and leans forward a bit.

"Need some assistance with that?"

He leans forward and gingerly, in a way best described as non-threatening, holds the bag in such a manner that the dog can grab the handles of the bag.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Dogmeat understands a fair amount of English. Mostly the parts that involve action verbs, if we are being honest. The rest of it is translated more from tone and accompanying action than understood directly, but the net effect is the same. When Sherlock holds up the bag for him he waves his tail gratefully and bites down on the bag's handles with great care. It's a little bit awkward to carry, but no worse than a shotgun or a human arm.

... probably best not to ask about the last one.

He wags his tail again thankfully and eases himself and his bundle down to the floor.

[hello_freak]

But of course.

Which is why Sherlock is tucking his paper under his arm, and following, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

He'll even hold the door open for the dog, if it makes his path any easier.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

It does, significantly. Dogmeat is used to having to wait for a human to push the door open, or sometimes just to wait for the big metal doors to suddenly unbuckle themselves and slide apart. Nosing the door open doesn't work that well when he's carrying stuff, so the strange human following him is appreciated.

He pads past a couple of other doors- closets, mostly- and stops with an expectant look outside the one labeled Infirmary.

[thanksrainman]

Gus notices the dog from down the Bar a bit, and watches with a sort of confused interest.

Hey, wait a minute. Isn't that...

"Hey, Dog," he says. "Whatchya got there?"

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Dogmeat remembers this guy. Dogmeat remembers a lot of people, actually; people don't give him enough credit for that.

He holds up the bag as best he can; it's full of a number of items useful for physical rehabilitation exercises, elastic cords and ankle weights and hand exercisers and the like. Of course, he hasn't got hands, so he's holding it up with the handles clamped in his jaws, but still.

[thanksrainman]

Gus takes the bag, more out of curiosity than anything, and looks in it. He's not planning on taking anything from it, mainly because he knows the importance of having one or two people around who don't want to smash his skull in.

"Where's your lady?" he asks. Yep, he's definitely been around Milliways for too long if he's talking to a dog like it were a human.

[aaaaaaaagh_sky]

Dogmeat turns without ceremony and trots back towards the door he came in by. He stops at the door to make sure that Gus is following him, because, well, the humans don't always understand where they're supposed to go. Right this way!