— What are you doing here?
— As ever, I'm concerned about you.
— Yes, I've been hearing about your "concern".
— Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?
— Oddly enough... No.
— We have more in common than you'd like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer. And you know how it always upset Mummy.
— I upset her? Me? It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft.
— No. No, wait... Mummy? Who's Mummy?
— Mother. Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft.
— Do people usually assume you're the murderer?
— Now and then, yes.
— Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting.
— Deduction?
— Increased appetite, change of taste perception... you were sick this morning... You assumed it was just wedding nerves. You got angry with me when I mentioned it to you. All the signs are there.
— The signs?
— The signs of three.
— What?!
— Mary, I think you should do a pregnancy test. Well, the statistics for the first trimester are...
— Shut up! Just shut up.
= Sorry.
— How did he notice before me? I'm a bloody doctor.
— It's your day off.
— It's your day off!
— Stop. Stop panicking.
— I'm not panicking.
— I'm panicking, I'm pregnant!
— Don't panic! None of you panic. Absolutely no reason to panic.
— Oh, and you'd know, of course!
— Yes, I would.
— Actually, that was mostly Mycroft's idea.
— Oh, so it was your brother's plan?
— Oh, but he could have needed a confidante... sorry.
— But he was the only one? The only one who knew?
— A couple of others. It was a very elaborate plan, it had to be. The next of the 13 possibilities was...
— Who else? Who else knew?
— ...
— Who?!
— Molly.
— Molly?!
— John...
— Molly Hooper and some of my homeless network and that's all.
— OK... OK. So just your brother, Molly Hooper and 100 tramps.
— Ha, no! 25 at most.
— How could you do that? How?!
— Wait, before you do anything that you might regret, one question, just let me ask one question. Are you really going to keep that?
Explanation:
about Watson's mustache
— Oh, God! John, I need some. Get me some.
— No.
— Get me some.
— No. Cold turkey we agreed, no matter what. Anyway, you've paid everyone off, remember? No-one within a two miles radius will sell you any.
— Stupid idea. Whose idea was that?
— {clears throat}
— Mrs Hudson!
— Look, Sherlock, you're doing really well, don't give up now!
— Tell me where they are! Please, tell me. Please.
— Can't help, sorry.
— I'll let you know next week's lottery numbers.
— {he laughs}
— It was worth to try.
— You went on the tube like that?
— None of the cabs would take me.
Explanation:
A breathless Sherlock in a bloody shirt bursts into the room with a harpoon in his hand.
Could you put something on, please? Anything at all. A napkin?
— What do you mean "gay"? We're together.
— And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you.
— Two-and-a-haif.
— No, three.
— Sherlock.
— He's not gay! Why do you have to spoil..? He's not!
— With that level of personal grooming?
— Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair.
— You wash your hair, there's a difference. No, no — tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines. Those tired, clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear.
— His underwear?
— Visible above the waistline. Very visible. Very particular brend. Plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under the dish. I'd say you'd better break it off now and safe yourself the pain.