You were not beautiful in the way that boys are sometimes beautiful, Holmes. Even as an adolescent you were already tall and lanky, and your nose--which your friend and chronicler Dr. Watson would call "hawk-like"--had already taken on its later figure. Still there was a sort of regal handsomeness to your features even then.
You had the figure of an athlete, and it was clear you were one of those lucky few who can cease participation of a sport and then, on a whim, pick it up again no worse for the lack of practice. You had traveled in a train that morning. Your parents were neither poor nor rich; you loved your mother but were aloof towards your father; you were not a virgin. You had already begun to smoke tobacco and use cocaine, but at that point both were infrequent and always in moderation. You were incredibly intelligent, but lacked direction. You were left-handed, put on your right shoe before the left, and had no more than three quid fifty in your waistcoat pocket.
All of this I saw in a glance; you know the methods--indeed, history will no doubt remember them as your own. Still, there were a thousand questions left unanswered.