"Allow me to get that for you, Doctor."
"No, thank you, I have it."
"It is no trouble –"
"I am perfectly fine, Holmes, thank you."
I glared at the obstinate man.
"Quite to the contrary, Doctor, you are obviously in a good deal of pain from that shoulder, though you disguise the fact extraordinarily well."
"So I thought," the man said ruefully, setting the boxes down with a resounding thud, his face red and breathing with difficulty.
"Only someone as observant as myself would have noticed it. Now, let me get those boxes before you kill yourself. Up to your bedroom?"
"Do you mind if I have this corner for my chemicals?"
"Not at all – may I take that shelf for my books?"
"Certainly. Watch those beakers, their contents are volatile."
"Sorry."
"Are you a writer by any chance, Doctor?"
He flushed with some embarrassment.
"What makes you ask?"
"Well, you seem to possess more books and journals than an ordinary man has vests and cravats!"
He chuckled and merely stacked his journals on his desk.
"Ah, is that your violin?"
"Have you ever seen a genuine Stradivarius before, Doctor?"
"I can't say that I have. It's certainly beautiful," the man replied, looking at the glossy finish with admiration. I put the instrument to my shoulder.
"Do you like Bach?"