Joan Watson,

     You would not believe it, Watson! Counting my latest excursion as Mr. Fromby, I would say thirteen in the past three years.

                              A beard and suddenly Sherlock Holmes is gone.

If only it were that easy.

[ His throat catches on the click of the letter ‘k’, a hair breadth’s pause. ]

— to remind you that, last week, you, forgot, an article on this table listing general tips to gain the best out of one’s cognitive ability and that list … included breakfast.

( she gets up to refill her coffee and taps him on the shoulder with her empty mug as she passes. the smug twitch of her lips is hidden as she clicks on the kettle. )

You should look after yourself.

( she doesn't know why she bothers throwing her hand up these days; he pays no attention to the exasperation written on her splayed hand. )

Of course it is. I'm your mother. In charge of feeding and changing you.

        [ Hold on. Just a moment now — ]

That doesn't make you look as distinguished as you think it does.