More continued randomness (and for the first time I ended exactly on 221 words on the first draft...weird):
You now officially have to clean up the broken teacup and sort last week's notes when we get home, you know. You really should keep your betting to the horses and not take on Sherlock Holmes.
How was I to know more than one of those constables would be stupid enough to fall asleep in the middle of a meeting?
Been nearly an hour, and the poor fellow ran out of toffees ten minutes ago. Simplicity itself.
Go to blazes. Do you suppose Lestrade is ever going to be done?
Perhaps he literally can't stop. Is that medically possible?
Doubtful.
I believe I shall do a monograph on the subject. 'Upon the Various and Sundry Methods of Driving Consulting Detectives to Suicidal Madness –
That's no drive, it's a short putt in your case.
Very amusing, Doctor. Remember I still have my pocketknife.
It would be rather stupid for you to kill the man who patches you up after every case gone wrong.
Who said anything about killing?
You really do frighten me sometimes, you know.
One of my strong points, yes.
Did you see MacPherson's new hair-cut?
Disgusting. I wonder how he can get his helmet on properly. If I ever begin parting my hair in the middle, Watson, you have my permission for a mercy killing.
You, or your barber?