"Holmes!" I cried in near-panic. I saw no sign of him in the sitting room until a white hand rose over the back of the sofa and languidly twisted in the air.
"Holmes!" He was acting as he usually did when under the influence of morphine but I could not worry about that now. I dashed over. "Holmes, I've just heard the news. They've found a that a shipment of shag tobacco was contaminated with some sort of drug or some such thing. It's a mild hallucinogenic, I've heard, but the point is the tobacco is not safe to smoke. You must get rid of your new supply."
Holmes merely stared at his hands. He slowly brought them up to his face. "I have hands," he said in wonder.
I realized I was too late but perhaps all was not lost. "Holmes, do you understand me?"
He glanced over his flexing digits, gaze suddenly sharp and clear. "Of course. There was a contaminatant in my shag tobacco, which I have consumed."
"Yes," I sighed in relief. "I'm glad to see you are not much worse for wear."
He merely grapped my wrists and raised them to his eye level. "You have hands too."
Ooooooh boy.
Inspired by a combination of a close friend's personal expierence, research into the Pure Food and Drug Act, and a dash of "Quantum Leap."