By the time I came downstairs, Holmes was dressed and groomed to a fault—if the top of his head, arms and hands were any indication. They were all I could see of him, as he was hanging over the top of the couch, inspecting the bloodstains on the back with his glass.

"Holmes, you look a grotesque corpse. Must you really?"

"Let's not get into discussions of free will, Watson." He sat up and grinned at me. "At least, not so early in the day. Well, Mrs. Hudson is still gone. What are you planning to do for breakfast?"