“...Holmes, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature.”

“One night--it was on the twentieth of March, 1888--I was returning from a journey to a patient(for I had now returned to civil practice), when my way led me through Baker Street. As I passed the well-remembered door...I was seized with a keen desire to see Holmes again, and to know how he was employing his extraordinary powers. His rooms were brilliantly lit, and, even as I looked up, I saw his tall, spare figure pass twice in a dark silhouette against the blind. He was pacing the room swiftly, eagerly, with his head sunk upon his chest and his hands clasped behind him. To me, who knew his every mood and habit, his attitude and manner told their own story. He was at work again. He had risen out of his drug-created dreams and was hot upon the scent of some new problems.”

“Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”

“Every writer dips his brush into his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.”

“...there remained a strange formality between them, and her pleasure in his presence felt too much like missing him had felt during the last week.”

“Here's to responsibility," he toasted. "Twice a week.""And recklessness every day in between," I emphasized.He grinned and touched his can to mine.”