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.
— Are you tweeting?
— No.
— Well, that's what it looks like.
— Of course I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?
— Give me that.
— What? No. What are you doing? Get off. What?
— Give it here. "Back on terra firma.."
— No, don't read them out.
— "Free as a bird."
— God, you're such a spoilsport.
— Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?
— I am taking it seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking it seriously?
— Hashtag, "Ohwhatabeautifulmorning."
— 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.
The man who sees through everything is exactly the man who doesn't notice... when there's nothing to see through.
— It's not a pleasant thought, John. But I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human.
— Even you?
— No. Even you.
— Why am I looking at this?
— That's her, John and Mary's baby.
— Oh, I see, yes. Looks very...fully-functioning.
— Listen, before I do anything, I need to know what state you're in.
— Well, you're a doctor. Examine me.
— No, I need a second opinion.
— John, calm down. When have you ever managed two opinions? You'd fall over.
— I need to know one person who, unlike me, learnt to see through your bullshit long ago.
— Who's that, then? I'm sure I would have noticed.
— The last person you'd think of. I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper. Do you hear me? I said Molly Hooper.
— You're really not gonna like this.
— Like what?
{Doorbell rings}
— I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. It's your brother. He's left his flat.
— Was it on fire?
As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe. To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery, whereas to me it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time. If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle.
Explanation:
Talking to Watson's daughter.
The world is woven from billions of lives, every strand crossing every other. What we call premonition is just movement of the web. If you could attenuate to every strand of quivering data, the future would be entirely calculable. As inevitable as mathematics.
— So how's it going then, fatherhood?
— Oh, good. Yeah, amazing.
— Getting any sleep?
— Christ, no.
— You at the beck and call of a screaming, demanding baby, woken up all hours to obey his every whim?
— Must feel very different.
— I'm sorry, what?
— Yes, well, you know how it is. All is you do is clean up their mess. Pat them on the head...
— You two having a little joke?
— Never a word of thanks. Can't even tell people faces apart.
— This is a joke, isn't it?
— Yeah, and it's all "Oh, aren't you clever? You so, so clever."
— Is it about me?
— I think he needs winding.
— You know, I think that really might be it.
— No, don't get it.
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