I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.

You'll never be another Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his hands with delight.

During my long and intimate acquaintance with Mr. Sherlock Holmes I had never heard him refer to his relations, and hardly ever to his own early life.

Mary feared that her lap dog could not be the excuse for all of her emissions, especially when other cohabitants possessed refined senses. Half a cup of pâté with every meal would suffice, she figured, to fool any would-be Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes chuckled to himself, and appeared to be about to make some remark, when Lestrade, who had been in the front room while we were holding this conversation in the hall, reappeared upon the scene, rubbing his hands in a pompous and self-satisfied manner.

I could not but observe that as she took the seat which Sherlock Holmes placed for her, her lip trembled, her hand quivered, and she showed every sign of intense inward agitation.

That very evening I moved my things round from the hotel, and on the following morning Sherlock Holmes followed me with several boxes and portmanteaus.

I began to smell a rat. You know the feeling, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, when you come upon the right scent—a kind of thrill in your nerves.

One of Sherlock Holmes’s defects—if, indeed, one may call it a defect—was that he was exceedingly loth to communicate his full plans to any other person until the instant of their fulfilment.