Sherlock

SHERLOCK: We all have a past, Watson.

(gun cocks) The shadows that define our every sunny day.

(thunder claps) (whimpers) (click) The name's Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.

Afternoon.

Yeah.

He's always like that.

Bad day, was it?

MYCROFT: Since yesterday, you've moved in with him, and now you're solving crimes together.

Muah!

Look at you, all happy-- it's not decent.

Who cares about decent?

The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!

(explosions) Don't make people into heroes, John.

Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them.

I would burn the heart out of you.

Right, this should do it.

Are you wearing any pants?

No.

Okay.

(laughing) IRENE: This is how I want you to remember me, the woman who beat you.

But there never was any monster.

(howling) Sherlock?

Here we are at last.

(shouts) Goodbye, John.

Sherlock!

SHERLOCK: Those things will kill you.

Oh, you bastard!

The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world.

WATSON: Wait!

We're going to need to coordinate.

I asked you for one more miracle.

I asked you to stop being dead.

I heard you.

WATSON: Shut up!

You are not a puzzle-solver, you never have been.

You're a drama queen!

Now, there is a man in there about to die.

The game is on, solve it!

SHERLOCK: He is the Napoleon of blackmail.

No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr. Holmes.

I'm a high-functioning sociopath!

(gunshot) MYCROFT: There is no prison in which we could incarcerate Sherlock without causing a riot on a daily basis.

The alternative, however, would require your approval.

To the very best of times, John.

MAN (warped voice): Did you miss me?

Did you miss me?

How is this possible?

MYCROFT: How is the exile going?

I've only been gone four minutes.

Well, I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson.

Who needs me this time?

Miss me?

England.

(bombs whizzing overhead) (explosions) WATSON: The second Afghan war brought honors and promotion to many.

But for me, it meant nothing but misfortune and disaster.

(groans) (groaning) (gunfire continues) All right, Captain?

I returned to England with my health irretrievably ruined and my future bleak.

Under such circumstances, I naturally gravitated to London, that great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the empire are drained.

MAN: Watson!

Stamford.

Remember?

We were at Barts together.

Yes, of course.

Stamford.

Good Lord!

Where have you been?

You're as thin as a rake!

I made it home.

Many weren't so lucky.

So what now?

I need a place to live.

Somewhere decent at an affordable price.

It's not easy.

(chuckles) You know, you're the second person to say that to me today.

Hm?

Who was the first?

(loud banging) Good Lord!

It's an experiment, apparently.

Beating corpses to establish how long after death bruising is still possible.

Is there a medical point to that?

Not sure.

Neither am I.

So, where's this friend of yours, then?

Excuse me!

I do hope we're not interrupting.

You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock.

Excellent reflexes.

You'll do.

I'm sorry?

I have my eye on a suite of rooms near Regent's Park.

Between us, we could afford them.

Rooms?

Who said anything about rooms?

I did, I mentioned it to Stamford this morning.

I was in need of a fellow lodger, now he appears after lunch in the company of a man of military aspect with a tan and a recent injury, both suggestive of the campaign in Afghanistan and an enforced departure from it.

The conclusion seemed inescapable.

We'll finalize the details tomorrow evening.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a hanging in Wandsworth and I'd hate them to start without me.

A hanging?

I take a professional interest.

I also play the violin and smoke a pipe.

I presume that's not a problem?

Uh, no, well... And you're clearly acclimatized to never getting to the end of a sentence.

We'll get along splendidly.

Tomorrow evening, 7:00, then.

Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.

Yes, he's always been like that.

Papers!

Papers!

(horse neighing) Papers!

Papers!

Here.

How's the Blue Carbuncle doing?

Very popular, Dr. Watson.

Is there going to be a proper murder next month?

I'll have a word with the criminal classes.

If you wouldn't mind.

Is that him?

Is he in there?

Ow!

No.

No, no, not at all.

Uh, good day to you.

Let on walk!

Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!

Mr. Holmes!

I do wish you'd let me know when you're planning to come home.

I hardly knew myself, Mrs. Hudson.

I had some trouble with dismembered country squires.

They're notoriously difficult to schedule.

What's in there?

Never mind.

Thank you.

Did you catch the murderer, Mr. Holmes?

Caught the murderer, still looking for the legs.

I think we'll call it a draw.

And I noticed you've published another of your stories, Dr. Watson.

Yes, did you enjoy it?

No.

Oh?

I never enjoy them.

Why not?

Well, I never say anything, do I?

According to you, I just show people up the stairs and serve you breakfast.

Well, within the narrative, that is, broadly speaking, your function.

My what?!

Don't feel singled out, Mrs. Hudson I'm hardly in the dog one.

The dog one?

I'm your landlady, not a plot device.

Do you mean The Hound of the Baskervilles?

And you make the rooms so drab and dingy.

Oh, blame it on the illustrator, he's out of control.

I've had to grow this moustache just so people will recognize me.

WATSON: Over the many years, it has been my privilege to record the exploits of my remarkable friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

It has sometimes been difficult to choose which of his many cases to set before my readers.

Some are still too sensitive to recount, whilst others are too recent in the minds of the public.

But in all our many adventures together, no case pushed my friend to such mental and physical extremes as that of The Abominable Bride.

Good Lord!

Mrs. Hudson, there is a woman in my sitting room!

Is it intentional?

She's a client!

I said you were out, insisted on waiting.

Would you care to sit down?

SHERLOCK: Didn't you ask her what she wanted?

MRS. HUDSON: You ask her!

Why didn't you ask her?

How could I, what with me not talking and everything?

Oh, for God's sake, give her some lines.

She's perfectly capable of starving us.

Good afternoon, I'm Sherlock Holmes.

This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

You may speak freely in front of him, as he rarely understands a word.

Holmes!

However, before you do, allow me to make some trifling observations.

You have an impish sense of humor, which currently you're deploying to ease a degree of personal anguish.

You have recently married a man of a seemingly kindly disposition who has now abandoned you for an unsavory companion of dubious morals.

You have come to this agency as a last resort in the hope that reconciliation may still be possible.

Good Lord, Holmes!

All of this is, of course, perfectly evident from your perfume.

Her perfume?

Yes, her perfume, which brings insight to me and disaster to you.

How so?

Because I recognized it and you did not.

Mary?

John.

Why in God's name are you pretending to be a client?

Because I could think of no other way to see my husband.

Husband.

It was an affair of international intrigue.

It was a murdered country squire.

Nevertheless, matters were pressing.

I don't mind you going, my darling; I mind you leaving me behind.

But what could you do?

Well, what do you do, except wander around taking notes, looking surprised?

Enough!

The stage is set, the curtain rises.

We are ready to begin.

MARY: Begin what?

Sometimes to solve a case, one must first solve another.

Oh, you have a case then?

A new one?

An old one, very old.

I shall have to go deep.

Deep into what?

Myself.

Lestrade, do stop loitering by the door and come in.

How did you know it was me?

The regulation tread is unmistakable.

Lighter than Jones, heavier than Gregson.

I just came up.

Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to be talking.

I fear she has branched into literary criticism by means of satire.

It is a distressing trend in the modern landlady.

What brings you here in your off-duty hours?

How do you know I'm off duty?

Well, since your arrival, you've addressed over 40% of your remarks to my decanter.

Watson, give the Inspector what he so clearly wants.

So Lestrade, what can we do for you?

Oh, I'm not here on business.

I just thought I'd drop by.

A social call?

Yeah, of course, just to wish you the compliments of the season.

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas.

Thank God that's over.

Now, Inspector, what strange happening compels you to my door, but embarrasses you to relate?

Who said anything happened?

You did.

By every means short of actual speech.

Uh-uh.

Holmes, you have misdiagnosed.

Then correct me, Doctor.

He didn't want a drink; he needed one.

He's not embarrassed; he's afraid.

My Boswell is learning.

They do grow up so fast.

Watson, restore the courage of Scotland Yard.

Inspector, do sit down.

I'm not afraid, exactly.

Fear is wisdom in the face of danger.

It is nothing to be ashamed of.

Thank you.

From the beginning, then.

(gunshots) You!

No, please!

(gunshots) You?

(gunshots) A moment.

When was this?

Yesterday morning.

The bride's face.

How was it described?

"White as death, mouth like a crimson wound."

Poetry or truth?

Many would say they're the same thing.

Yes-- idiots.

Poetry or truth?

I saw her face myself.

Afterwards.

After what?

You?

Or me?

(gunshot) Oh, really, Lestrade?

A woman blows her own brains out in public and you need help identifying the guilty party?

I fear Scotland Yard has reached a new low.

That's not why I'm here.

I surmised.

What was her name, the bride?

Emelia Ricoletti.

Yesterday was her wedding anniversary.

The police, of course, were called.

And her body taken to the morgue.

Standard procedure.

Why are you telling us what may be presumed?

Because of what happened next.

Limehouse, just a few hours later.

Thomas Ricoletti.

Emelia Ricoletti's husband.

Presumably on his way to the morgue to identify her remains?

As it turned out, he was saved the trip.

WOMAN: Do not forget me Do not forget me Remember the maid.

Who are you?

Why are you doing this?

The maid of the mill.

Just tell me who you are!

You recognize our song, my dear?

I sang it at our wedding.

Emelia?

You... you're dead.

You can't be here, you died!

Am I not beautiful, Thomas?

As beautiful as the day you married me?

Who...?

MAN: What the hell's all this about?

What does it look like, my handsome friend?

It's a shotgun wedding.

(gunshots) Till death us do part.

Twice, in this case.

(crowd screaming) (whistle blowing) Extraordinary.

Impossible.

Superb.

Suicide as street theater, murder by corpse-- Lestrade, you're spoiling us.

Watson, your hat and coat.

Where are we going?

To the morgue-- there's not a moment to lose, which one can so rarely say of a morgue.

And am I just to sit here?

Not at all, my dear.

We'll be hungry later.

Holmes, just one thing: tweeds in a morgue?

Needs must when the devil drives, Watson.

Ma'am.

I'm part of a campaign, you know.

Oh, a campaign?

Votes for women.

And are you for or against?

Get out!

(sighs) (footsteps) Ooh-ooh!

Oh, have they gone off again, have they?

I don't know... What a life those gentlemen lead.

Yes, those gentlemen.

Oh, never you mind.

Oh, almost forgot, that came for you.

Oh.

Mrs. Hudson, tell my husband I'll be home late.

I have some urgent business.

Is everything all right?

Oh, you know, just a friend in need.

Oh, dear.

What friend?

England.

Well, that's not very specific.

Who's on mortuary duty?

You know who.

Always him.

Please tell me which idiot did this!

It's for everyone's safety.

This woman is dead.

Half her head is missing.

She's not a threat to anyone.

Tell that to her husband.

He's under a sheet over there.

Whatever happened in Limehouse last night, I think we can safely assume it wasn't the work of a dead woman.

Stranger things have happened.

Such as?

Well...

Strange things.

You're speaking like a child.

This is clearly man's work.

Where is he?

(door opening) Holmes.

Hooper.

You, back to work!

So, come to astonish us with your magic tricks, I suppose?

Is there anything to which you would like to draw my attention?

Nothing at all, Mr. Holmes.

You may leave any time you like.

Dr. Hooper, I asked Mr. Holmes to come here.

Cooperate-- that's an order.

(sniffs) There are two "features of interest," as you are always saying in Dr. Watson's stories.

I never say that.

You do, actually, quite a lot.

First of all, this is definitely Emelia Ricoletti.

She's been categorically identified.

Beyond a doubt, it is her.

Then who was that in Limehouse last night?

That was also Emelia Ricoletti.

It can't have been.

She was dead, she was here.

She was positively identified by her own husband seconds before he died.

He had no reason to lie, could hardly have been mistaken.

The cabbie knew her too, there's no question it's her.

But she can't have been in two places at the same time, can she?

No, Watson, one place is strictly the limit for the recently deceased.

Holmes!

Could it have been twins?

No.

Why not?

Because it's never twins.

LESTRADE: Emelia was not a twin, nor did she have any sisters.

She had one older brother who died four years ago.

Hm... Maybe it was a secret twin.

A what?

A secret twin.

You know, a twin that nobody knows about?

This whole thing could have been planned.

Since the moment of conception?

How breathtakingly prescient of her.

It is never twins, Watson!

Then what's your theory?

More to the point, what's your problem?

I don't understand.

Why were you so frightened?

Nothing so far has justified your assault on my decanter, and why have you allowed a dead woman to be placed under arrest?

Ah, that would be the other feature of interest.

WATSON: A smear of blood on her finger?

That could have happened any number of ways.

Indeed.

There's one other thing.

It wasn't there earlier.

And neither was that.

You!

You?

You?!

Holmes?

Gun in the mouth, a bullet through the brain, back of the head blown clean off.

How could he survive?

"She," you mean.

I'm sorry?

Not "he," "she."

Yes, yes, of course.

Well, thank you all for a fascinating case.

I'll send you a telegram when I've solved it.

Watson.

The gunshot wound was obviously the cause of death, but there are clear indicators of consumption.

It might be worth a postmortem.

We need all the information we can get.

Oh, isn't he observant now that daddy's gone?

I am observant in some ways, just as Holmes is quite blind in others.

Really?

Yes, really.

Amazing what one has to do to get ahead in a man's world.

What's he saying that for?

Get back to work.

Well, Holmes?

Surely you must have some theory?

Not yet.

These are deep waters, Watson, deep waters.

And I shall have to go deeper still.

WATSON: It was not for several months that we were to pick up the threads of this strange case again, and then under very unexpected circumstances.

Five of them now, all the same, every one of them.

Hush, please.

This is a matter of supreme importance.

What is?

The obliquity of the ecliptic.

I have to understand it.

What is it?

I don't know.

I'm still trying to understand it.

I thought you understood everything.

Of course not.

That would be an appalling waste of brain space.

I specialize.

And what's so important about this?

What's so important about five boring murders?

They're not boring.

Five men dead, murdered in their own homes, rice on the floor like at a wedding, and the word "You" written in blood on the wall!

It's... it's her!

It's the bride.

Somehow, she's risen again.

Solved it.

You can't have solved it!

Of course I've solved it, it's perfectly simple.

The incident of the mysterious Mrs. Ricoletti, the killer from beyond the grave, has been widely reported in the popular press.

Now people are disguising their own dull little murders as the work of a ghost to confuse the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard.

There you are, solved.

Pay Mrs. Hudson a visit on your way out, she likes to feel involved.

You sure?

Certainly.

Go away.

Watson!

I'm ready!

Your hat and boots.

We have an important appointment.

Didn't Dr. Watson move out a few months ago?

He did, didn't he?

Who have I been talking to all this time?

Well, speaking on behalf of the impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard, that chair is definitely empty.

It is, isn't it?

Works surprisingly well, though.

I actually thought he was improving.

(sighs) (ringing) (ringing) (door opens) Ah.

Where have you been?

Sorry sir, I'm rather behind my time this morning.

Are you incapable of boiling an egg?

The fires are rarely lit, there is dust everywhere, and you almost destroyed my boots scraping the mud off them.

If it wasn't my wife's business to deal with the staff, I would talk to you myself.

Where is my wife?

Begging your pardon, sir, but the mistress has gone out.

Out?

At this hour of the morning?

Yes, sir.

Did you not know that, sir?

Where did she go?

She's always out these days.

Not unlike yourself, sir.

I'm sorry?

Just observing, sir.

Well, that's quite enough.

Nobody asked you to be observant.

Sorry, sir, I just meant you're hardly ever home together anymore, sir.

You are dangerously close to impertinence.

I shall have a word with my wife to have a word with you.

Very good, sir.

And when will you be seeing her?

Now, listen... Oh, I nearly forgot, sir.

A telegram came for you.

You forgot?

No, I nearly forgot.

What have you been doing all morning?

Reading your new one in The Strand, sir.

Did you enjoy it?

Why do you never mention me, sir?

Go away.

(telegraph beeping) The what of the what?

The obliquity of the ecliptic.

"Come at once," you said.

I assumed it was important.

It is.

It's the inclination of the earth's equator to the path of the sun on the celestial plane.

You been swotting up?

Why would I do that?

To sound clever.

I am clever.

Oh, I see.

You see what?

I deduce we're on our way to see someone cleverer than you.

Shut up.

(clock chiming) (slaps side) Sorry, what?

Oh.

To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot.

Handy, really, as your ever-expanding backside is permanently glued to it.

Good morning, brother mine.

Sherlock.

Dr. Watson.

You look well, sir.

Really?

I rather thought I looked enormous.

Well, now you mention it, this level of consumption is incredibly injurious to your health.

Your heart... No need to worry on that score, Watson.

No?

There's only a large cavity where that organ should reside.

It's a family trait.

Oh, I wasn't being critical.

If you continue like this, sir, I give you five years at the most.

Five?

We thought three, did we not, Sherlock?

I'm still inclined to four.

As ever, you see, but you do not observe.

Note the discoloration in the whites of my eyes, the visible rings of fat around the corneas.

Yes, you're right, I'm changing my bet to three years, four months, and eleven days.

A bet?

I understand your disapproval, Watson, but if he's feeling competitive, it's perfectly within his power to die early.

That's a risk you'll have to take.

You're gambling with your own life?

Why not?

It's so much more exciting than gambling with others'.

Three years flat if you eat that plum pudding.

Done.

I expected to see you a few days ago about the Manor House case.

I thought you might be a little out of your depth there.

No, I solved it.

It was Adams, of course.

Yes, it was Adams.

Murderous jealousy.

He'd written a paper for the Royal Astronomical Society on the obliquity of the ecliptic, and then read another that seemed to surpass it.

SHERLOCK: I know, I read it.

MYCROFT: Do you understand it?

Yes, of course I understood it.

It was perfectly simple.

No, did you understand the murderous jealousy?

It is no easy thing for a great mind to contemplate a still greater one.

Did you summon me here just to humiliate me?

Yes.

Of course not, but it is by far the greater pleasure.

Then would you mind explaining exactly why you did summon... Our way of life is under threat from an invisible enemy.

One that hovers at our elbow on a daily basis.

These enemies are everywhere, undetected and unstoppable.

Socialists?

Not socialists, Doctor, no.

Anarchists?

No.

The French?

The suffragists?

Is there any large body of people you're not concerned about?

Dr. Watson is endlessly vigilant.

Elaborate.

No-- investigate.

This is a conjecture of mine.

I need you to confirm it.

I'm sending you a case.

The Scots?

The Scots?!

Are you aware of recent theories concerning what is known as paranoia?

Oh, sounds Serbian.

A woman will call on you.

Lady Carmichael.

I want you to take her case.

But these enemies, how are we to defeat them if you won't tell us about them?

We don't defeat them.

We most certainly lose to them.

Why?

Because they are right and we are wrong.

SHERLOCK: Lady Carmichael's case, what is it?

Rest assured, it has features of interest.

I never really say that.

You really do.

And you've solved it already, I assume?

Only in my head.

I need you for the legwork.

Why not just tell us your solution?

And where would be the sport in that?

Will you do it, Sherlock?

I can promise you a superior distraction.

On one condition.

Have another plum pudding.

There's one on the way.

Two years, eleven months, and four days.

It's getting exciting now!

Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock.

Thank you, Wilder.

Also a Mr. Melas to see you, Mr. Holmes.

Ah.

Give me five minutes.

I have a wager to win.

Better make that 15.

Tick tock.

LADY CARMICHAEL: Mr. Holmes, I have come here for advice.

That is easily got.

And help.

Not always so easy.

Something has happened, Mr. Holmes.

Something unusual and terrifying.

Then you are in luck.

Luck?!

Those are my specialisms.

Hm, this is really very promising.

Holmes...

Please do tell us what has so distressed you.

I thought long and hard as to what to do, but then it occurred to me that my husband was an acquaintance of your brother, and that perhaps through him...

The fact is, I'm not sure this comes within your purview, Mr. Holmes.

No?

Lord help me, I think it may be a matter for a priest.

And what does your morning threaten, my dear?

A vigorous round of embroidering?

An exhausting appointment at the milliners?

I hope you're teasing, Eustace.

(laughs) What is it?

Eustace?

Daniel, Sophie, go out and play.

But Mama... Do as I tell you, quickly now.

(laughing) Eustace, what does this mean?

Death.

What?

It means death.

Uh, nothing.

It's, uh... it's nothing.

I was mistaken.

My dear, you've gone quite pale.

It's nothing.

Eustace... SHERLOCK: Did you keep the envelope?

My husband destroyed it, but it was blank.

No name or address of any kind.

Tell me, has Sir Eustace spent time in America?

No.

Not even before your marriage?

Well, not to my knowledge.

Hm... Pray, continue with your fascinating narrative.

Well, that incident took place last Monday morning.

It was two days later on the Wednesday that my husband first saw her.

Who?

Eustace?

(whimpering) She's come for me, Louisa!

Oh God, help me, my sins have found me out!

Who's come for you?

Eustace, you're frightening me.

Well look, look!

Don't you see her?

No, I see no one.

Gone.

(sobbing) You keep so many secrets from me.

Is this another?

Who have you seen?

It was her.

It was the bride!

And you saw nothing?

Nothing.

Did your husband describe...?

Nothing until this morning.

Eustace?

Eustace?!

Eustace?

Eustace?!

Ah!

Blast!

Eustace?!

Where are you?

It's me!

Do not forget me, do not forget me Remember the maid, the maid of the mill... Who are you?

I demand you speak.

Who are you?!

Eustace, speak to me.

In the name of God!

She's... She is Emelia Ricoletti.

Not you.

No...

Please...

This night, Eustace Carmichael, you will die!

(gasps) Holmes?

Hush, Watson.

But Emelia Ricoletti, the bride.

Well, you know the name?

You must forgive Watson.

He has an enthusiasm for stating the obvious which borders on mania.

May I ask, how is your husband this morning?

He refuses to speak about the matter.

Obviously, I have urged him to leave the house.

No, no, he must stay exactly where he is.

Well, you don't think he's in danger?

Oh no, somebody definitely wants to kill him, but that's good for us.

You can't set a trap without bait.

My husband is not bait, Mr. Holmes.

No, but he could be if we play our cards right.

Now, listen, you must go home immediately.

Dr. Watson and I will follow on the next train.

There's not a moment to lose.

Sir Eustace is to die tonight.

Holmes... And we should probably avoid that.

Definitely.

Definitely avoid that.

Little brother has taken the case, of course.

I now rely on you to keep an eye on things, but he must never suspect you are working for me.

Are you clear on that, Watson?

You can rely on me, Mr. Holmes.

You don't suppose...

I don't, and neither should you.

You don't know what I was going to say.

You were about to suggest there may be some supernatural agency involved in this matter, and I was about to laugh in your face.

But the bride, Holmes.

Emelia Ricoletti again.

A dead woman walking the earth.

You amaze me, Watson.

I do?

Since when have you had any kind of imagination?

Perhaps since I convinced the reading public that an unprincipled drug addict was some kind of gentleman hero.

Yes, now you come to mention it, that was quite impressive.

You may, however, rest assured there are no ghosts in this world.

(train whistling) Save those we make for ourselves.

Sorry, what did you say?

Ghosts we make for ourselves?

What do you mean?

EUSTACE: Somnambulism.

WATSON: I beg your pardon?

EUSTACE: I sleepwalk, that's all.

It's a common enough condition.

I thought you were a doctor.

The whole thing was a bad dream.

Including the contents of the envelope your received?

Well, that's a grotesque joke.

Well, that's not the impression you gave your wife, sir.

She's an hysteric prone to fancies.

No.

I'm sorry, what did you say?

I said no, she's not an hysteric.

She's a highly intelligent woman of rare perception.

My wife sees terror in an orange pip.

Your wife can see worlds where no one else can see anything of value whatsoever.

Can she really?

And how do you deduce that, Mr. Holmes?

She married you.

I assume she was capable of finding a reason.

I'll do my best to save your life tonight, but first, it would help if you would explain your connection to the Ricoletti case.

Ricoletti?

Yes.

In detail, please.

I've never heard of her.

Interesting.

I didn't mention she was a woman.

We'll show ourselves out.

I hope to see you again in the morning.

You will not.

Then sadly, I shall be solving your murder.

Good day.

Well, you tried.

Will you see that Lady Carmichael receives this?

Thank you, good afternoon.

What was that?

Lady Carmichael will sleep alone tonight, upon the pretense of a violent headache.

All the doors and windows of the house will be locked.

Ha!

You think the specter-- uh, bride-- will attempt to lure Sir Eustace outside again?

Certainly.

Why else the portentous threat?

"This night, you will die!"

Well, he won't follow her, surely?

It's difficult to say quite what he'll do.

Guilt is eating away at his soul.

Guilt about what?

Something in his past.

The orange pips were a reminder.

Not a joke?

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.

Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti?

I presume.

We all have a past, Watson.

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.

That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?

God, yes.

Did you bring your revolver?

What good would that be against a ghost?

Exactly.

Did you bring it?

Yeah, of course.

Then come, Watson, come.

The game is afoot.

Get down, Watson, for heaven's sake!

Sorry.

Cramp.

Is the lamp still burning?

Yes.

There goes Sir Eustace.

And Lady Carmichael.

The house sleeps.

Good God, this is the longest night of my life.

Have patience, Watson.

It's only midnight.

You know, it's rare for us to sit together like this.

I should hope so.

It's murder on the knees.

Two old friends just talking.

Chewing the fat.

Man to man.

So, a remarkable woman.

Who?

Lady Carmichael.

The fair sex is your department, Watson.

I'll take your word for it.

Well, you liked her.

"A woman of rare perception."

And admirably high arches.

I noticed them as soon as she stepped into the room.

She's far too good for him.

You think so?

No, you think so, I could tell.

On the contrary, I have no view on the matter.

Yes, you have.

Marriage is not a subject upon which I dwell.

Oh, why not?

What's the matter with you this evening?

That watch that you're wearing, there's a photograph inside it.

I glimpsed it once.

I believe it is of Irene Adler.

SHERLOCK: You didn't glimpse it.

You waited till I'd fallen asleep and looked at it.

Yes, I did.

You seriously thought I wouldn't notice?

Irene Adler.

Formidable opponent, a remarkable adventure.

A very nice photograph.

Why are you talking like this?

Why are you so determined to be alone?

Are you quite well, Watson?

Is it such a curious question?

From a Viennese alienist, no.

From a retired Army surgeon, most certainly.

Holmes, against absolutely no opposition whatsoever, I am your closest friend.

I concede it.

I am currently attempting to have a perfectly normal conversation with you.

Please don't.

Why do you need to be alone?

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.

The crack... ...in the lens, yes.

Well, there you are, you see, I've said it all before.

No, I wrote all that.

You're quoting yourself from The Strand magazine.

Well, exactly.

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.

Well, I've a good mind to write to your editor.

You are a living, breathing man.

You've lived a life, you have a past.

A what?!

Well, you must have had... Had what?

You know.

No.

Experiences.

Pass me your revolver.

I have a sudden need to use it.

Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood, you have feelings, you have... You must have... ...impulses.

Dear Lord, I have never been so impatient to be attacked by a murderous ghost.

As your friend, as someone who worries about you, what made you like this?

Oh, Watson.

Nothing made me.

(barking, panting) I made me.

(panting continues) Redbeard?

Good God!

What are we to do?

Why don't we have a chat?

A...?

Mrs. Ricoletti, I believe!

A pleasant night for the time of year, is it not?

It cannot be true, Holmes, it cannot!

No, it can't.

(screaming) (glass shatters) Is it locked?

As per instruction.

That was a window breaking, wasn't it?

There's only one broken window we need concern ourselves with.

Stay here, Watson.

What?

No!

All the doors and windows to the house are locked.

This is their only way out.

I need you here.

But the sound was so close, it had to be from this side of the house.

Stay here!

(faint gasping) No!

(screaming) You promised to keep him safe.

You promised.

You... (sobbing) You're human, I know that.

You must be.

Little use, us standing here in the dark.

After all, this is the 19th century.

(screaming) (whispering): Do not forget me Do not forget me Watson!

She's there!

She's down there!

Don't tell me you abandoned your post!

What?

Holmes, she's there, I saw her!

Empty, thanks to you!

Our bird is flown!

No!

No, Holmes, it wasn't what you think.

I saw her, the ghost...

There are no ghosts!

What happened?

Where is Sir Eustace?

Dead.

LESTRADE: You really mustn't blame yourself, you know.

SHERLOCK: No, you're quite right.

WATSON: I'm glad you're seeing sense.

SHERLOCK: Watson is equally culpable.

Between us, we've managed to botch this whole case.

I gave an undertaking to protect that man, now he's lying there with a dagger in his breast.

In fact, you gave an undertaking to investigate his murder.

In the confident expectation I would not have to!

Anything you can tell us, Doctor?

Well, he's been stabbed with considerable force.

It's a man, then?

Possibly.

A very keen blade, so it could conceivably have been a woman?

In theory, yes, but we know who it was.

I saw her.

Watson...

I saw the ghost with my own eyes!

You saw nothing!

You saw what you were supposed to see!

You said yourself I have no imagination.

Use your brain, such as it is, to eliminate the impossible, which in this case is the ghost, and observe what remains, which in this case is a solution so blindingly obvious, even Lestrade could work it out!

Thank you.

Forget specters from the other world!

There is only one suspect with motive and opportunity.

They might as well have left a note.

They did leave a note.

And then there's the matter of the other broken window.

What other broken window?

Precisely, there isn't one.

The only broken window in this establishment is the one that Watson and I entered through, yet prior to that, we distinctly heard the sound of... What did you just say?

Sorry?

About a note, what did you just say?

I said the murderer did leave a note.

No, they didn't.

There's a message tied to the dagger.

You must have seen it!

There's no message.

Yes!

There was no message when I found the body.

Holmes?

What is it?

Do you?

Do I what?

How did you get that?

I left it at the crime scene.

"Crime scene?"

Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?

Do you miss him?

Moriarty is dead.

And yet...?

His body was never recovered.

To be expected when one pushes a maths professor over a waterfall.

Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama.

Your life in a nutshell.

Where do you pick up these extraordinary expressions?

Have you put on weight?

You saw me only yesterday.

Does that seem possible?

No.

Yet here I am, increased.

What does that tell the foremost criminal investigator in England?

In England?

You're in deep, Sherlock, deeper than you ever intended to be.

Have you made a list?

Of what?

Everything.

We will need a list.

Good boy.

No, I haven't finished yet.

Moriarty may beg to differ.

He's trying to distract me.

To derail me.

Yes.

He's the crack in the lens, the fly in the ointment, the virus in the data.

I have to finish this.

If Moriarty has risen from the Reichenbach cauldron, he will seek you out.

I'll be waiting.

(door closes) Yes.

I'm very much afraid you will.

Two days, he's been like that.

Has he eaten?

No, not a morsel.

Press are having a ruddy field day.

There's still reporters outside.

Oh, they've been there all the time, I can't get rid of them.

I've been rushed off my feet making tea.

Why do you make them tea?

I don't know, I just sort of do.

He said there's only one suspect, and then he just walks away, and now he won't explain.

Which is strange, because he likes that bit.

Said it was so simple I could solve it.

I'm sure he was exaggerating.

What's he doing, do you think?

He says he's waiting.

For what?

The Devil.

I wouldn't be surprised.

We get all sorts here.

Well, wire me if there's any change.

Yeah.

(deep breathing) (creaking) (footsteps) Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.

Then possibly my answer has crossed yours.

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?

(neck cracking) You'll forgive me for taking precautions.

I'd be offended if you didn't.

Obviously, I've returned the courtesy.

I like your rooms.

They smell so... ...manly.

I'm sure you've acquainted yourself with them before now.

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?

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

I know you are.

By the way, you have a surprisingly comfortable bed.

Did you know that dust is largely composed of human skin?

Yes.

Doesn't taste the same, though.

You want your skin fresh.

Just a little crispy.

Won't you sit down?

That's all people really are, you know, dust waiting to be distributed.

And it gets everywhere, doesn't it?

In every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all the used up people.

Fascinating, I'm sure.

Won't you sit...?

People, people, people.

Can't keep anything shiny.

(blowing) Do 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?

Sit down.

Why?

What do you want?

You chose to come here.

Not true, you know that's not true.

What do you want, Sherlock?

The truth.

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.

But you couldn't have killed him.

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.

I know what you're doing.

(rattling) 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.

You're trying to stop me.

To distract me, derail me.

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?

Do you remember?

It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the tip... ...of my tongue.

(rattling continues) For the sake of Mrs. Hudson's wallpaper, I must remind you that one false move with your finger and you will be dead.

(unintelligible) I'm sorry?

Dead is the new sexy.

(gunshot) Well, I'll tell you what, that rather blows the cobwebs away.

How can you be alive?

How do I look?

Huh?

You can be honest, is it noticeable?

You blew your own brains out.

How could you survive?

Or maybe I could back-comb.

I saw you die.

Why aren't you dead?

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!

(rumbling) We've landed, sir.

We've landed.

No, not now.

No, not now!

I trust you had a pleasant flight, sir?

Well, a somewhat shorter exile than we'd imagined, brother mine.

But probably adequate, given your levels of OCD.

I have to go back!

What?

I was nearly there, I nearly had it!

What on earth are you talking about?

Go back where?

You didn't get very far.

Ricoletti and his abominable wife!

Don't you understand?!

MARY: No, of course we don't.

You're not making any sense, Sherlock.

It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago.

Lodged in my hard drive, she seemed to be dead, but then she came back.

What, like Moriarty?

Shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty.

MARY: But you've only just been told.

We've only just found out.

He's on every TV screen in the country.

Yes?

So?

It's been five minutes since Mycroft called.

What progress have you made?

What have you been doing?

More to the point, what have you been doing?

I've been in my Mind Palace, of course.

Of course.

Running an experiment.

How would I have solved the crime if I'd been there in 1895?

Oh, Sherlock...

I had all the details perfect.

I was there, all of it, everything.

I was immersed.

Of course you were.

You've been reading John's blog.

The story of how you met.

It helps me if I see myself through his eyes, sometimes.

I'm so much cleverer.

Do you really think anyone is believing you?

No, he can do this, I've seen it.

The Mind Palace, it's like a whole world in his head.

Yes, and I need to get back there.

MYCROFT: A Mind Palace is a memory technique.

I know what it can do, and I know what it most certainly cannot.

Maybe there are one or two things that I know that you don't.

Oh, there are.

Did you make a list?

You've put on weight.

That waistcoat is clearly newer than the jacket.

Stop this, just stop it!

Did you make a list?!

Of what?

Everything, Sherlock.

Everything you've taken.

WATSON: No, it's not that.

He goes into a sort of trance, I've seen him do it.

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.

He couldn't have taken all that in the last five minutes.

He was high before he got on the plane.

He didn't seem high.

Nobody deceives like an addict.

I'm not an addict, I'm a user.

I alleviate boredom and occasionally heighten my thought processes.

For God's sake, this could kill you!

You could die!

Controlled usage is not usually fatal, and abstinence is not immortality.

What are you doing?

Emelia Ricoletti-- I'm looking her up.

Oh, I suppose we should.

I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive.

Yeah, that's where I'm looking.

What do you think of MI5 security?

I think it would be a good idea.

Emelia Ricoletti, unsolved, like he says.

Could you all just shut up for five minutes?

I have to go back.

I was nearly there before you stepped on and started yapping away!

"Yapping"?

Sorry, did we interrupt your session?

Sherlock, listen to me.

No, it only encourages you.

I'm not angry with you.

Oh, that's a relief, I was really worried... No, hold on, I really wasn't.

I was there for you before.

I'll be there for you again.

I'll always be there for you.

This was my fault.

It was nothing to do with you.

A week in a prison cell, I should have realized.

Realized what?

That in your case, solitary confinement is locking you up with your worst enemy.

Oh, for God's sake!

WATSON: Morphine or cocaine?

What did you say?

I didn't say anything.

No, you did, you said... (in Watson's voice): Which is it today?

Morphine or cocaine?

Holmes?

WATSON: Morphine or cocaine?

Which is it today?

Answer me, damn it!

Moriarty was here.

Moriarty's dead.

I was on a jet.

A what?

You were there, and Mycroft.

You haven't left these rooms, Holmes.

You haven't moved.

Now, tell me, morphine or cocaine?

Cocaine.

A seven percent solution.

Would you care to try it?

No.

But I would quite like to find every ounce of the stuff in your possession and pour it out of the window.

I should be inclined to stop you.

Then you would be reminded, quite forcibly, which of us is a soldier and which of us a drug addict.

You're not a soldier, you are a doctor.

I'm an army doctor, which means I could break every bone in your body while naming them.

My dear Watson, you are allowing emotion to cloud your judgment.

Never on a case.

You promised me, never on a case.

No, I just said that in one of your stories.

Listen, I'm happy to play the fool for you.

I will run along behind you like some halfwit, making you look clever, if that's what you need.

But dear God above, you will hold yourself to a higher standard!

Why?

Because people need you to.

What people?

Why?

Because of your idiot stories?

Yes, because of my idiot stories.

BOY: Mr. Holmes!

Mr. Holmes, telegram, Mr. Holmes.

What is it?

What's wrong?

It's Mary.

Mary?

What about her?

It's entirely possible she's in danger.

Danger?

There's not a moment to lose.

Is this the cocaine talking?

What danger could Mary be in?

I'm sure she's just visiting with friends.

Come on!

What is happening?

Are you even in a fit state?

For Mary, of course.

Never doubt that, Watson.

Never that.

(groans) Holmes?

I'm fine, I'm fine!

Not that one.

This one.

Why?

You're Sherlock Holmes, wear the damn hat.

Cab!

Cab!

WATSON: So tell me, where is she?

You must tell me what's going on.

Oh, good old Watson!

How would we fill the time if you didn't ask questions?

Sherlock, tell me where my bloody wife is, you pompous prick, or I'll punch your lights out!

Holmes, where is she?

A desanctified church.

She thinks she's found the solution, and for no better reason than that, she's put herself in the path of considerable danger.

What an excellent choice of wife.

What the devil?!

I've found them.

What is all this, Mary?

This is the heart of it all, John.

The heart of the conspiracy.

(faint chanting) (chanting) Great God, what is this place?

And what the devil are you doing here?

I've been making enquiries.

Mr. Holmes asked me.

Holmes, how could you?

No, not him.

The clever one.

It seemed obvious to me that this business could not be managed alone.

My theory is that Mrs. Ricoletti had help.

Help from her friends.

Bravo, Mary.

"The clever one"?

I thought I was losing you.

I thought perhaps we were neglecting each other.

Well, you're the one who moved out.

I was talking to Mary.

You're working for Mycroft?

He likes to keep an eye on his mad sibling.

And he had a spy to hand.

Has it never occurred to you your wife is excessively skilled for a nurse?

Of course it hasn't, because he knows what a nurse is capable of.

When did it occur to you?

Only now, I'm afraid.

Must be difficult, being the slow little brother.

Time I sped up.

Enough chatter, let's concentrate.

Yes, all right.

What's all this about?

What do they want to accomplish?

Why don't we go and find out?

(chanting) (gong rings loudly) Sorry!

I can never resist a gong.

Or a touch of the dramatic.

I'd never have guessed.

Though it seems you share my enthusiasm in that regard.

Excellent.

Superlative theater.

I applaud the spectacle.

Emelia Ricoletti shot herself, then apparently returned from the grave and killed her husband.

So, how was it done?

Let's take the events in order.

(gunshots) Mrs. Ricoletti gets everyone's attention in very efficient fashion.

You!

(gunshots) You?

Or me?

She places one of the revolvers in her mouth while actually firing the other into the ground.

An accomplice sprays the curtains with blood, and thus her apparent suicide is witnessed by the frightened crowd below.

A substitute corpse bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs. Ricoletti takes her place and is later transported to the morgue-- a grubby little suicide of little interest to Scotland Yard.

Meanwhile, the real Mrs. Ricoletti slips away.

Now comes the really clever part.

Mrs. Ricoletti persuaded a cab driver, someone who knew her, to intercept her husband outside his favorite opium den.

The perfect stage for a perfect drama.

Who are you?

What do you want?

Emelia?

(gunshot) Help!

A perfect positive identification.

The late Mrs. Ricoletti has returned from the grave, and a little skilled makeup, and you have nothing less than the wrath of a vengeful ghost.

There was only one thing left to do.

Swiftly, now.

No tears.

(gunshot) All that remained was to substitute the real Mrs. Ricoletti for the corpse in the morgue.

This time, should anyone attempt to identify her, it would be positively, absolutely her.

MARY: But why would she do that?

Die to prove a point?

Every great cause has martyrs.

Every war has suicide missions, and make no mistake, this is war.

One half of the human race at war with the other.

The invisible army hovering at our elbow, tending to our homes, raising our children.

Ignored, patronized, disregarded.

Not allowed so much as a vote.

But an army nonetheless, ready to rise up in the best of causes.

To put right an injustice as old as humanity itself.

So you see, Watson, Mycroft was right.

This is a war we must lose.

She was dying.

Who was?

Emelia Ricoletti.

There were clear signs of consumption.

I doubt she was long for this world.

So she decided to make her death count.

She was already familiar with the secret societies of America and was able to draw on their methods of fear and intimidation to publicly, very publicly, confront Sir Eustace Carmichael with the sins of his past.

He knew her out in the States.

Promised her everything.

Marriage, position.

And then he had his way with her and threw her over.

Left her abandoned and penniless.

Hooper!

Holmes.

For the record, Holmes, she didn't have me fooled.

Why do you never mention me, sir?

Emelia thought that she'd found happiness with Ricoletti.

But he was a brute too.

Emelia Ricoletti was our friend.

You have no idea how that bastard treated her.

But the bride, Holmes, we saw her.

Yes, Watson, we did.

The sound of breaking glass?

Not a window.

Just an old theatrical trick.

It cannot be true, Holmes, it cannot!

No, it can't.

It's called Pepper's Ghost.

A simple reflection in glass of a living, breathing person.

Their only mistake was breaking the glass when they removed it.

(glass shatters) Look around you.

This room is full of brides.

Once she had risen, any one could be her.

The avenging ghost.

A legend to strike terror into the heart of any man with malicious intent.

A specter to stalk those unpunished brutes whose reckoning is long overdue.

A league of furies awakened.

The women I-- we-- have lied to, betrayed.

The women we have ignored.

And disparaged.

Once the idea exists, it cannot be killed.

This is the work of a single-minded person.

Someone who knew first-hand about Sir Eustace's mental cruelty.

The dark secret, kept from all but her closest friends, including Emelia Ricoletti, the woman her husband wronged all those years before.

If one disregards the ghost, there is only one suspect.

Isn't that right, Lady Carmichael?

One small detail doesn't quite make sense to me, however.

Why engage me to prevent a murder you intended to commit?

Hm?

MORIARTY: "Doesn't quite make sense, doesn't quite make sense."

Of course it doesn't make sense, it's not real.

(fake snoring) Oh, Sherlock.

Peekaboo.

No.

No, not you.

It can't be you.

I mean, come on, be serious.

The costumes, the gong?

Speaking as a criminal mastermind, we don't really have gongs or special outfits.

What the hell is going on?

Is it silly enough for you yet?

Gothic enough?

Mad enough, even for you?

It doesn't make sense, Sherlock, because it's not real.

None of it.

What's he talking about?

This is all in your mind.

WATSON: Sherlock?

Holmes!

You're dreaming.

(shouts) Is he dreaming?

MYCROFT: And there he is.

Thought we'd lost you for a moment.

May I just check, is this what you mean by "controlled usage?"

Mrs. Emelia Ricoletti.

I need to know where she was buried.

What, 120 years ago?

Yes.

That would take weeks to find, if those records even exists.

Even with my resources.

Got it.

I don't get it, how is this relevant?

I need to know I was right, then I'll be sure.

You mean how Moriarty did it?

Yes.

But none of that really happened.

It was in your head.

My investigation was the fantasy, the crime happened exactly as I explained.

The stone was erected by a group of her friends.

Though what you think you'll find here...

I need to try!

SHERLOCK: Mrs. Ricoletti was buried here, but what happened to the other one?

The corpse they substituted for her after the so-called suicide?

WATSON: They'd move it, of course they would.

But where?

Well, not here.

But that... That's exactly what they must have done.

The conspirators had someone on the inside.

They found a body, just like Molly Hooper found a body for me when... Yeah, well, we don't need to go into all that again, do we?

You're not seriously going to do this?

It's why we came here.

I need to know.

Spoken like an addict.

This is important to me!

No, this is you needing a fix.

John... Moriarty's back, we have a case.

We have a real life problem right now.

Getting to that, it's next on the list; just let me do this!

No, everyone always lets you do whatever you want.

That's how you got in this state!

John, please...

I'm not playing this time, Sherlock.

Not anymore!

When you're ready to go to work, give me a call.

I'm taking Mary home.

You're what?

Mary's taking me home.

Better.

He's right, you know.

So what if he's right?

He's always right, it's boring!

Will you help me?

Cherchez la femme.

(grunts) Oh, dear.

The cupboard is bare.

They must have buried it underneath.

They must have buried it underneath the coffin.

LESTRADE: Bad luck, Sherlock.

Maybe they got rid of the body in another way.

MYCROFT: More than likely.

At any rate, it was a very long time ago.

We do have slightly more pressing matters at hand, little brother.

Moriarty?

Back from the dead?

WOMAN (whispering): Do not forget me Do not forget me... (shouts) This?

Oh, I see.

Still not awake, am I?

Too deep, Sherlock, way too deep.

Congratulations, you will be the first man in history to be buried in his own Mind Palace.

The setting is a shade melodramatic, don't you think?

For you and me?

Not at all.

What are you?

You know what I am.

I'm Moriarty, the Napoleon of crime.

Moriarty's dead!

Not in your mind.

I'll never be dead there.

You once called your brain a hard drive.

Well, say hello to the virus.

This is how we end, you and I.

Always here, always together.

You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty.

I admire it.

I concede it may even be the equal of my own.

I'm touched.

I'm honored.

But when it comes to the matter of unarmed combat on the edge of a precipice... ...you're going in the water, short-arse.

Oh, you think you're so big and strong, Sherlock!

Not with me.

(groaning) I am your weakness!

I keep you down!

Every time you stumble, every time you fail, when you're weak, I am there!

No, don't try to fight it.

Lie back and lose!

Shall we go over together?

It has to be together, doesn't it?

At the end, it's always just you and me!

MAN: (clears throat) Professor, if you wouldn't mind stepping away from my friend.

I do believe he finds your attention a shade annoying.

That's not fair, there's two of you!

There's always two of us.

Don't you read The Strand?

On your knees, Professor.

Hands behind your head.

Thank you, John.

Since when do you call me John?

You'd be surprised.

No, I wouldn't.

Time you woke up, Sherlock.

I'm a storyteller, I know when I'm in one.

Of course.

Of course you do, John.

So what's he like?

The other me in the other place?

Smarter than he looks.

Pretty damn smart, then.

Pretty damn smart.

Ugh, why don't you two just elope, for God's sake?

Impertinent.

Offensive.

Actually, would you mind?

Not at all.

(screaming) It was my turn.

Quite so.

So how do you plan to wake up?

Oh...

I should think like this.

Are you sure?

Between you and me, John, I always survive a fall.

But how?

Elementary, my dear Watson.

(startled gasp) Miss me?

Sherlock, are you all right?

Yes, of course I am, why wouldn't I be?

Because you probably just OD'd.

You should be in hospital.

No time.

I have to go to Baker Street now.

Moriarty's back.

I almost hope he is, if it'll save you from this.

No need for that now.

I've got the real thing.

I have work to do.

Sherlock...

Promise me.

What are you still doing here?

Shouldn't you be off getting me a pardon or something, like a proper big brother?

Dr. Watson... Look after him.

Please.

Sherlock, hang on.

Explain.

Moriarty's alive, then?

I never said he was alive, I said he was back.

So he's dead?

Of course he's dead.

He blew his own brains out, no one survives that.

I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it.

Moriarty is dead, no question.

But more importantly, I know exactly what he's going to do next.

(Sherlock theme playing) (theme slows down to a halt) Flying machines, these telephone contraptions, what sort of lunatic fantasy is that?

It was simply my conjecture of what a future world might look like and how you and I might fit inside it.

From a drop of water, a logician should be able to infer the possibility of an Atlantic or a Niagara.

Or a Reichenbach?

Have you written up your account of the case?

Yes.

Modified to put it down as one of my rare failures, of course?

Of course.

"The Adventure of the Invisible Army"?

"The League of Furies"?

"The Monstrous Regiment"?

I rather thought "The Abominable Bride."

A trifle lurid.

It'll sell.

It's got proper murders in it too.

You're the expert.

As for your own tale, are you sure it's still just a seven percent solution that you take?

I think you may have increased the dosage?

Perhaps I was being a little fanciful.

But perhaps such things could come to pass.

In any case, I know I would be very much at home in such a world.

I don't think I would be.

I beg to differ.

But then, I've always known I was a man out of his time.

CULVERTON: What's the very worst thing you can do to your very best friends?

Tell them your darkest secret.

I love you.

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