"Are you quite sure you don't want to take these with you?" I called through the open bedroom door, stacking up the remaining piles of papers.
"My poor cottage's little attic is already full of my old case notes, Watson, and I shan't have any use for them now. You did say you didn't mind keeping them?" he bellowed back.
"Not at all," I said eagerly. "They will be of great use to me when I start publishing again."
I got to my feet, heading into his room to see how far along he was in finishing his packing. I stepped into the room and glanced around bewilderedly, for the man was nowhere to be found.
Mystified, I turned back to the sitting room...and quite suddenly Holmes materialized before me, cradling in his arms that horrible wax bust. I yelped instinctively, jumping back at the gruesome sight, and he burst into a fit of laughter.
"My apologies," he chortled, offering the horrid thing to me. "But I've no use for this; would you like to keep it?"
I pulled a face and refused to take the image of my friend's head. "No. I am not going to have a bullet-holed bust of Sherlock Holmes adorning my consulting-room."
"Whyever not?" asked he, looking quite miffed.
"Because I am not so bizarre!"