— You don't seem very afraid.
— You don't seem very frightening.

— He's got on with his life.
— What life? I've been away.

— Just once, can you two behave like grown-ups?
— We solve crimes, I blog about it, and he forgets his pants. I wouldn't hold out too much hope.

— Merry Christmas!
— You hate Christmas.
— Yes. Perhaps there was something in the punch.
— Clearly. Go and have some more.

War does not follow you, Dr. Watson. You are following her.

— I've never been very good with them.
— Babies?
— Humans.

— Hello, little brother. How's the exile going?
— I've only been gone four minutes.
— Well, I've certainly hope you've learnt your lesson.

— That takes me back. "Don't be smart, Sherlock, I'm the smart one."
— I am the smart one.
— I used to think I was an idiot.
— Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock.

— So, that's it, is it? You're just going?
— Well, don't worry, there's a place for people like you, the desperate, the terrified. The once with nowhere else to run.
— What place?
— 221B Baker Street.

— Smoking indoors, isn't there one of those... One of those law things?
— We're in a morgue. There's only so much damage you can do.

Time being something of which we don't have an infinite supply.

— We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!
— What for?

— In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of 221B. Anything you'd care to share with me?
— I'm moving?

— Doctor Watson, why did he do that to me? That was insane!
— Er... yes, well, someone convinced him that you wouldn't tell the truth unless you were actually wetting yourself.
— Someone?
— Probably me.