All language subtitles for Sherlock.The.Abominable.Bride.BluRay.720p.DD5.1.x264-FGT

The name's Sherlock Holmes and the
address is 221B Baker Street.

- Afternoon.
- Yeah.

He's always like that.

Bad day was it?

Since yesterday you've moved in with him
and now you're solving crimes together.

Mwah! Look at you, all
happy, it's not decent.

Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs.
Hudson, is on!

Don't make people into heroes, John.

Heroes don't exist and, if they
did, I wouldn't be one of them.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Right, this should do it.

- Are you wearing any pants?
- No.

OK.

This is how I want you to remember
me, the woman who beat you.

But there never was any monster.

Sherlock? Here we are, at last.

Argh!

- Goodbye, John.
- Sherlock!

'Those things will kill you.'

Oh, you bastard!

The thrill of the chase, the blood
pumping through your veins,

just the two of us against
the rest of the world.

Wait!

We're going to need to coordinate.

I asked you for one more miracle.

- I asked you to stop being dead.
- I heard you.

Shut up! You are not a puzzle
solver, you never have been.

You're a drama queen!

Now there is a man in
there about to die.

The game is on, solve it!

He is the Napoleon of blackmail.

No chance for you to be a
hero this time, Mr. Holmes.

I'm a high-functioning sociopath!

There is no prison in which we
could incarcerate Sherlock without

causing a riot on a daily basis.

The alternative, however,
would require your approval.

To the very best of times, John.

Did you miss me?

Did you miss me?

How is this possible?

- How is the exile going?
- I've only been gone four minutes.

Well, I certainly hope
you've learnt your lesson.

Who needs me this time?

Miss me?

England.

"The Second Afghan War brought
honours and promotion to many.

"But, for me, it meant nothing
but misfortune and disaster."

All right, Captain.

"I returned to England with my
health irretrievably ruined

"and my future bleak.

"Under such circumstances, I
naturally gravitated to London.

"That great cesspool into
which all the loungers..."

- Watson!
- "..And idlers of the empire are drained."

Watson!

Stamford.

Remember?

We were at Barts together.

Yes, of course. Stamford.

Good Lord! Where have you been?

You're as thin as a rake!

I made it home. Many weren't so lucky.

- So what now?
- I need a place to live.

Somewhere decent at an affordable price.
It's not easy.

You know, you're the second
person to say that to me today.

Hmm? Who was the first?

Good Lord.

It's an experiment, apparently.

Beating corpses to establish how long
after death bruising is still possible.

- Is there a medical point to that?
- Not sure.

Neither am I. So, where's
this friend of yours, then?

Excuse me.

I do hope we're not interrupting.

You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive.

Dr. Watson, Mr. Sherlock...

Excellent reflexes, you'll do.

I'm sorry...?

I have my eye on a suite of
rooms near Regent's Park.

Between us we could afford them.

Rooms? Who said anything about rooms?

I did, I mentioned it this morning,
I was in need of a fellow lodger.

Now he appears after lunch in the
company of a man of military aspect

with a tan and a recent
injury, both suggestive

of the campaign in Afghanistan and
an enforced departure from it.

The conclusion seemed inescapable. We'll
finalise the details tomorrow evening.

Now, if you'll excuse me,

I have a hanging in Wandsworth and
I'd hate them to start without me.

- A hanging?
- I take a professional interest.

I also play the violin and smoke a pipe.
I presume that's not a problem.

Er, no, well...

And you're clearly
acclimatized to never getting

to the end of a sentence.
We'll get along splendidly.

Tomorrow evening, seven o'clock, then.

Oh, and the name is Sherlock Holmes

and the address is 221B, Baker Street.

Yes... he's always been like that.

Papers! Papers!

Papers! Papers!

Here, how's The Blue Carbuncle doing?
Very popular, Dr. Watson.

Is there going to be a
proper murder next month?

I'll have a word with
the criminal classes.

If you wouldn't mind.

Is that him? Is he in there?

Ow! No.

No, no, not at all.
Er, good day to you.

Let on, walk.

Merry Christmas, Mr. Holmes!

Mr. Holmes!

I do wish you'd let me know when
you're planning to come home!

I hardly knew myself, Mrs. Hudson.

That's the trouble with
dismembered country squires.

They're notoriously
difficult to schedule.

- What's in there?
- Never mind.

Thank you.

Did you catch the murderer, Mr. Holmes?

Caught the murderer, still looking for
the legs. I think we'll call it a draw.

And I noticed you've published
another of your stories, Dr. Watson.

- Yes, did you enjoy it?
- No.

Oh?

- I never enjoy them.
- Why not?

Well, I never say anything, do I?

According to you, I just show people up
the stairs and serve you breakfasts.

Well, within the narrative, that is,
broadly speaking, your function.

My what?!

Don't feel singled out, Mrs.
Hudson, I'm hardly in the dog one.

"The dog one?"

I'm your landlady, not a plot device.

Do you mean The Hound
Of The Baskervilles?

And you make the rooms
so drab and dingy.

Oh, blame it on the illustrator,
he's out of control!

I've had to grow this moustache
just so people will recognise me.

"Over the many years it has
been my privilege to record

"the exploits of my remarkable friend, Mr.
Sherlock Holmes,

"it has sometimes been difficult
to choose which of his many

"cases to set before my readers.

"Some are still too
sensitive to recount,

"whilst others are too recent
in the minds of the public.

"But in all our many adventures
together, no case pushed my friend

"to such mental and physical extremes

"as that of The Abominable Bride!"

Good Lord!

Mrs. Hudson, there is a
woman in my sitting room!

Is it intentional?

She's a client. Said you were
out, insisted on waiting.

Would you, er, care to sit down?

Didn't you ask her what she wanted?

You ask her!

Why didn't YOU ask her?

How could I, what with me not
talking and everything?!

Oh, for God's sake, give her some lines,
she's perfectly capable of starving us!

Good afternoon. I am Sherlock Holmes, this
is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson.

You may speak freely in front of him, as
he rarely understands a word. Holmes!

However, before you do, allow me to
make some trifling observations.

You have an impish sense of humour,

which currently you are deploying to
ease a degree of personal anguish.

You have recently married a man of
a seemingly kindly disposition,

who has now abandoned you

for an unsavoury companion
of dubious morals.

You have come to this
agency as a last resort,

in the hope that reconciliation
may still be possible.

Good Lord, Holmes!

All of this is, of course, perfectly
evident from your perfume.

Her perfume?

Yes, her perfume, which brings
insight to me and disaster to you.

How so?

Because I recognised
it and you did not.

- Mary!
- John.

Why, in God's name, are you
pretending to be a client?

Because I could think of no other
way to see my husband, husband.

It was an affair of
international intrigue.

- It was a murdered country squire.
- Nevertheless, matters were pressing.

I don't mind you going, my darling,
I mind you leaving me behind.

But what could you do?!

Well, what do you do, except wander
around taking notes, looking surprised?!

Enough!

The stage is set, the curtain rises.

We are ready to begin.

Begin what?

Sometimes to solve a case, one
must first solve another.

- Oh, you have a case, then, a new one?
- An old one, very old.

I shall have to go deep.

Deep? Into what?

Myself.

Lestrade! Do stop loitering
by the door and come in.

- How did you know it was me?
- The regulation tread is unmistakable.

Lighter than Jones,
heavier than Gregson.

I, I just came up... Mrs. Hudson
didn't seem to be talking.

I fear she has branched into literary
criticism by means of satire.

It is a distressing trend
in the modern landlady.

What brings you here in
your off-duty hours?

How do you know I'm off duty?
Well, since your arrival,

you've addressed over 40% of
your remarks to my decanter.

Watson, give the Inspector
what he so clearly wants.

So... Lestrade, what can we do for you?

Oh, I'm not here on business,
I just thought I'd drop by.

A social call?

Yeah, of course, just to wish you
the compliments of the season.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.
Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.

Thank God that's over.

Now, Inspector, what strange
happening compels you

to my door, but embarrasses
you to relate?

Who said anything happened?

You did. By every means
short of actual speech.

Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, Holmes,
you have misdiagnosed.

Then, correct me, Doctor.

He didn't WANT a drink, he needed one.

He's not embarrassed, he's afraid.

My Boswell is learning.
They do grow up so fast.

Watson, restore the
courage of Scotland Yard.

Inspector, do sit down.

I'm, I'm not afraid, exactly.

Fear is wisdom in the face of danger,

it is nothing to be ashamed of.

Thank you.

From the beginning, then.

You!

No, please!

You?!

A moment.

When was this?

Yesterday morning.

The bride's face, how was it described?

"White as death, mouth
like a crimson wound."

Poetry or truth?

Many would say they're the same thing.

Yes, idiots. Poetry or truth?

I saw her face myself. Afterwards.

After what?

You?

Or me?

Oh, really, Lestrade, a woman blows
her own brains out in public

and you need help identifying
the guilty party?

I feel Scotland Yard
has reached a new low.

That's not why I'm here.

- I surmised.
- What was her name, the bride?

Emelia Ricoletti. Yesterday
was her wedding anniversary.

The police, of course, were called.

And her body taken to the morgue.

Standard procedure. Why are you
telling us what may be presumed?

Because of what happened next.

Limehouse. Just a few hours later.

Thomas Ricoletti. Emelia
Ricoletti's husband.

Presumably on his way to the
morgue to identify her remains?

As it turned out, he
was saved the trip.

# Do not forget me #

# Do not forget me #

# Remember the maid... #

Who are you?

# The maid of the mill... #

Why are you doing this?
Just tell me who you are!

You recognise our song, my dear?

I sang it at our wedding.

Emelia?

You, you're dead, you
can't be here, you died!

Am I not beautiful, Thomas?

As beautiful as the day you married me?

What the hell is all this about?!

What does it look like,
my handsome friend?

It's a shotgun wedding.

Till death us do part.
Twice in this case.

Extraordinary.

Impossible.

Superb.

Suicide as street theatre, murder by
corpse. Lestrade, you're spoiling us.

Watson, your hat and coat.

- Where are we going?
- To the morgue.

There's not a moment to lose, which
one can so rarely say of a morgue.

And am I just to sit here?

Not at all, my dear.
We'll be hungry later.

Holmes, just one thing,
tweeds in a morgue?

Needs must when the
devil drives, Watson.

Ma'am.

- I'm part of a campaign, you know.
- Oh, campaign?

- Votes for women.
- And are you for or against?

Get out.

Ooh-ooh!

Oh, have they gone off
again, have they?

I don't know, what a life
those gentlemen lead.

Huh, yes. Those gentlemen!

Oh, never you mind.

Oh, almost forgot, that came for you.

Oh.

Mrs. Hudson, tell my
husband I'll be home late,

I have some urgent business.

Is everything all right?

Oh, you know, just a,
er, friend in need.

Oh, dear. What friend?

England.

Well, that's not very specific.

Who's on mortuary duty?

- You know who.
- Always him.

Please tell me which idiot did this!

It's for everyone's safety.

This woman is dead, half
her head is missing.

She's not a threat to anyone.

Tell that to her husband, he's
under a sheet over there.

Whatever happened in Limehouse
last night, I think

we can safely assume it wasn't
the work of a dead woman.

Stranger things have happened.

Such as...?

Well... Strange things.

You're speaking like a child.

This is clearly man's work.
Where is he?

Holmes.

Hooper.

You, back to work!

So, come to astonish us with
your magic tricks, I suppose?

Is there anything to which you
would like to draw my attention?

Nothing at all, Mr. Holmes.

You may leave any time you like.

Dr. Hooper, I asked Mr. Holmes
to come here. Cooperate.

That's an order.

There are two "features of interest",

as you are always saying in Dr.
Watson's stories.

I never say that.

You do, actually, quite a lot.

First of all, this is
definitely Emelia Ricoletti.

She has been categorically identified.

Beyond a doubt, it is her.

Then who was that in
Limehouse last night?

That was also Emelia Ricoletti.

It can't have been. She
was dead, she was here.

She was positively identified by her
own husband, seconds before he died.

He had no reason to lie, could
hardly have been mistaken.

The cabbie knew her, too,
there's no question it's her.

But she can't have been in two
places at the same time, can she?

No, Watson, one place is strictly the
limit for the recently deceased.

Holmes!

- Could it have been twins?
- No.

Why not?

Because it's never twins.

Emelia was not a twin, nor
did she have any sisters.

She had one older brother
who died four years ago.

Hmm, maybe it was a secret twin.

A what?!

A secret twin.

Hmm? You know?

A twin that nobody knows about.

This whole thing could
have been planned.

Since the moment of conception. How
breathtakingly prescient of her.

- It is never twins, Watson!
- Then what's your theory?

More to the point, what's your problem?

- I, I don't understand...
- Why were you so frightened?

Nothing so far has justified
your assault on my decanter,

and why have you allowed a dead
woman to be placed under arrest?

Ah, that would be the other
feature of interest.

A smear of blood on her finger.

That could have happened
any number of ways.

Indeed. There's one other thing.

It wasn't there earlier.

Neither was that.

You!

You?

You?!

Holmes?

Gun in the mouth, a bullet
through the brain...

Back of the head blown clean off.

How could he survive?

"She", you mean.

I'm sorry?

Not "he", "she".

Yes, yes of course.

Well, thank you all for
a fascinating case.

I'll send you a telegram
when I've solved it. Watson.

The gunshot wound was
obviously the cause of death,

but there are clear
indicators of consumption.

It might be worth a postmortem.

We need all the information we can get.

Oh, isn't he observant,
now that Daddy's gone!

I AM observant in some ways, just
as Holmes is quite blind in others.

Really?

Yes, really.

Amazing... what one has to do
to get ahead in a man's world.

What's he saying that for?

Get back to work!

Well, Holmes? Surely you
must have some theory?

Not yet. These are deep
waters, Watson, deep waters.

And I shall have to go deeper still.

"It was not for several months
that we were to pick up

"the threads of this
strange case again.

"And then under very
unexpected circumstances."

Five of them now, all the
same, every one of them.

Hush, please, this is a
matter of supreme importance.

What is?

The obliquity of the ecliptic.
I have to understand it.

What is it?

I don't know, I'm still
trying to understand it.

I thought you understood everything.

Of course not, that would be an appalling
waste of brain space. I specialise.

And what's so important about this?

What's so important about
five boring murders?

They're not boring. Five men dead, murdered
in their own homes, rice on the floor

like at a wedding, and the word
"You" written in blood on the wall!

It's, it's her, it's the Bride.
Somehow she's risen again.

- Solved it.
- You can't have solved it!

Of course I've solved it,
it's perfectly simple.

The incident of the mysterious Mrs.
Ricoletti, the killer from

beyond the grave, has been widely
reported in the popular press.

Now people are disguising their
own dull little murders as the

work of a ghost, to confuse the
impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard.

There you are, solved.

Pay Mrs. Hudson a visit on your way
out, she likes to feel involved.

You sure?

Certainly. Go away. Watson! I'm ready.

Your hat and boots, we have
an important appointment.

Didn't Dr. Watson move
out a few months ago?

He did, didn't he?

Who have I been talking
to all this time?

Well, speaking on behalf of the
impossibly imbecilic Scotland Yard,

that chair is definitely empty.

It is, isn't it? Works
surprisingly well, though.

I actually thought he was improving.

Ah. Where have you been?

Sorry, sir, I'm rather
behind my time this morning.

Are you incapable of boiling an egg?!

The fires are rarely lit,
there is dust everywhere

and you almost destroyed my boots
scraping the mud off them.

If it wasn't my wife's business to deal
with the staff, I would talk to you myself.

Where is my wife?

Begging your pardon, sir, but
the mistress has gone out.

- Out? At this hour of the morning?
- Yes, sir.

Did you not know that, sir?

Where did she go? She's
always out these days.

Not unlike yourself...
sir.

I'm sorry...?

Just observing, sir.

Well, that's quite enough, nobody
asked you to be observant.

Sorry, sir, I just meant you're hardly
ever home together any more, sir.

You are dangerously
close to impertinence.

I shall have a word with my
wife to have a word with you.

Very good, sir. And when
will you be seeing her?

Now, listen...

Oh, I nearly forgot, sir.
A telegram came for you.

You forgot?!

- No, I nearly forgot.
- What have you been doing all morning?

Reading your new one
in The Strand, sir.

Did you enjoy it?

Why do you never mention me, sir?

Go away.

- The what of the what?
- The obliquity of the ecliptic.

"Come at once," you said. I
assumed it was important.

It is.

It's the inclination of the earth's
equator to the path of the sun

on the celestial plane.

You been swotting up?

- Why would I do that?
- To sound clever.

I am clever. Oh, oh, I see.

You see what?

I deduce we're on our way to
see someone cleverer than you.

Shut up.

Sh...

- Sorry, what?
- Oh.

To anyone who wishes to study
mankind, this is the spot.

Handy really, as your ever-expanding
backside is permanently glued to it.

- Good morning, brother mine.
- Sherlock. Dr. Watson.

You look... well, sir.

Really? I rather thought
I looked enormous.

Well, now you mention it,
this level of consumption

is incredibly injurious to your health.

Your heart...

- No need to worry on that score, Watson.
- No?

There's only a large cavity
where that organ should reside.

- It's a family trait.
- Oh, I wasn't being critical.

If you continue like this, sir, I
give you five years at the most.

Five? We thought three,
did we not, Sherlock?

I'm still inclined to four.

As ever, you see but
you do not observe.

Note the discolouration
in the whites of my eyes,

the visible rings of fat
around the corneas.

Yes, you're right. I'm changing my bet
to three years, four months and 11 days.

A bet?!

I understand your disapproval, Watson,

but if he's feeling competitive, it's
perfectly within his power to die early.

- That's a risk you'll have to take.
- You're gambling with your own life?

Why not? It's so much more exciting
than gambling with others'.

Three years flat, if you
eat that plum pudding!

Done.

I expected to see you a few days
ago about the Manor House case.

I thought you might be a little
out of your depth there.

No. I solved it.

- It was Adams, of course.
- Yes, it was Adams.

Murderous jealousy. He'd written a paper
for the Royal Astronomical Society

on the obliquity of the ecliptic,

and then read another that
seemed to surpass it.

- I know, I read it.
- Did you understand it?

Yes, of course I understood
it, it was perfectly simple.

No, did you understand
the murderous jealousy?

It is no easy thing for a great mind
to contemplate a still greater one.

Did you summon me here
just to humiliate me?

Yes.

Of course not, but it is by
far the greater pleasure.

Then would you mind explaining
exactly why you did summon..?

Our way of life is under threat
from an invisible enemy.

One that hovers at our
elbow on a daily basis.

These enemies are everywhere...
undetected... and unstoppable.

Socialists?

Not socialists, Doctor, no.

Anarchists? No.

The French? The suffragists?

Is there any large body of people
you're not concerned about?

Dr. Watson is endlessly vigilant.
Elaborate...

No. Investigate.

This is a conjecture of mine,
I need you to confirm it.

I'm sending you a case.

The Scots? The Scots?!

Are you aware of recent
theories concerning what is

known as paranoia?

Oh, sounds Serbian.

A woman will call on
you, Lady Carmichael.

I want you to take her case.

But these enemies, how
are we to defeat them

if you won't tell us about them?

We don't defeat them. We
most certainly lose to them.

Why?

Because they are right.
And we are wrong.

Lady Carmichael's case, what is it?

Rest assured, it has
features of interest.

I never really say that. You really do.

And you've solved it already, I assume?

Only in my head. I need
you for the, er, legwork.

Why not just tell us your solution?

And where would be the sport in that?

Will you do it, Sherlock?

I can promise you a
superior distraction.

On one condition. Have
another plum pudding.

There's one on the way.

Two years, 11 months and four days.

Ha, it's getting exciting now!
Ticktock, ticktock, ticktock.

Thank you, Wilder.

Also, a Mr. Melas to see you, Mr.
Holmes.

Ah. Give me five minutes,
I have a wager to win.

Better make that 15.

Ticktock.

Mr. Holmes, I have
come here for advice.

- That is easily got.
- And help.

Not always so easy.

Something has happened, Mr.
Holmes, something... unusual

and... terrifying.

Then you are in luck.

Luck?!

Those are my specialisms. Hmm,
this is really very promising.

Holmes...

Please... do tell us what
has so distressed you.

I, I thought long and
hard as to what to do,

but then it occurred to
me that my husband was

an acquaintance of your brother
and that perhaps through him...

The fact is, I'm not sure this comes
within your purview, Mr. Holmes.

No?

Lord help me, I think it may
be a matter for a priest.

And what does your morning
threaten, my dear?

A vigorous round of embroidering?

An exhausting appointment
at the milliners?

I hope you are teasing, Eustace.

What is it?

Eustace?

Daniel, Sophie, go out and play.

But, Mama...

Look, do as I tell you, quickly now.

Well, Eustace, what does this mean?

Death.

What?

It means death.

Er, nothing, it's, er, it's nothing.

I was... mistaken.

My dear, you've gone quite pale.

It's nothing!

- Eustace...
- 'Did you keep the envelope?'

My husband destroyed
it, but it was blank.

No name or address of any kind.

Tell me, has Sir Eustace
spent time in America?

- No.
- Not even before your marriage?

- Well, not to my knowledge.
- Hmm.

Pray, continue with your
fascinating narrative.

Well, that incident took
place last Monday morning.

It was two days later on the Wednesday
that my husband first saw her.

Who?

Eustace?

She's come for me, Louisa!

Oh, God, help me, my
sins have found me out!

Who's come for you? Eustace,
you're frightening me.

Well, look, look!

Don't you see her?

No, I see no-one.

Gone.

You keep so many secrets
from me, is this another?

Who have you seen?

It was her!

It was the Bride!

And you saw nothing?

Nothing.

- Did your husband describe...?
- Nothing, until this morning.

Eustace?!

Eustace?!

Eustace?

Eustace?!

Argh!

Blast!

Eustace?!

Where are you? It's me!

# Do not forget me #

# Do not forget me #

# Remember the maid #

# The maid of the mill... #

Who are you?

I demand you speak, who are you?!

Eustace, speak to me.
In the name of God!

She's...

She is Emelia Ricoletti.

No, not you.

No...

Please!

This night, Eustace
Carmichael, you will die!

- Holmes?
- Hush, Watson.

But Emelia Ricoletti, the Bride.

- Well, you know the name?
- You must forgive Watson,

he has an enthusiasm for stating the
obvious, which borders on mania.

May I ask, how is your
husband this morning?

He refuses to speak about the matter.

Obviously, I have urged
him to leave the house.

No, no, he must stay
exactly where he is.

Well, you don't think he's in danger?

Oh, no, somebody definitely wants to
kill him, but that's good for us.

You can't set a trap without bait.

My husband is not bait, Mr. Holmes.

No, but he could be if
we play our cards right.

Now, listen, you must
go home immediately.

Dr. Watson and I will
follow on the next train.

There's not a moment to lose,
Sir Eustace is to die tonight.

Holmes.

And we should... probably avoid that.

- Definitely.
- Definitely avoid that.

Little brother has taken
the case, of course.

I now rely on you to
keep an eye on things,

but he must never suspect
you are working for me.

Are you clear on that, Watson?

You can rely on me, Mr. Holmes.

- You don't suppose...
- I don't and neither should you.

You don't know what I was going to say.

You were about to suggest there
may be some supernatural agency

involved in this matter. And I
was about to laugh in your face.

But the Bride, Holmes,
Emelia Ricoletti again.

A dead woman walking the earth.

You amaze me, Watson.
- I do?

Since when have you had
any kind of imagination?

Perhaps since I convinced
the reading public that

an unprincipled drug addict was
some kind of gentleman hero.

Yes, now you come to mention
it, that was quite impressive.

You may, however, rest assured
there are no ghosts in this world.

Save those we make for ourselves.

Sorry, what did you say?

Ghosts we make for
ourselves, what do you mean?

Somnambulism.

I beg your pardon?

I sleepwalk, that's all. It's
a common enough condition.

I thought you were a doctor!

The whole thing was a... bad dream.

Including the contents of
the envelope you received?

Well, that's a grotesque joke.

Well, that's not the impression
you gave your wife, sir.

- She's an hysteric, prone to fancies.
- No.

- I'm sorry, what did you say?
- I said no, she's not an hysteric.

She's a highly intelligent
woman of rare perception.

My wife sees terror in an orange pip.

Your wife can see worlds
where no-one else can see

anything of value whatsoever.

Can she really?

And how do you "deduce" that, Mr.
Holmes?

She married you.

I assume she was capable
of finding a reason.

I'll do my best to save your
life tonight, but first it would

help if you would explain your
connection to the Ricoletti case.

Ricoletti?

Yes. In detail, please.

I've never heard of her.

Interesting. I didn't
mention she was a woman.

We'll show ourselves out. I hope
to see you again in the morning.

You will not.

Then sadly I shall be solving
your murder. Good day.

Well, you tried.

Will you see that Lady Carmichael
receives this. Thank you.

- Good afternoon.
- Certainly, sir.

What was that?

Lady Carmichael will
sleep alone tonight,

upon the pretence of
a violent headache.

All the doors and windows of
the house will be locked.

Ha! You think the spectre, er, Bride,

will attempt to lure Sir
Eustace outside again?

Certainly. Why else the
portentous threat?

- "This night you will die!"
- Well, he won't follow her, surely?

Hmm, it's difficult to
say quite what he'll do.

- Guilt is eating away at his soul.
- Guilt? About what?

Something in his past. The
orange pips were a reminder.

- Not a joke?
- Not at all.

Orange pips are a traditional warning of
avenging death, originating in America.

Sir Eustace knows this only too well,

just as he knows why
he is to be punished.

Something to do with Emelia Ricoletti?

I presume. We all have a past, Watson.
Ghosts.

They are the shadows that
define our every sunny day.

Sir Eustace knows he's a marked man.

There's something more
than murder he fears.

He believes he is to be dragged
to hell by the risen corpse

of the late Mrs. Ricoletti.

That's a lot of nonsense, isn't it?

God, yes. Did you bring your revolver?

What good would that
be against a ghost?

- Exactly. Did you bring it?
- Yeah, of course.

Then come, Watson, come.
The game is afoot.

- Get down, Watson, for heaven's sake!
- Sorry. Cramp.

- Is the lamp still burning?
- Yes.

There goes Sir Eustace.

And Lady Carmichael.

The house sleeps.

Hmm, good God, this is the
longest night of my life.

Have patience, Watson.

Only midnight.

You know, it's rare for us
to sit together like this.

I should hope so. It's
murder on the knees.

Two old friends just talking.
Chewing the fat.

Man-to-man.

So, a remarkable woman.

- Who?
- Lady Carmichael.

The fair sex is your
department, Watson.

I'll take your word for it.

Well, you liked her. "A
woman of rare perception."

And admirably high arches. I noticed them
as soon as she stepped into the room.

- Huh, she's far too good for him.
- You think so?

No. You think so. I could tell.

On the contrary, I have
no view on the matter.

Yes, you have.

Marriage is not a subject upon
which I dwell. Oh, why not?

What's the matter with
you this evening?

That watch that you're wearing,
there's a photograph inside it.

I glimpsed it once. I believe
it is of Irene Adler.

You didn't glimpse it, you
waited till I'd fallen asleep

- and looked at it.
- Yes, I did.

- You seriously thought I wouldn't notice?
- Irene Adler.

Formidable opponent, a
remarkable adventure.

- A very nice photograph.
- Why are you talking like this?

- Why are you so determined to be alone?
- Are you quite well, Watson?

- Is it such a curious question?
- From a Viennese alienist, no.

From a retired Army
surgeon, most certainly.

Holmes, against absolutely
no opposition whatsoever,

I am your closest friend. I concede it.

I am currently attempting to have

a perfectly normal
conversation with you.

- Please don't.
- Why do you need to be alone?

If you are referring to
romantic entanglement, Watson,

which I rather fear you are, as
I have often explained before,

all emotion is abhorrent to me.

It is the grit in a
sensitive instrument.

- The crack in the lens.
- The crack in the lens. Yes.

Well, there you are, you see,
I've said it all before.

No, I wrote all that.

You're quoting yourself
from The Strand Magazine.

- Well, exactly.
- Those are my words, not yours!

That is the version of you
that I present to the public.

The brain without a heart.
The calculating machine.

I write all of that, Holmes,
and the readers lap it up.

But I do not believe it.

Well, I've a good mind
to write to your editor.

You are a living, breathing man.

- You've lived a life, you have a past.
- A what?!

- Well, you must have had...
- Had what?

- You know.
- No.

Experiences.

Pass me your revolver, I have
a sudden need to use it.

Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and
blood, you have feelings, you have...

You must have... Impulses.

Dear Lord, I have never been so impatient
to be attacked by a murderous ghost.

As your friend, as someone
who worries about you...

..what made you like this?

Oh, Watson...

Nothing made me.

I made me.

Redbeard?

Good God!

What are we to do?

Why don't we have a chat?

Mrs. Ricoletti, I believe!

A pleasant night for the
time of year, is it not?

It cannot be true, Holmes, it cannot!

No, it can't.

- Is it locked?
- As per instruction.

That was a window breaking, wasn't it?

There's only one broken window
we need concern ourselves with.

- Stay here, Watson.
- What? No.

All the doors and windows
to the house are locked.

This is their only way
out, I need you here!

But the sound was so close. It had
to be from this side of the house.

Stay here!

Oh!

No!

You promised to keep him safe.
You promised!

You...

You're human, I know that.

You must be.

Little use us standing
here in the dark.

After all, this is the 19th century.

Do not forget me!

Do not forget me!

Watson!

- She's there! She's down there!
- Don't tell me you abandoned your post!

What? Holmes, she's there, I saw her!

Empty, thanks to you!

Our bird is flown!

No! No, Holmes, it
wasn't what you think.

I saw her! The ghost!

There are no ghosts!

What happened? Where is Sir Eustace?

Dead.

You really mustn't blame
yourself, you know.

No, you're quite right.
- I'm glad you're seeing sense.

Watson is equally culpable.

Between us, we've managed
to botch this whole case.

I gave an undertaking
to protect that man,

now he's lying there with
a dagger in his breast.

In fact, you gave an undertaking
to investigate his murder.

In the confident expectation
I would not have to!

Anything you can tell us, Doctor?

Well, he's been stabbed
with considerable force.

- It's a man, then?
- Possibly.

A very keen blade, so it could
conceivably have been a woman?

In theory, yes, but we know
who it was, I saw her.

- Watson!
- I saw the ghost, with my own eyes!

You saw nothing! You saw what
you were supposed to see!

You said yourself, I
have no imagination.

Then use your brain, such as it
is, to eliminate the impossible,

which in this case is the ghost,
and observe what remains,

which in this case is a solution

so blindingly obvious even
Lestrade could work it out!

Thank you!

Forget spectres from the other world!

There is only one suspect
with motive and opportunity.

- They might as well have left a note.
- They did leave a note.

And then there's the matter
of the other broken window.

- What other broken window?
- Precisely! There isn't one.

The only broken window is the one
that Watson and I entered through,

yet, prior to that, we
distinctly heard the sound of...

- What did you just say?
- Sorry?

About a note, what did you just say?

- I said the murderer DID leave a note.
- No, they didn't.

There's a message tied to the dagger.
You must have seen it!

- There's no message.
- Yes!

There was no message
when I found the body.

Holmes?

What is it?

Do you?

Do I what?

H-how did you get that?

I left it at the crime scene.

"Crime scene"? Where do you pick up
these extraordinary expressions?

Do you miss him?

Moriarty is dead.

And yet...?

His body was never recovered.

To be expected when one pushes a
maths professor over a waterfall.

Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama.

Your life in a nutshell.

Where do you pick up these
extraordinary expressions?

Have you put on weight?

- You saw me only yesterday.
- Does that seem possible?

- No.
- Yet here I am, increased.

What does that tell the foremost
criminal investigator in England?

In England?

You're in deep, Sherlock, deeper
than you ever intended to be.

- Have you made a list?
- Of what?

Everything. We will need a list.

Good boy.

No, I haven't finished yet.

Moriarty may beg to differ.

He's trying to distract me.
To derail me.

Yes.

He's the crack in the lens,
the fly in the ointment,

the virus in the data.

I have to finish this.

If Moriarty has risen from
the Reichenbach cauldron,

he will seek you out.

I'll be waiting.

Yes.

I'm very much afraid you will.

Two days he's been like that.

- Has he eaten?
- No, not a morsel.

Press are having a ruddy field day.
There's still reporters outside.

Oh, they've been there all the
time, I can't get rid of them.

I've been rushed off
my feet making tea.

Why do you make him tea?

I dunno, I just sort of do.

He said, "There's only one suspect,"
and then he just walks away

and now he won't explain.

Which is strange, because
he likes that bit.

Said it was so simple I could solve it.

I'm sure he was exaggerating.

What's he doing, do you think?

- He says he's waiting.
- For what?

The devil. I wouldn't be surprised.

We get all sorts here.

- Well, wire me if there's any change.
- Yeah.

Everything I have to say has
already crossed your mind.

Then possibly my answer
has crossed yours.

Like a bullet.

It's a dangerous habit,

to finger loaded firearms in the
pocket of one's dressing gown.

Or are you just pleased to see me?

- You'll forgive me for taking precautions.
- I'd be offended if you didn't.

Obviously, I've returned the courtesy.

I like your rooms. They smell so...

..manly.

I'm sure you acquainted
yourself with them before now.

Well, you are always away, on your
little adventures for The Strand.

Tell me, does the illustrator
travel with you?

Do you have to pose...
during your deductions?

I'm aware of all six occasions you
have visited these apartments

- during my absence.
- I know you are.

By the way, you have a
surprisingly comfortable bed.

Did you know that dust is
largely composed of human skin?

Yes.

Doesn't taste the same, though,
you want your skin fresh.

- Just a little crispy.
- Won't you sit down?

That's all people really are, you know,

dust waiting to be distributed.

And it gets everywhere. Ugh.

In every breath you take,
dancing in every sunbeam,

all the used-up people.

Fascinating, I'm sure. Won't you sit...

People, people, people!
Can't keep anything shiny.

Do you mind if I fire this?

Just to clean it out.

Exactly, let's stop playing.

We don't need toys to kill each other.

- Where's the intimacy in that?
- Sit down.

- Why? What do you want?
- You chose to come here.

Not true, you know that's not true.

What do you want, Sherlock?

The truth.

That. Truth's boring!

You didn't expect me to turn up at
the scene of the crime, did you?

Poor old Sir Eustace. He got
what was coming to him.

But you couldn't have killed him.

Oh, so what? Does it matter?
Stop it. Stop this.

You don't care about Sir Eustace,
or the Bride, or any of it.

There's only one thing in this whole
business that you find interesting.

I know what you're doing.

The Bride put a gun in her mouth
and shot the back of her head off

and then she came back.

Impossible. But she did it.

And you need to know how.

How?

Don't you?

It's tearing your world
apart, not knowing.

You're trying to stop me...
To distract me, derail me.

Because doesn't this remind
you of another case?

Hasn't this all happened before?

There's nothing new under the sun.
What was it?

What was it? What was that case? Huh?

Do you remember?

It's on the tip of my tongue.
It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the tip of my tongue.

It's on the tip...

..of my tongue.

For the sake of Mrs. Hudson's
wallpaper, I must remind you

that one false move with your
finger and you will be dead.

I'm sorry?

Dead... is the new sexy.

Well, I'll tell you what, that
rather blows the cobwebs away.

- How can you be alive?
- How do I look?

Huh?

You can be honest, is it noticeable?

You blew your own brains
out, how could you survive?

Or maybe I could backcomb.

I saw you die.

Why aren't you dead?

Because it's not the fall
that kills you, Sherlock.

Of all people, you should
know that, it's not the fall,

it's never the fall.

It's the landing!

We've landed, sir. We've landed.

No, no, not now, not now!

Not now, not now.

I trust you had a pleasant flight, sir?

Well, a somewhat shorter exile
than we'd imagined, brother mine,

but probably adequate,
given your levels of OCD.

- I have to go back!
- What?

I was... I was nearly
there, I nearly had it!

What on earth are you talking about?

Go back where? You didn't get very far.

Ricoletti and his abominable wife!
Don't you understand?!

No, of course we don't, you're
not making any sense, Sherlock.

It was a case, a famous
one from 100 years ago.

Lodged in my hard drive, she seemed
to be dead, but then she came back.

What, like Moriarty?

Shot herself in the head,
exactly like Moriarty.

But you've only just been told.

We've only just found out, he's on
every TV screen in the country.

Yes? So? It's been five
minutes since Mycroft called.

What progress have you made?
What have you been doing?

More to the point, what
have YOU been doing?

I've been in my Mind Palace, of course.

Of course.

Running an experiment. How
would I have solved the crime,

- if I'd been there in 1895?
- Oh, Sherlock.

I had all the details perfect.

I was there, all of it, everything.
I was immersed.

Of course you were.

You've been reading John's blog.
The story of how you met.

It helps me if I see myself
through his eyes sometimes.

I'm so much cleverer.

Do you really think
anyone is believing you?

No, he can do this, I've seen it.

The Mind Palace, it's like
a whole world in his head.

Yes, and I need to get back there.

The Mind Palace is a memory
technique, I know what it can do

and I know what it
most certainly cannot.

Maybe there are one or two things
that I know that you don't.

Oh, there are. Did you make a list?

You've put on weight. That waistcoat
is clearly newer than the jacket.

Stop this! Just stop it!
Did you make a list?!

Of what?

Everything, Sherlock.
Everything you've taken.

No, it's not that, he goes into a
sort of trance. I've seen him do it.

We have an agreement, my brother
and I, ever since that day.

Wherever I find him, whatever
back alley or doss-house...

..there will always be a list.

He couldn't have taken all
that in the last five minutes.

- He was high before he got on the plane.
- He didn't seem high.

- Nobody deceives like an addict.
- I'm not an addict, I'm a user.

I alleviate boredom and occasionally
heighten my thought processes.

For God's sake! This could kill you!

- You could die!
- Controlled usage is not usually fatal

and abstinence is not immortality.

What are you doing?

Emelia Ricoletti, I'm looking her up.

Oh, I suppose we should.

I have access to the top
level of the MI5 archive.

Yep, that's where I'm looking.

What do you think of MI5 security?

I think it would be a good idea.

Emelia Ricoletti,
"unsolved", like he says.

Could you all just shut up for
five minutes! I have to go back.

I was nearly there before you stepped
on and started yapping away!

"Yapping?" Sorry, did we
interrupt your session?

- Sherlock, listen to me.
- No, it only encourages you.

- I'm not angry with you.
- Oh, that's a relief!

I was really worried... No,
hold on, I really wasn't.

I was there for you before.

I'll be there for you again.

I'll always be there for you.

This was my fault.

It was nothing to do with you.

A week in a prison cell,
I should have realised.

- Realised what?
- That, in your case,

solitary confinement is locking
you up with your worst enemy.

- Oh, for God's sake!
- Morphine or cocaine?

- What did you say?
- I didn't say anything.

No, you did, you said...

'Which is it today?
Morphine or cocaine.'

'Holmes?'

Morphine or cocaine...
which is it today?

Answer me, damn it!

Moriarty was here.

Moriarty's dead.

- I was on a jet.
- A what?

You were there, and Mycroft.

You haven't left these rooms, Holmes.

You... haven't... moved.

Now, tell me, morphine or cocaine?

Cocaine. A 7% solution.

- Would you care to try it?
- No.

But I would quite like to
find every ounce of the stuff

in your possession and
pour it out of the window.

I should be inclined to stop you.

Then you would be
reminded, quite forcibly,

which of us is a soldier and
which of us a drug addict.

You're not a soldier, you are a doctor.

I'm an army doctor,

which means I could break every bone
in your body while naming them.

My dear Watson, you are allowing
emotion to cloud your judgment.

Never on a case.

You promised me, never on a case.

No, I just said that in
one of your stories.

Listen, I'm happy to
play the fool for you.

I will run along behind
you like some halfwit,

making you look clever,
if that's what you need.

But dear God above, you will hold
yourself to a higher standard!

- Why?
- Because people need you to.

What people, why? Because
of your idiot stories?

Yes, because of my "idiot stories".

Mr. Holmes!

Mr. Holmes, telegram, Mr. Holmes.

What is it? What's wrong?

- It's Mary.
- Mary? What about her?

- It's entirely possible she's in danger.
- Danger?

- There's not a moment to lose.
- Is this the cocaine talking?

What danger could Mary be in?

I'm sure she's just
visiting with friends.

Come on!

What is happening? Are
you even in a fit state?

For Mary, of course. Never
doubt that, Watson.

Never that.

Holmes?

I'm fine. I'm fine!

Not that one!

This one.

Why? You're Sherlock Holmes.
Wear the damn hat.

Cab! Cab!

So tell me, where is she?

You must tell me, what's going on?!

Oh, good old Watson!

How would we fill the time if
you didn't ask questions?!

Sherlock, tell me where my bloody
wife is, you pompous prick,

or I'll punch your lights out!

Holmes, where is she?

A de-sanctified church.

She thinks she's found the solution
and, for no better reason than that,

she's put herself in the
path of considerable danger.

What an excellent choice of wife.

What the devil?!

I've found them.

- What is all this, Mary?
- This is the heart of it all, John.

The heart of the conspiracy.

Great God, what is this place?

And what the devil are you doing here?!

I've been making enquiries.

Mr. Holmes asked me.

Holmes, how could you?

No, not him, the clever one.

It seemed obvious to me that this
business could not be managed alone.

My theory is that Mrs.
Ricoletti had help.

Help from her friends.

- Bravo, Mary.
- "The clever one?" I...

I thought I was losing you.

I thought perhaps we were...

- neglecting each other.
- Well, you're the one who moved out.

I was talking to Mary.

You're working for Mycroft?

He likes to keep an eye
on his mad sibling.

- And he had a spy to hand.
- Has it never occurred to you

your wife is excessively
skilled for a nurse?

Of course it hasn't, because he
knows what a nurse is capable of.

- When did it occur to you?
- Only now, I'm afraid.

Must be difficult, being
the slow little brother.

Time I sped up. Enough
chatter, let's concentrate.

Yes, all right. What's all this about?

- What do they want to accomplish?
- Why don't we go and find out.

Sorry! I can never resist a gong.

- Or a touch of the dramatic.
- Never have guessed!

Though it seems you share my
enthusiasm in that regard.

Excellent.

Superlative theatre.

I applaud the spectacle.

Emelia Ricoletti shot herself,

then apparently returned from the
grave and killed her husband.

So...

how was it done?

Let's take the events in order.

Mrs. Ricoletti gets everyone's
attention in very efficient fashion.

You!

You?!

Or me?

She places one of the
revolvers in her mouth,

while actually firing the
other into the ground.

An accomplice sprays the
curtains with blood

and thus her apparent suicide

is witnessed by the
frightened crowd below.

A substitute corpse, bearing a
strong resemblance to Mrs. Ricoletti

takes her place and is later
transported to the morgue,

a grubby little suicide of little
interest to Scotland Yard.

Meanwhile, the real Mrs.
Ricoletti slips away.

Now comes the really clever part.

Mrs. Ricoletti persuaded a cab
driver, someone who knew her,

to intercept her husband outside
his favourite opium den.

The perfect stage for a perfect drama.

Who are you? What do you want?

Emelia?

Help!

A perfect positive identification.

The late Mrs. Ricoletti has
returned from the grave

and a little skilled make-up

and you have nothing less than
the wrath of a vengeful ghost.

There was only one thing left to do.

Swiftly now. No tears.

All that remained was to
substitute the real Mrs. Ricoletti

for the corpse in the morgue.

This time, should anyone
attempt to identify her,

it would be positively, absolutely her.

But why would she do that?

Die to prove a point?

Every great cause has martyrs.

Every war has suicide missions and
make no mistake, this is war.

One half of the human race
at war with the other.

The invisible army
hovering at our elbow,

tending to our homes,

raising our children.

Ignored, patronised,

disregarded.

Not allowed so much as a vote.

But an army nonetheless,

ready to rise up in the best of causes.

To put right an injustice
as old as humanity itself.

So you see, Watson, Mycroft was right.

This is a war we must lose.

She was dying.

- Who was?
- Emelia Ricoletti.

There were clear signs
of consumption...

I doubt she was long for this world.

So she decided to make her death count.

She was already familiar with the
secret societies of America.

And was able to draw on
their methods of fear

and intimidation to
publicly, very publicly,

confront Sir Eustace Carmichael
with the sins of his past.

He knew her out in the States.

Promised her everything.

Marriage, position.

And then he had his way with her...

..and threw her over.

Left her abandoned and penniless.

Hooper!

Holmes.

For the record, Holmes, she
didn't have me fooled.

Why do you never mention me, sir?

Emelia thought that she'd found
happiness with Ricoletti,

but he was a brute too.

Emelia Ricoletti was our friend.

You have no idea how that
bastard treated her.

But the Bride, Holmes, we saw her.

Yes, Watson, we did.

The sound of breaking glass?

Not a window,

just an old theatrical trick.

- It cannot be true, Holmes, it cannot!
- No, it can't.

'It's called Pepper's Ghost.

'A simple reflection in glass
of a living, breathing person.

'Their only mistake was breaking
the glass when they removed it.'

Look around you.

This room is full of brides.

Once she had risen,

anyone could be her.

The avenging ghost.

A legend to strike terror
into the heart of any man

with malicious intent.

A spectre to stalk those
unpunished brutes

whose reckoning is long overdue.

A league of furies awakened.

The women I...

WE have lied to, betrayed.

The women we have
ignored and disparaged.

Once the idea exists,

it cannot be killed.

This is the work of a
single-minded person.

Someone who knew first-hand about
Sir Eustace's mental cruelty.

The dark secret,

kept from all but her closest friends,

including Emelia Ricoletti...

..the woman her husband wronged
all those years before.

If one disregards the ghost,

there is only one suspect.

Isn't that right, Lady Carmichael?

One small detail doesn't quite
make sense to me, however.

Why engage me to prevent a
murder you intended to commit?

Hmm?

"Doesn't quite make
sense, doesn't quite make sense."

Of course it doesn't make
sense, it's not real.

Oh, Sherlock.

Peek-a-boo.

No.

No, not you.

It can't be you.

I mean, come on, be serious.

The costumes, the gong?

Speaking as a criminal mastermind,

we don't really have gongs
or special outfits.

What the hell is going on?

Is this silly enough for you yet?

Gothic enough? Mad
enough, even for you?

It doesn't make sense, Sherlock,
because it's not real.

- None of it.
- What's he talking about?

This is all in your mind.

Sherlock?

Holmes!

You're dreaming.

- Argh!
- Is he dreaming?

And there he is.

Thought we'd lost you for a moment.

May I just check, is this what
you mean by "controlled usage"?

Mrs. Emelia Ricoletti, I need
to know where she was buried.

- What, 120 years ago?
- Yes.

That would take weeks to find,
if those records even exists.

- Even with my resources.
- Got it.

I don't get it, how is this relevant?

I need to know I was
right, then I'll be sure.

- You mean how Moriarty did it?
- Yes.

But none of that really
happened, it was in your head.

My investigation was the fantasy,

the crime happened
exactly as I explained.

The stone was erected by
a group of her friends.

I don't know what you
think you'll find here.

I need to try!

Mrs. Ricoletti was buried here, but
what happened to the other one?

The corpse they substituted for
her after the so-called suicide?

- They'd move it, of course they would.
- But where?

Well, not here.

But that... That's exactly
what they must have done.

The conspirators had
someone on the inside.

They found a body, just like Molly
Hooper found a body for me, when...

Yeah, well, we don't need to
go into all that again, do we?

You're not seriously going to do this?

It's why we came here. I need to know.

Spoken like an addict.

- This is important to me!
- No, this is you needing a fix.

John... Moriarty's back.

We have a case, we have a
real-life problem right now.

Getting to that, it's next on the list.
Just let me do this.

No, everyone always lets
you do whatever you want.

- That's how you got in this state!
- John, please...

I'm not playing this time, Sherlock.
Not any more!

When you're ready to go
to work, give me a call.

- I'm taking Mary home.
- You're what?

- Mary's taking me home.
- Better.

- He's right, you know.
- So what if he's right?!

He's always right, it's boring!

Will you help me?

Cherchez la femme.

Eurgh!

Oh, dear.

The cupboard is bare.

They must have buried it underneath.

They must have buried it
underneath the coffin.

Bad luck, Sherlock.

Maybe they got rid of the
body in another way.

No... More than likely.

At any rate, it was a
very long time ago.

We do have slightly more pressing
matters to hand, little brother.

Moriarty? Back from the dead?

VOICE): 'Do not forget me.

'Do not forget me!'

This?

Oh, I see.

Still not awake, am I?

Too deep, Sherlock, way too deep.

Congratulations, you will
be the first man in history

to be buried in his own Mind Palace.

The setting is a shade
melodramatic, don't you think?

For you and me?

Not at all.

What are you?

You know what I am.

I'm Moriarty.

The Napoleon of Crime.

Moriarty's dead! Not in your mind.

I'll never be dead there.

You once called your
brain a hard drive.

Well, say hello to the virus.

This is how we end, you and I.

Always here,

always together.

You have a magnificent brain, Moriarty.

I admire it.

I concede it may even
be the equal of my own.

I'm touched.

I'm honoured.

But when it comes to the
matter of unarmed combat

on the edge of a precipice...

..you're going in the water,

short-arse.

Oh, you think you're so
big and strong, Sherlock!

Not with me.

I am your weakness!

I keep you down!

Every time you stumble,
every time you fail,

when you're weak,

I... am...

there!

No,

don't try to fight it.

Lie back and lose!

Shall we go over together?

It has to be together, doesn't it?

At the end it's always just you

and me!

Professor, if you wouldn't mind
stepping away from my friend,

I do believe he finds your
attention a shade annoying.

That's not fair, there's two of you!

There's always two of us.
Don't you read The Strand?

On your knees, Professor.

Hands behind your head.

Thank you, John.

Since when do you call me John?

You'd be surprised.

No, I wouldn't.

Time you woke up, Sherlock.

I'm a story-teller, I
know when I'm in one.

Of course.

Of course you do, John.

So what's he like?

The other me in the other place?

Smarter than he looks.

Pretty damn smart, then.

Pretty damn smart.

Ugh, why don't you two just
elope, for God's sake?!

Impertinent.

Offensive.

Actually, would you mind?

Not at all.

- It was my turn.
- Quite so.

So how do you plan to wake up?

Oh...

I should think like this.

Are you sure?

Between you and me, John,
I always survive a fall.

But how?

Elementary, my dear Watson.

- Miss me?
- Sherlock, are you all right?

Yes. Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?

Because you probably just OD'd.
You should be in hospital.

Hm, no time.

I have to go to Baker Street
now, Moriarty's back.

I almost hope he is, if
it'll save you from this.

No need for that now,
I've got the real thing.

- I have work to do.
- Sherlock...

..promise me.

What are you still doing here?

Shouldn't you be off getting
me a pardon or something,

like a proper big brother?

Dr. Watson...

Look after him.

Please.

Sherlock, hang on, explain.
Moriarty's alive, then?

I never said he was alive,
I said he was back.

So he's dead?

Of course he's dead, he blew his own
brains out, no-one survives that.

I just went to the trouble
of an overdose to prove it.

Moriarty is dead, no question.

But more importantly, I know exactly
what he's going to do next.

Flying machines,

these, er, telephone contraptions?

What sort of lunatic fantasy is that?

It was simply my conjecture of what
a future world might look like

and how you and I might fit inside it.

From a drop of water a logician
should be able to infer

the possibility of an
Atlantic or a Niagara.

Or a Reichenbach?

Have you written up your
account of the case?

- Yes.
- Hmm.

Modified to put it down as one
of my rare failures, of course?

Of course.

The Adventure Of...

The Invisible Army.

The League Of Furies?

The Monstrous Regiment?

I rather thought The Abominable Bride.

A trifle lurid.

It'll sell. It's got
proper murders in it too.

You're the expert.

As for your own tale,

are you sure it's still just
a 7% solution that you take?

I think you may have
increased the dosage.

Perhaps I was being a little fanciful.

But perhaps such things
could come to pass.

In any case, I know I would be
very much at home in such a world.

- Huh, I don't think I would be.
- I beg to differ.

But then I've always known I
was a man out of his time.