PS, I know you two. And if i'm gone, I know whay you could become, because I lnow who you really are. A junky who solves crimes to get high. And the doctor who never came home from the war. Will you listen to me? Who you really are, it doesn't matter. It's all about the legend. The stories, the adventures. There is the last refuge for the desperate, the unloved, the persecuted. There is a final court for appear for everyone. When life gets too strange, too impossible, too frightening, there is always one last hope. When all else fails, there are two men sitting arguing in a scruffy flat, like they've always been there, and they always will. The best and wisest men I heva ever known. My Baker Street boys. Scherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.
— Keep up. He's fast.
<...>
— He's not moving.
— He's thinking.
— He's really not moving.
— Slow but sure, John, not dissimilar to yourself.
— You just like this dog, don't you?
— Well, I like you.
— ... He's still not moving.
— Fascinating.
— How did you find me?
— I'm Sherlock Holmes.
— Really though, how? Every movement I made was entirely random. Every new personality, just on the roll of a dice.
— Mary, no human action is ever truly random. An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped on to a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably. I myself know of at least fifty eight tecniques to refine the seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables. But they're really difficult, so instead I just stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick.
— 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.
— You will look after him for me, won't you?
— Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble.
— That's my girl.
— If I try and hug him, stop me.
— Certainly not.
— No, you can't come, you're pregnant.
— You can't go, I'm pregnant!
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