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    What am I doing? he wondered. The answer came back at once: 
    Flirting.

    He sank deeper into the pillows, let the mist and blur of the wine settle around him, let it shore up his nerves and dim the warning signals that flashed dully in the back of his mind. He let the rest of the disappointment about Lucy and his strange accommodations and about the weekend as a whole fade into obscurity. He let the vital, missing piece snap into place as surely and as cleanly as if it had always been there.

    He was flirting with Sherlock Holmes.

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    16 Feb 2017