Sherlock stood, a dark bruise already darkening his right cheekbone and his Belstaff wrapped tightly about him. He wore a little smile that said, 'Look at me, John. Aren't I amazing?'
The killer, being cuffed, spied him and lurched in his direction. "You," he spat. "How did you know? How did you figure it out?"
Sherlock puffed up even more with pride as he detailed every one of his many deductions, ending with, "It was a marginally bright plan, actually."
"No," the killer contradicted him. "It was a brilliant plan and I would have gotten away with it, too..."
"If it weren't for you meddling kids," Greg and John finished together, breaking into gales of laughter.
It was hard to say who looked more indignant, the killer as he was being taken away or Sherlock.
"I presume," the detective began, "that was some cultural reference."
At the look on Sherlock's face, the other two men laughed all the harder. The detective pivoted on the ball of his foot and strode away, his back stiff with indignation.
John muttered a "ruh-roh" and tried to stifle his laughter.
"I think you mean roh rhit, mate," Greg observed as he watched Sherlock disappear into the darkness.
Now John sighed. Roh rhit, indeed.