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It was not often that Mrs. Hudson left Baker Street for prolonged periods of time. Usually when she did, it was to visit her sister in Northampton, as was the case that fine week in early spring. Before leaving, Mrs. Hudson always made sure that her kitchen was full for our uses, with plenty of prepared meals to alleviate the expenditure of constant dining away from home. It was a kind gesture, and always appreciated. Especially when, further along in our tenancy, I dare say that Holmes and I did not stray far when we had 221B completely to ourselves. Without meaning to be crass, we had only two options to fill our time between cases: allow Holmes to wither away while I tended to my surgery, or keep ourselves… occupied. It certainly could not be every day, what with the duty to my patients. But rather than watch my dear companion lament the ticking hours of no work, I sought to entertain him at home. It was on one such morning when our schedules were free that we saw fit to stay completely in our bed. I was quite thankful that we had slept with the window closed, which acted to dampen the noise. Thinking back to that day, I fear some of our bedsprings may have snapped.

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I had ended our dalliance with a flourish, and had fallen atop my partner with no further ceremony. Just as I had been grateful for the closed window, I now cursed my good fortune, as the room was terribly stuffy. Yet I was immobilized, sprawled flat over Holmes’ lanky body. When he chuckled, his whole chest rumbled beneath my ear.

“Jolly good show, doctor,” he teased quietly. “Now would you be so kind as to move aside and let me breathe?”

“Seems to me you have more than enough air to be smart.”

“Always.” Holmes nodded to the window. “Still, it’s miserable in here. Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” Not bothering to be shy, I slid from the bed to crack our window, allowing a wonderfully cool breeze to blow out the thick air of our intimacy. When I returned to bed, I’d opened my mouth to say something, perhaps to ask if he was hungry, when I saw him reach for something on his nightstand. He retrieved a notebook and pencil, and with his back to the headboard, he scribbled furiously. Peeking over his shoulder, I saw figures of a most complicated equation, and furrowed my brow. “I say,” I said, “is that maths?”

“Correct.”

“You’re doing figures in bed?”

“Yes.”

“Whatever for?”

Holmes wet the tip of his pencil with his tongue, and jotted a few more variables on the page. “You have your methods of stimulation, and I have mine.” He finished the problem with a gleeful swipe of his hand, and held the book out to admire his work. Meanwhile, I did not know whether to laugh, or call the man a complete scoundrel.

“Do you mean to say that that was not stimulating enough for you?”

“Oh, please don’t assume the worst, dear fellow,” said Holmes. “Our carnal activities serve their purposes, certainly. If anything, engaging in such physical exchanges shakes my more stubborn thoughts loose. A mental calibration of sorts.”

Rather than take offense to such a blasè regard of our intimate life, I instead rolled back onto his bare chest, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You are a ridiculous man.”

Holmes smiled, a crinkle at each eye. “And yet you love me all the same.” I concurred with a kiss, and for a few moments more, was able to distract my dear Holmes from his precious mathematical figures. But eventually, my stomach protested, and I willed myself to leave his side in search of breakfast. Dressing comfortably, I wandered to our kitchen and started a kettle for tea. Only when I checked our pantry did I remember that Mrs. Hudson mentioned she’d recently bought porridge, and that it was kept downstairs.

“Holmes?” I called.

“Yes?” he answered.

“How do you feel about porridge?”

“Ethically?”

I clicked my tongue in vague annoyance. “You are amusing no one!”

“On the contrary, I feel quite amused.”

I choked back my giggle, if only to deny him the satisfaction of hearing me laugh. “I’m going downstairs to fetch us some!” Holmes made some noise of dismissal, and I headed down the steps to Mrs. Hudson’s unit beneath ours.

221A was as well maintained as one might expect. After our payment from the crowned prince of Bohemia, Holmes and I could afford to purchase Mrs. Hudson a fine ice box, which was kept in a dark corner of the otherwise bright kitchen. There were copper pots and pans, with a great stew pot among other fine utensils. And of course, a well stocked cupboard. I hummed no song in particular as I opened the door to scrounge. I spotted the tin of oats and removed it with a whistle. Only as I closed the cupboard did I hear a frantic scratching at the kitchen door.

I paused, thinking for a moment we might have had rats in the walls. But only a second after I noticed the scratching did a canine whimper accompany it. A dog? I approached the back door. No sooner did I turn the knob when something barreled through the threshold. I braced myself against the frame and watched as a stray hound bounded into Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen. Smelling the dried meats in the cupboard, it managed to wedge its nose inside and wiggle it open. It had just stuck its head inside when I grabbed it by the collar.

“Whoa now!” I yanked the beast away from Mrs. Hudson’s shopping and put myself in the way. “Don’t you know it’s rude for one to invite oneself in for tea without asking?” The dog barked and lapped at my face. Perhaps in an attempt to seduce me from the sausage links within. “Goodness me, we are forward!” I went to shut and lock the cupboard, only to be stopped by the bloodhound’s whine. The poor thing pawed at the door, and I could tell that it was clearly famished. I hesitated, and glanced at the cupboard.

“Well, I suppose Mrs. Hudson did say we were welcome to her kitchen…” Opening it back up, I snapped a sausage from the end and held it up. The dog wagged its tail, drooling. “Here.” I ripped off the end and tossed it. The dog caught the meat easily, and swallowed with hardly a chew. “My my, I suppose you must be hungry.” Tearing off a few more pieces, I fed them to the hound, who was grateful for my generosity. I knelt down and scratched behind its floppy, tawny ears. “Now, who exactly are you, dear friend? And why did you feel the need to barge into my landlady’s kitchen?” The dog answered by bestowing me with even more wet kisses. I checked the tag on its collar, only to find nothing but five scuffs on one face.

The sharp whistle of the kettle upstairs pulled my attention, and I stood. I considered, for a moment, turning the dog back out into the alley, but thought that it may be a long way from home. If anything, I supposed I could ask Scotland Yard if anyone had lost a pet, and see to it myself that the animal was returned. “Come along, friend.” The hound stuck to my heel, happy to follow me back upstairs. When I returned to the parlor, I took the kettle off the fire and prepared a pot. All the while, my uninvited guest saw fit to stick its nose to the carpet and sniff in circles. I chuckled, watching it as I prepared our oats for porridge. “I suppose there’s a lot of interest for you up here, isn’t there? I can’t imagine everything you’re smelling.”

Holmes, dressed for a day of leisure at home, emerged from the hall while securing the tie around his waist. “Watson,” he said, “have you seen my—?” He stopped, spotting the bloodhound in our parlor. His face blank, he pointed a long finger at the creature, who was currently nose-deep in his slippers. “What is that?”

I smiled at him from the kitchen, preparing our tea tray. “That, I believe, is a dog.”

“Why?”

“Why is it a dog? Afraid you’ll have to inquire the Almighty about that, dear boy.”

“Why is it in our living room, John?”

“I invited it up for a cup of tea.”

Holmes narrowed his eyes at me as I set up our table for morning breakfast. “Now who is being smart?” I returned to the kitchen to mind our porridge. Our guest had moved on from Holmes’ slippers, and was now rummaging through the stacks and stacks of clutter beside the dear detective’s desk. Holmes approached it with all the apprehension of a man in the wild. “Shoo. Away from there.” I watched as my friend uselessly waved in the air, hoping to dissuade the dog from ruining his work station.

“It won’t harm anything,” I said.

“You can’t know that.”

“It’s a well trained dog,” I replied. “Clearly someone’s pet. We shall have our breakfast, and then I intend to report it missing to the authorities.”

“While I cannot believe I’m saying this, Scotland Yard has more important things to do than trifle with a lost beast.”

I stirred our porridge and added a dash of fresh honey to taste. “Well then what do you suggest I do with it?”

“Where did you find it?”

“It found me. It nearly trampled me to get to Mrs. Hudson’s sausages. The poor thing was starved.” The hound, satisfied with its survey of our flat, returned to me in the kitchen and sniffed the air, curiously wagging its tail at the smell of breakfast. Leaning down, I gave it a fine pet, which only made it wag its tail faster. “Hope it’s not too far away from home. Poor fellow.” I noticed the twist in Holmes’ face, and I paused. “Do you not like dogs?”

Holmes straightened his smoking jacket. “As a beast of burden, they are useful animals. Intelligent, susceptible to training, cunning, clever—” He paused when the hound lifted its leg and began to clean itself. Glancing down, I could at the very least confirm that it was male. “On the other hand,” Holmes said, his lips pursed, “animals can be… an upset.”

“Can they now?”

“Yes. For one thing, they defecate. Everywhere.”

“You once visited a pig farm for a murder case only to return home with an entire box full of—”

“Additionally, animals need attention. Dogs in specific need exercise. Grooming, food, training, regular scheduling. It’d be like having a whole other person in the house, and I am not prepared to uproot my schedule so suddenly.”

“Why, you make it sound like I mean to keep the thing!” I laughed. “Holmes, I mean to return him to his rightful owner soon after breakfast.”

Holmes snapped his eyes up to me. “Do you indeed?”

“And what does that mean?”

“What happens if you cannot find the owner? Or if they are too far away?”

“You sound like this is a certainty.”

“Clay.”

“Sorry?”

“Its paws. There are clumps of red clay in between its toes. From this distance, it is unclear if it is brick dust or natural deposits. If it is manmade, then it possibly lives in a pottery or foundry. But if the clay is natural, it is possible that it has come from the continent, as the closest deposits of red clay are in warmer climates, such as Spain or the mediterranean. Do you intend to purchase a ticket across the channel with your new friend in order to scour the entirety of the continent?”

“You’re being ridiculous. It’s not a Spanish dog.”

“How do you know?”

I looked down at the dog. Remembering a faint remedial language class from my school boy days, I said: “Sentarse!” The dog continued to lick his nether regions. I switched to English. “Sit!” The dog snapped to attention and sat. I looked at Holmes with a smile. “Not a Spanish dog.”

Holmes sat at the table with a grunt and swiped last night’s paper. “Just remember, you intend to be rid of the thing after breakfast.”

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“Sherlock Holmes, why do you keep speaking like I’m prepared to give him his own key to the house?”

​

“Because if ever there is a man whose bleeding heart extends to all of God’s creatures, he is standing in my kitchen making me breakfast. All it will take is one sad, sorry look from this poor beast and you will start thinking up names for the damned thing.”

I eyed the dog, who had now laid at my feet and nuzzled my slippers. My smile grew wide. “Toby.”

“What?” Holmes looked up from his paper.

“I think Toby fits him quite well, don’t you?”

Holmes scowled and sunk back into the news. “Cheeky.”

Coming Soon