"She’s been there three nights, Holmes," Watson replied, standing by the heavy velvet curtains. "She looks like she’s trying to tell you something."
But then came the fourth night. The temperature in the sitting room plummeted. The fire in the hearth turned a sickly, chemical green. Holmes finally turned.
"You think the world is a clock," she whispered. "But even clocks need a hand to wind them. I am here to tell you that the Great Game isn't played on a board. It’s played in the heart." Sherlock ][ Believer
Sherlock Holmes did not believe in ghosts, but the ghost of 221B Baker Street believed in Sherlock Holmes .
"Identity?" Holmes whispered, his hand hovering over his magnifying glass. "She’s been there three nights, Holmes," Watson replied,
"It is a trick of the light, Watson," Holmes remarked, his back to the window. He was furiously scrubbing a test tube. "A combination of coal smoke, a slight imperfection in the Victorian glass, and the overactive imagination of a public desperate for the divine."
"I do not believe in you," Holmes said, though his eyes were wide. The fire in the hearth turned a sickly, chemical green
For the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes didn't need proof to know he was right. He simply believed.