Jeremy: Brett Sherlock Holmes Episodes Fixed

He had not slept in seventy-two hours. His long, pale fingers, stained with iodine and violin rosin, steepled beneath his sharp chin. His grey eyes, usually alight with the fire of deduction, were now fixed on the ceiling with an expression of profound, theatrical ennui .

Holmes did not turn. A slow, dangerous smile played on his lips. “The game, Watson,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intense, almost sensual register he reserved for a mystery, “is… afoot.”

Eleanor Vance swayed. I caught her arm.

The cycle repeated every thirty seconds.

Holmes, now transformed into a coiled spring of attention, gestured her to the chair. “Do not believe the physician, or do not believe the heart attack? Pray, be precise, Miss Vance. The devil is in the details.”