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?