Holmes walked aimlessly across the beach. Near the cottage they'd rented, Watson was having an argument in furious French with a group of tourists from the continent. He was having no success, as he spoke no French, and the tourists were obviously Italian in any case. Holmes traced vague patterns in the sand with his shoe, and hummed Manon. He couldn't remember the words, something about love written in sand. The sea hissed and he winced. Water. He had hated water since Reidenbach. It wiped things out. It stole things. What things Holmes did not neurotically deprive himself of anyway.