LESTRADE: For what?

MRS HUDSON: The devil. I wouldn’t be surprised. We get all sorts here.

LESTRADE: Well, wire me if there’s any change.

MRS HUDSON: Yeah.

MORIARTY: Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.

HOLMES: And possibly my answer has crossed yours.

MORIARTY: Like a bullet. It’s a dangerous habit, to finger loaded firearms in the pocket of one’s dressing gown. Or are you just pleased to see me?

HOLMES: You’ll forgive me for taking precautions.

MORIARTY: I’d be offended if you didn’t. Obviously I’ve returned the courtesy. I like your rooms. They smell so ... manly.

HOLMES: I’m sure you’ve acquainted yourself with them before now.

MORIARTY: Well, you are always away on your little adventures for The Strand. Tell me: does the illustrator travel with you? Do you have to pose ... during your deductions?

HOLMES: I’m aware of all six occasions you have visited these apartments during my absence.

MORIARTY: I know you are. By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed. Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?

HOLMES: Yes.

MORIARTY: Doesn’t taste the same, though. You want your skin fresh ... just a little crispy.

HOLMES: Won’t you sit down?

MORIARTY: That’s all people really are, you know: dust waiting to be distributed. And it gets everywhere ... in every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up people.

HOLMES: Fascinating, I’m sure. Won’t you sit ...

MORIARTY: People, people, people. Can’t keep anything shiny. D’you mind if I fire this, just to clean it out? Exactly. Let’s stop playing. We don’t need toys to kill each other. Where’s the intimacy in that?

HOLMES: Sit down.

MORIARTY: Why? What do you want?

HOLMES: You chose to come here.

MORIARTY: Not true. You know that’s not true. What do you want, Sherlock?

HOLMES: The truth.

MORIARTY: That. Truth’s boring. You didn’t expect me to turn up at the scene of the crime, did you? Poor old Sir Eustace. He got what was coming to him.

HOLMES: But you couldn’t have killed him.

MORIARTY: Oh, so what? Does it matter? Stop it. Stop this. You don’t care about Sir Eustace, or the Bride or any of it. There’s only one thing in this whole business that you find interesting.

HOLMES: I know what you’re doing.

MORIARTY: The Bride put a gun in her mouth and shot the back of her head off, and then she came back. Impossible. But she did it, and you need to know how. How ... don’t you? It’s tearing your world apart not knowing.

HOLMES: You’re trying to stop me ... to distract me, derail me.

MORIARTY: Because doesn’t this remind you of another case? Hasn’t this all happened before? There’s nothing new under the sun. What was it? What was it? What was that case? Huh? D’you remember? It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s on the tip of my tongue.

HOLMES: It’s on the tip of my tongue.

MORIARTY: It’s on the tip ... of my tongue.

HOLMES: For the sake of Mrs Hudson’s wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead.

MORIARTY: Ed ith the noo thethy.

HOLMES: I’m sorry?

MORIARTY: Dead ... is the new sexy. Well, I’ll tell you what: that rather blows the cobwebs away.

HOLMES: How can you be alive?

MORIARTY: How do I look, huh? Huh? You can be honest. Is it noticeable?

HOLMES: You blew your own brains out. How could you survive?

MORIARTY: Well, maybe I could back-comb.

HOLMES: I saw you die. Why aren’t you dead?

MORIARTY: Because it’s not the fall that kills you, Sherlock. Of all people, you should know that. It’s not the fall. It’s never the fall. It’s the landing.

MYCROFT: Stop this. Just stop it. Did you make a list?

SHERLOCK: Of what?

MYCROFT: Everything, Sherlock. Everything you’ve taken.

JOHN: No, it’s not that. He goes into a sort of trance. I’ve seen him do it.

MYCROFT: We have an agreement, my brother and I, ever since that day. Wherever I find him ... whatever back alley or doss house ... there will always be a list.

Date: 2016-04-22; view: 910