Mr. Holmes had gone through an entire week's worth on missing-person reports in less than an hour (Cummings was finding paper in all cracks of the room for weeks afterwards), and still hadn't come to a conclusion of who the drowned chap was.
My questioning about his mysterious informant only produced a growl and a muttered explanation about 'the man's safety, shut up Lestrade, I'm thinking Lestrade even though that concept is foreign to you Lestrade,' etc.
I would've thought he was making the whole thing up, another instance of his mind trying to skirt the edge of insanity close as he could get without the Doctor to pull him back, but for the fact that before we finished discussing the murder victim a street urchin was banging urgently on my window.
Mr. Holmes darted out of the room like a jackrabbit from a hunting dog, leaving us (and half the Yard) to stare at the dust settling in his wake. Within five minutes he was back.
"We've got the man's address…" he gasped. "Johnson…found him even without the name…and ought to, for what I paid him…won't be going to concerts for three months…"
"I'll start a warrant immediately, Inspector," Cummings interjected helpfully.
I glanced back and saw that Mr. Holmes had vanished. Good Lord, I had a migraine.
"Don't bother."