Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area.
— James Moriarty is for hire.
— A tradesman?
— Yes.
— But not the sort who'd fix your heating?
— No, the sort who'd plat a bomb or stage an assassination. But I'm sure he'd make a decent job of your boiler.
— A small token of our gratitude.
— Diamond cufflinks... All my cuffs have buttons.
— He means "thank you".
— Do I?
— Just say it.
— Thank you.
Don't let it get to you, I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room. In fact, so do most people.
The press will turn, Sherlock, they always turn and they'll turn on you.
— I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you.
— You can see me.
— I don't count.
— They're coming back. That's six minutes.
— Surprised it took them that long, to be honest.
— There's a queue for the loo!
— How would you describe this man, his character?
— First mistake. James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the centre of a web, a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances.
— Tell you what you already know?
— No, prove that you know it.