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"Sherlock, please. I'm at work, and I have a queue of patients . . ."

"This is related to your work. I think I'm ill--perhaps something extremely serious."

"Sherlock, if it's really serious, get in a cab and come down to the surgery."

"And mingle with all those diseased imbeciles? Absolutely not. You'll diagnose me by phone. I've catalogued all my symptoms. Get a pencil and write them down, so I don't have to repeat myself. Do you have a pencil?"

"Oh for the . . .Yes, yes. Fine." (Mumbled insults)

"I'm going to start dictating: feverishness, speeding pulse . . . Are you writing? Have you written that?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just get on with it!"

"My symptoms began at approximately noon today, and have continued for some forty-three minutes. Symptoms include: feverishness, speeding pulse rate, irregular breathing, extreme sensitivity of the skin, dilated pupils, a sudden stiffening and involuntary movement of my penis, a . . ."

"Stop, Sherlock. That's enough. Very funny."

"What do you mean, very funny? You think my illness is amusing?"

"I know you're just winding me up, so ha, ha. Now leave me alone so I can go back to work."

"John, I'd think you would know by now that I don't engage in jokes and juvenile pranks. I've given you a rather alarming array of symptoms, which you don't seem to take seriously. I've never in my life experienced such a sudden onset of strange physical changes, and I'd like you to at least . . ."

(Mumbled profanity) "Was anyone with you when this happened, Sherlock?"

"No. No one. Well, no one apart from Lestrade . . ."

"Mmhmm. What was Lestrade doing at the flat?"

"He came to bring me a box of files for my investigation of the plot against the royal wedding party. The box was very nearly ruined by the rain before the idiot had the sense to cover it with his overcoat."

"So Lestrade arrived at the door soaking wet? Hair probably a soggy mess? And let me guess: You made him stand in the doorway while you had a row about some trivial issue related to the evidence, and he barked at you with his bossy voice? The one he used on us at the drugs bust?"

(Sulking pause) "Yes, something like that."

"Lust"

"What?"

"My diagnosis for you, Sherlock, is that you are experiencing lust. I can recommend a couple of pills that will diminish the symptoms or you can go have a nice wank, or you could try to get laid. Now, can I get back to work?"

(Brief sputtering) "But I don't . . . I'm not interested in that sort of thing, as you know very well . . . How?"

"It's springtime, Sherlock. When a young man's fancy . . . I don't know . . . I suppose people can change, evolve. Sexuality is pretty fluid, recent research shows. And, well . . . visual stimulation is quite powerful for males in your age group and . . ."

"I understand that, you twit. I mean how does one go about getting laid as you say--achieving release from these wretched symptoms?"

"Is Lestrade still there?"

"Yes, he's in the kitchen making tea."

"He might lend you a hand if you ask him nicely." (Snicker)

"Lestrade! John says you know what to do with my engorged penis . . . get in here immediately."

(Dishes crashing.

Shouting.

Insults.

Profanity.

Groans.

More Profanity.

Gasps.

Sighs.

More profanity.

Silence.)