"You have enough sensible friends." He waltzes with himself, circling Watson, and he wishes rather desperately he could take him in his arms. They're nearly home; maybe there, he will whisk Watson around the room before they fall on the sofa and share all the kisses they can't share out here.

"Someone must help you cultivate your own madness. Lestrade would not be the ideal choice," he says with a wry twist of his mouth because it should be fairly obvious by now that he's friends with Lestrade, despite all the odds.