— That was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?
— It's in the fridge. It kept ringing.
— Oh, that's not a fault, Sherlock!
— Would you like a cup of tea?
— Thank you.
— The kettle's over there.
— Both of you?
— Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!
— Cameras, we're being watched.
— What?! Cameras? Here? I'm in my nightie!
— I wish you could have worn the antlers.
— Some things are best left to the imagination, Mrs Hudson.
— How's the hip?
— It's atrocious, but thanks for asking.
— I've seen much worse, but then I do post-mortems.
— I'm angry.
— It's OK, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise, firing guns at half past one in the morning...
— Yeah.
— Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there's food.
— Yes.
— And the fighting! Drove me up the wall with all his carryings-on!
— Listen, I'm not actually that angry, OK?
— Shut up, Mrs Hudson.
— I haven't said a word!
— You're formulating a question, it's physically painful watching you think.
— Listen, has he ever had any kind of girl-friend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?
— I don't know.
— How can we not know?
— He's Sherlock. How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?
— I've written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of diffirent natural fibres.
— I'm sure there's a crying need for that!
— I just can't believe it! Him sitting in his chair again. Oh, isn't it wonderful, Mr Holmes?
— I can barely contain myself.
— Oh, he really can, you know.
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