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HOLMES: Definitely avoid that.HOLMES: You amaze me, Watson. WATSON: I do? HOLMES: Since when have you had any kind of imagination? WATSON: Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict is some kind of gentleman hero. HOLMES: Yes, now you come to mention it, that was quite impressive. You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world ... save those we make for ourselves. WATSON: Sorry, what did you say? Ghosts we make for ourselves? What do you mean? WATSON: Well, that’s not the impression you gave your wife, sir. SIR EUSTACE: She’s an hysteric, prone to fancies. HOLMES: No. SIR EUSTACE: I’m sorry? What did you say? HOLMES: I said no, she’s not an hysteric. She’s a highly intelligent woman of rare perception. SIR EUSTACE: My wife sees terror in an orange pip. HOLMES: Your wife can see worlds where no-one else can see anything of value whatsoever. SIR EUSTACE: Can she really? And how do you ‘deduce’ that, Mr Holmes? HOLMES: She married you. WATSON: Well, he won’t follow her, surely? HOLMES: It’s difficult to say quite what he’ll do. Guilt is eating away at his soul. WATSON: Guilt? About what? HOLMES: Something in his past. The orange pips were a reminder. WATSON: Not a joke. HOLMES: Not at all. Orange pips are a traditional warning of avenging death, originating in America. Sir Eustace knows this only too well, just as he knows why he is to be punished. WATSON: Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti. HOLMES: I presume. We all have a past, Watson. WATSON: Hmm. HOLMES: Ghosts – they are the shadows that define our every sunny day. Sir Eustace knows he’s a marked man. There’s something more than murder he fears. He believes he is to be dragged to Hell by the risen corpse of the late Mrs Ricoletti. WATSON: That’s a lot of nonsense, isn’t it? HOLMES: God, yes. Did you bring your revolver? WATSON: What good would that be against a ghost? HOLMES: Exactly. Did you bring it? WATSON: Yeah, of course. HOLMES: Then come, Watson, come. The game is afoot! HOLMES: Get down, Watson, for heaven’s sake! WATSON: Sorry. Cramp. Is the, er, lamp still burning? HOLMES: Yes. There goes Sir Eustace.And Lady Carmichael. The house sleeps. WATSON: Mmm, good God, this is the longest night of my life. HOLMES: Have patience, Watson. WATSON: Only midnight. You know, it’s rare for us to sit together like this. HOLMES: I should hope so. It’s murder on the knees. WATSON: Hmm. Two old friends, just talking, chewing the fat ... man to man. She’s a remarkable woman. HOLMES: Who? WATSON: Lady Carmichael. HOLMES: The fair sex is your department, Watson. I’ll take your word for it. WATSON: No, you liked her. A “woman of rare perception.” HOLMES: And admirably high arches. I noticed them as soon as she stepped into the room. WATSON: Huh. She’s far too good for him. HOLMES: You think so? WATSON: No, you think so. I could tell. HOLMES: On the contrary, I have no view on the matter. WATSON: Yes you have. HOLMES: Marriage is not a subject upon which I dwell. WATSON: Well, why not? HOLMES: What’s the matter with you this evening? WATSON: That watch that you’re wearing: there’s a photograph inside it. I glimpsed it once ... I believe it is of Irene Adler. HOLMES: You didn’t ‘glimpse’ it. You waited ’til I had fallen asleep and looked at it. WATSON: Yes, I did. HOLMES: You seriously thought I wouldn’t notice? WATSON: Irene Adler. HOLMES: Formidable opponent; a remarkable adventure. WATSON: A very nice photograph. HOLMES: Why are you talking like this? WATSON: Why are you so determined to be alone? HOLMES: Are you quite well, Watson? WATSON: Is it such a curious question? HOLMES: From a Viennese alienist, no; from a retired Army surgeon, most certainly. WATSON: Holmes, against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend. HOLMES: I concede it. WATSON: I am currently attempting to have a perfectly normal conversation with you. HOLMES: Please don’t. WATSON: Why do you need to be alone? HOLMES: If you are referring to romantic entanglement, Watson – which I rather fear you are – as I have often explained before, all emotion is abhorrent to me. It is the grit in a sensitive instrument ... HOLMES and WATSON: ... the crack in the lens. WATSON: Yes. HOLMES: Well, there you are, you see? I’ve said it all before. WATSON: No, I wrote all that. You’re quoting yourself from The Strand Magazine. HOLMES: Well, exactly. WATSON: No, those are my words, not yours! That is the version of you that I present to the public: the brain without a heart; the calculating machine. I write all of that, Holmes, and the readers lap it up, but I do not believe it. HOLMES: Well, I’ve a good mind to write to your editor. WATSON: You are a living, breathing man. You’ve lived a life; you have a past. HOLMES: A what?! WATSON: Well, you must have had ... HOLMES: Had what? WATSON: You know. HOLMES: No. WATSON: Experiences. HOLMES: Pass me your revolver. I have a sudden need to use it. WATSON: Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood. You have feelings. You have ... you must have ... impulses. HOLMES: Dear Lord. I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost. WATSON: As your friend – as someone who ... worries about you – what made you like this? HOLMES: Oh, Watson. Nothing made me. I made me. Redbeard? WATSON: Good God!
Date: 2016-04-22; view: 949
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