The day is sunny and mild, and dotting the Cambridge grounds are groups of people who chatter and picnic and play games. Cutting through all of this, Sherlock pays none of it any mind. He is out of the sanctity of his laboratory as a peculiar restlessness had settled on him. Being unable to subdue the feeling, he is forced, for the moment, to move.
Smoking and lost in his own thoughts, he barely registers the sound of a barking dog in the near distance. Nor does he register the frantic cries of a man calling out "Scotty!" Even when the barking in clearly getting louder. Closer. He doesn't look up to notice the streak of white that is heading straight for him. So when a set of sharp teeth clamp down onto his ankle, piercing the skin, it comes as a complete shock. When he sees the English bull terrier that's affixed itself to his leg, the pain is just barely registering. And as if things couldn't be bad enough, the dog gives a good, sharp yank, and with a cry, Sherlock falls gracelessly to the earth. As he lies there, stunned, the dog continues growling and pulling at him, as if he has done some great offence against it.
The owner finally catches up, and he is ready to admonish them for failing at proper dog handling, "I say, do you not--" But the moment he catches sight of him he finds his tongue rendered useless, and he momentarily forgets about his ankle and the canine that is currently attached to it and whatever it was he was going to say, because standing before him, looking at him with supplication, is a golden Adonis.
