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: 955