paradisa | 033 || dictated;

[Sherlock has been keeping to himself. Experiments to run, theories to test, thoughts to be had. He knows how to keep himself busy when it's necessary.

Unfortunately, his new hermit lifestyle doesn't agree well with the high-energy, high-maintenance puppy that's been passed down to him. Walking Gladstone around the flat doesn't seem to be cutting it, and he has no concept of what to do to make it better.

So predictably, when the journal opens, it does so to absolute chaos.

It must have fallen or been thrown, because it catches the tail-end of a BANG. There's a far off groan of frustration, followed by the much-closer snuffling of a dog that's found something new to investigate.]

Stop it. Stop-- [There's a series of small yips as Sherlock stoops to pick the journal up off the floor...

... Followed by an awkward pause while he debates between slamming it shut for the sake of his dignity, and asking for the help he clearly needs.

Well, the castle's heard the worst part already, and he is desperate. He clears his throat.]

My dog [the words sound stilted even as they come out of his mouth, but he presses on like what he's about to say isn't patently ridiculous] has been... energetic, lately. Too much. Walking isn't enough, apparently, and since I'm not about to let him loose through the hallways, I need someone with a dog approximately the same size and age to give him something to do.

Bloodhound, three months. Let me know.

[And the journal shuts, dignity only mostly damaged.]