Disclaimer: I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creations nor Sir Terry Pratchett's machinations of imagination. I merely own the punes or play on words. Mild reference to "The Gloria Scott" short story.

It was the most un-exquisite pain that Sherlock had ever felt in his sixteen years. Licks of fire ran up his shin. Tears started in his eyes. He tottered and hopped to the nearest bench. Rolling up his trouser leg, he stared at his injured limb. Leg, he corrected himself not limb, arms are limbs too. Then he stared into limpid brown eyes and a wide blown canine grin that left him feeling strangely unequal to the task of lucid expression.

"- trained but gets excited by leather shoes and then attaches himself to other people's legs, I'm afraid. Er..I'll get the nurse shall I?"

Reluctantly, Sherlock paid attention to the anxious male in dark slacks (Post Grad Law student 1st year, parents divorced, only child, careless smoker) who reined his eager bullpup away from Sherlock's injury.

Waving off the offer, Sherlock rose and began limping back to his rooms where he kept his own (pilfered) medicinal stock. Already his mind was buzzing with possibilities for recording dog bites and discovering how far the infection would spread in his blood stream.

He was mildly surprised to find the student Travers or something and his dog accompanying him. Sherlock was frankly at a loss. He wondered if Travers (possibly Perkins) was worried about him launching a damages suit against his pet. He found this irrelevant. Who would hold a grudge against the owner of such a fine specimen? Vaguely aware of an expected social norm, Sherlock tried to give a Reassuring Smile (not the Shark smile as that tended to put people off) and the boy smiled back sheepishly.

"I have a dog named Redbeard" he said, surprising himself with the voluntary confession.

Travis or Jeffrey or possibly Derek looked surprised and relieved. "Oh that's great, Holmes. What breed is he? Do you have a picture?"

Just like that, Sherlock had made a friend.

I FAIL TO SEE THE PROBLEM

"He spends all his free time with me" said Sherlock exasperatedly pacing the marble floors. "Well him and Gladstone."

I SEE. A DOG DROLL.

Sherlock glared suspiciously at Death, currently lounging in the cozy armchair at the Diogenes Club.(1)

Death gazed back innocently.

Sherlock struggled with himself and rubbed his curls in agitation. "Its-its like a time bomb waiting to go off around him. Victor knows about the experiments, the ash samples. Even Mycroft. And then he extends me an invitation to his family estate in Norfolk for the summer."

ER..AND THAT'S NOT GOOD?

"Of course its not good" he snapped. "He's average intelligence at best, interested in some football club called Man-U, he volunteers at the dog shelter and loves pub quizzes. We have nothing in common except dogs, smokes and university. And he still hangs around me," he emphasized with mild horror. "It is exhausting!"

Silence fell.

HUMANS ARE A RIDICULOUS SPECIES

"What?"

Death drummed his skeletal fingers against the arm rest as he gazed unseeing at the ceiling. His eyes glowed a soft blue as if his thoughts had turned inward.

AN AGATEAN PHILOSOPHER ONCE SAID "AS A RULE MAN IS A FOOL WHEN IT IS HOT HE WANTS IT COOL WHEN IT IS COOL HE WANTS IT HOT ALWAYS WANTING WHAT IS NOT"

Death rose from his armchair with reluctance, and moved through the walls. Sherlock blinked at the abrupt dismissal and ran from the room. He arrived in time to see Death mounting Binky.

"Was that supposed to help me? dispensing fortune cookie nonsense?"

I WOULD NOT PRESUME TO KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT HUMAN RELATIONSHIPS MR SHERLOCK HOLMES BUT I DO KNOW ABOUT TIME AND ITS PRECIOUSNESS. TAKE MY ADVICE. DO NOT WASTE IT.

"But he's not you!"

Death sighed as he shifted his position on the saddle. He looked into the future and saw that it would be grim for the proud young man staring back at him. No, he did not understand human relationships but he understood something about human psychology.

YES. FUNNY HOW THINGS WORK OUT IN THE END.

Binky did a canter across the hedges around the building. Then he picked up speed, leaving two fiery hoof prints in the grass.

Sherlock would not see Death again until many years later on St Bart's rooftop.

(1) A gentlemen's club where silence was valued above all virtues. Death admired its members for observing the rule in the afterlife thus eliminating the necessity for awkward small talk on the rare collection.