Like a Fairytale

The Fault in Our Dogs

He locked the door and was so relieved to see Redbeard lying on his bed, looking sad and thin. He looked sickly, but they couldn't kill him, this was murder! He should live as long as he could; he could bear with the pain could he not? Sherlock ran to the dog, wrapping his arms around his red fur and starting to cry, his barriers dissolving behind a wall of salty tears. He could hear Redbeard's deep rattling breaths underneath him, his old heart beating weakly under his skin.
"They can't kill you Redbeard, they can't kill you!" Sherlock exclaimed, his tears coming out in silent sobs now as he buried his face into Redbeard's fur. Redbeard was more than a dog, more than even a friend, he seemed to be the only family Sherlock had ever had, the only living thing he could trust fully, like his best friend waiting after ever torturous day to welcome him home with something more than scowls and stock information. He wouldn't let them kill him, it didn't matter anymore, and if they wanted to kill Redbeard they'd have to take Sherlock as well.
"Sherlock honey, are you alright?" Mrs. Holmes wrapped on the door, sounding like she was trying her hardest not to cry as well. Sherlock trapped his tears once again, his voice turning to fury.
"GO AWAY!" he shrieked at the murderer posing as his mother. He heard her start to cry, but he didn't hear footprints, so he hurled his shoe at the door, which scared her enough to make her get a move on. There was nothing she could say or do to make up for what she was planning on doing, how could someone that seemed so innocent be so evil inside?
"I won't let them kill you Redbeard." Sherlock insisted scratching the dog's ears. Redbeard didn't make any motion to show that he had heard him, which made Sherlock even sadder. Maybe the doctor got it wrong, maybe he was perfectly okay, or maybe Redbeard might fight off the cancer, it was possible right? Sherlock never went downstairs that night, nor did he leave Redbeard's side, which was quite easy to do since the dog barely moved once. It felt like someone had sucked his heart into space and let it explode under so much pressure. Or just put it through the 1920's meat packing industry, where rats could eat at it and all. It was a pain John had never supplied, which was a good thing of course. The feeling of not being noticed wasn't anything compared to losing your one and only friend.   

    When Sherlock woke up he was extremely upset to see that nothing had changed. He had sort of hoped that Redbeard would be on the floor, and the window might be open, and that he would be in his pajamas instead of his school clothes, covered head to toe in red dog hair. Because then he would know that yesterday's tragedies had been nothing more than a terrible dream, and that he could live his life without having to worry that Redbeard's would end. So he crawled out of bed, changed quickly into new clothes, and got all ready for school. He let Redbeard out just in case, and the dog had a lot of trouble getting off the bed, in the hall, down the stairs, he even had to hobble to get onto the sidewalk.
"Sherlock dear, is that you?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen. So Sherlock shut the door in her face, walking onto the porch along with Redbeard and leaning against the wall, taking deep breaths of the fresh air and trying to calm himself down. He knew Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be asking anymore questions, not when he was being all moody like this, so he was safe for now. When Redbeard was finished outside he opened the door, letting him back in and following quickly, so that Mrs. Hudson might not notice. But it took Redbeard a while just to get up the steps, which was heartbreaking for Sherlock because he remembered a little red puppy trying to get up those steps, its big paws slowing it down and its tail wagging so much it could be a power source. And now Sherlock had to give Redbeard a boost up the last few steps because he had seemingly given up. Sherlock grabbed his school bag as well, jogging up the steps and leading Redbeard into his room. He brought out his dog bowls that Sherlock kept in the bathroom as an emergency and set out water and some food, making sure Redbeard was all situated but not really caring what happened to his things, as long as Redbeard was okay.
"Alright bud, you'll stay here okay? And then when I get home I'll take you out again, don't let anyone in, they can't kill you okay?" Sherlock insisted, crouching down and scratching his ears once again, trying his best to keep from crying. Redbeard grumbled, so he took that as a yes, grabbed the spare key to his bedroom, and locked the door behind him. Now no one could get to Redbeard even if they tried. Sherlock slipped out the door without breakfast, but, more importantly, without anyone noticing he had gone. He walked quietly all the way to the school, skipping coffee and missing the beauty of nature. The trees were dead, like Redbeard might be; the streets were packed, like the feeling as if his heart was going to explode, even the sun was hidden behind dark storm clouds. He walked into the school undetected, getting to his locker and loading his stuff in, shutting it with a snap and just standing there, standing at the cold blue metal with the stupid engravings. He felt like punching it, just to get a fraction of his anger out, but he'd suffer more damage than the locker will. Maybe he could tick off Anderson and try to get a swing in before his jaw broke. The first couple of classes seemed to go on forever, and this time Sherlock just couldn't concentrate on anything, and for once he left the class with homework. Of course there was no one to ask him if he was okay, or notice there was anything wrong in the first place, but still Sherlock felt so miserable it seemed like a miracle his heart ever felt anything other than dread. He walked slowly to his locker, taking deep breaths and trying not to wonder how Redbeard was doing right now. He opened his locker, grabbed his lunch, and walked down to the steps, not once thinking that someone was going to meet him there. But when he got down the hall he saw John longing on the wall, looking calm and attractive as usual, obviously not aware of just how much internal pain Sherlock was suffering.
"Hey Sherlock." John said happily. Sherlock didn't return the smile, he just nodded.
"Hi." Sherlock muttered. John's appearance did make things only slightly better, but it still wasn't enough for Sherlock to actually feel happiness.
"Whoa, Sherlock what's wrong?" John asked, obviously being able to tell that Sherlock wasn't himself at the moment.
"It's... Redbeard has cancer." Sherlock said, struggling to get the words out. Thankfully the hallway was deserted, because as soon as he said it, Sherlock's face welled up with free flowing tears. John looked panic stricken, he had absolutely no idea what to do in a situation like this.
"Oh, Sherlock no, don't cry, it's alright, Redbeard will feel better, dogs are tough, and your parents could afford treatment." John assured, coming up to him and taking his hand, as if he expected that to help someway. Sherlock shook his head sadly, hearing the tears drop onto his jacket.
"They want to kill him." Sherlock said, and with that he simply broke. John led him into the staircase, Sherlock now pretty much silently sobbing, but it felt so much better to have an actual friend to admit his feelings to. The space was cramped, but John managed to hug Sherlock softly, letting his head fall onto his varsity jacket and get tears all over it. Sherlock felt like such a baby, but John's arms around him made him feel a lot better. He knew that, if there was no John, that he'd be sitting here, containing his tears and not being able to tell anyone why they might have come in the first place.
"It's alright Sherlock, they're not going to kill him, we won't let them, got that? We won't let them take Redbeard away." John assured, patting Sherlock's back sympathetically. "You can have one of my Yorkies if you want." He added, but that only made Sherlock cry harder. Eventually Sherlock calmed himself down, wiping his eyes with a tissue and sitting on the dusty floor, his lunch box sitting deserted next to him. John sat on the other side, looking very calm for such an awful day.
"Are you alright now?" John asked, handing Sherlock another tissue for good measure.
"No I'm not okay." Sherlock mumbled, but he didn't let any tears flow again. He felt so stupid, having ever cried so hard in John's presence, but he had actually needed it, he felt a little bit better now that someone understood his pain, or why he was feeling it in the first place.
"I'm sorry, I really am, about Redbeard, what exactly is wrong with him, if I can ask?" John asked cautiously, as if Sherlock were a ticking time bomb.
"He's got cancer, kidney I think, and it's spreading. My parents want to put him down." Sherlock said, struggling with his words and dabbing at his eyes with the tissue. Now the reality of it all was really settling in, he was being so overdramatic, what is John thinking now, Sherlock crying over something as small as a dog? But he knew John didn't understand just how much a small thing like a dog really meant to Sherlock.
"Is your family going to ask your opinion?" John asked curiously.
"Of course not, I just locked him in my room so they couldn't get in." Sherlock pulled the key out of his pocket, letting John see it before quickly shoving it back, as if Mycroft were going to swoop in and take it like the murderous ostrich he was.
"That's one way to do it I suppose." John shrugged. "I've got some chocolate here, do you want to piece?" as if that were going to cheer Sherlock up, but he took a small chunk from John gratefully.
"I'm sorry for being such a baby." Sherlock mumbled, wiping at his eyes yet again.
"It's fine, I totally understand. One time my hamster died and my parents wanted be to bury it in the yard because they didn't want to waste money on cremation, so I put its body on the stove without a pot or anything and nearly burned down the whole kitchen." John pointed out. Even with the miserableness of life, Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at the thought of a young John burning a hamster body on the stove. "And I cried about that darn thing for like three days." John added.
"But you had to be what, five, we're seniors and I'm sobbing." Sherlock defended shyly.
"And Redbeard probably means more to you than thirty thousand of that hamster, so I'd say you're being strong just by not crying." John pointed out. Sherlock smiled, he was right of course, and the fact that someone that had previously been so horrible could be so nice actually kind of scared Sherlock. Next thing you know John would be sending him flowers and helping him wipe his tears away. Actually Sherlock wouldn't mind that too much.
"You should probably eat though, lunch is about to end." John pointed out.
"No, I'm not hungry." Sherlock muttered. It was true; it felt like if he tried to eat anything that he would puke it all up.
"Suit yourself." John shrugged. He wasn't pushy about health, and Sherlock appreciated that. Usually when he was upset and didn't eat his parents would literally force the food down his throat, but John just shrugged it off, as if he knew what Sherlock was going through. Of course he couldn't, considering his friends could fill up the whole football pitch, he wouldn't be just as alone as Sherlock would be. As if on cue the bell rang, so Sherlock, hoping he still wasn't tear streaked, slipped out first, blending into the hallway just as the crowd started to seep in. Math class was a bore, as usual, but John was leaning on his elbow close to Sherlock's face, and if he breathed in hard he could smell citrus shampoo. So that made the review a whole lot more bearable. History gave Sherlock such an urge to punch Anderson in the face that it was a surprise he managed to keep himself together. All he did was make stupid remarks about Sherlock's hair, pointing out that it was as straight as he was and that every time John was in his presence it flattened itself out like a scared person in a cheesy cartoon. Sherlock loved his own hair, so he ignored Anderson and tried to catch John's eye when Anderson was trying to figure out the answers to the worksheet. Finally the bell rang, and Sherlock was just making it out the door when his phone, which he had made a habit of carrying with him, buzzed in his pocket. Sherlock answered it quickly, hoping it wasn't Mycroft or something, sending a picture of Redbeard's head on a spike. He was evil like that. Instead, thankfully, it was John. You can go home to Redbeard instead of math today; I've got some homework that I can probably manage myself :) Sherlock thought the smiley face was quite unnecessary, but it made him smile anyway. He quickly texted back, saying that was a great idea and how thankful he was, and then slipped out the door before anyone could make the connection that they were texting each other. It was a damp day, clouds hanging over head telling Sherlock that there would probably be rain the next day. It was like the world was crying for Redbeard. He had his hand in his pocket, twisting the key around and feeling quite clever. They could never get Redbeard if they couldn't get the key. But still Sherlock was unable to smile or feel good about having to lock Redbeard in the room all day. He sat around there anyways, but his old age should be spent somewhere other than a cage. He was sure Redbeard did understand, because Sherlock's room was the perfect place for him to heal and get to be himself again. When he walked in he didn't see anyone home, well he didn't look either, he dropped his bag and ran up the steps, getting the key out as he went.
"Sherlock is that you?" Mycroft's voice yelled through the house. Sherlock didn't answer, and he didn't have time to ask himself why Mycroft would be home at this hour before he got to his bedroom door. It was open. Sherlock knew immediately what this meant, and it felt like someone had personally scraped his heart out with a dull fire poker. Sherlock wobbled a little bit on the spot, and then collapsed into the room, where there was no Redbeard to be found.