"Now, Holmes? Right here?"
"Would you prefer next week at Simpson's?"
I sighed. "All right, just so long as you turn your back."
"There isn't a bone in your body that's not Victorian," Holmes muttered to the wall. "You won't be long?"
"No." I glanced over. "Holmes?"
"What?"
I finished disrobing quickly, pulled my nightshirt over my head and sat on the edge of my bed. "Where…what was that blood on the couch? Where did it come from?"
He sat up to face me, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. "I'm fairly certain, Watson, that was the murdered victims' blood."