Sherlock [Season 4, Episode 1]

Intuitions are not to be ignored. They represent data processed too fast for the conscious mind to comprehend.

— Is your friend quiet mad?
— Ho, he's an arsehole, but it's an easy mistake.

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

— A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this room – code names Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love – will ever know the whole truth. As far as everyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Charles Augustus... Are you tweeting?!
— No.
— Well, that's what it looks like.
— Of course I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?
— Give me that.
— What? No. What are you doing? Get off. What?
— Give it here. "Back on terra firma.."
— No, don't read them out.
— "Free as a bird."
— God, you're such a spoilsport.
— Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?
— I am taking it seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking it seriously?
— Hashtag, "Ohwhatabeautifulmorning."

— How did you find me?
— I'm Sherlock Holmes.
— Really though, how? Every movement I made was entirely random. Every new personality, just on the roll of a dice.
— Mary, no human action is ever truly random. An advanced grasp of the mathematics of probability mapped on to a thorough apprehension of human psychology and the known dispositions of any given individual can reduce the number of variables considerably. I myself know of at least fifty eight tecniques to refine the seemingly infinite array of randomly generated possibilities down to the smallest number of feasible variables. But they're really difficult, so instead I just stuck a tracer on the inside of the memory stick.

Work is the best antidote to sorrow.

There was once a merchant in a famous market at Baghdad. Oneday he saw a stranger looking at him in surprise. And he knew that the stranger was Death. Pale and trembling, the merchant fled the marketplace and made his way many, many miles to the city of Samarra. For there he was sure Death couldn't find him. But when, at last, he came to Samarra, the merchant saw, waiting for him, the grim figure of Death.
— Very well, — said the merchant. — I give in. I'm yours. But tell me, why did you look surprised when you saw me this morning in Baghdad?
— Because, — said Death, — I had an appointment with you tonight, in Samarra.

— Keep me informed.
— Of what?
— Absolutely no idea.

— We'd like you to be godfather.
— God is a ludicrous fiction dreamt up by inadequates who abnegate all responsibility to an invisible magic friend.
— Yeah, but there'll be cake. Will you do it?
— I'll get back to you.

— Appointment in Samarra.
— I'm sorry?
— The merchant who can't outrun Death. You always hated that story as a child. Less keen on predestination back then.
— I'm not sure I like it now.
— You wrote your own version, as I remember. Appointment in Sumatra. The merchant goes to a different city, and is perfectly fine.
— Good night, Mycroft.
— Then he becomes a pirate, for some reason.