You find him half-slung across a velvet armchair, cravat loosened, waistcoat abandoned, and a mostly-empty bottle of brandy resting on a pile of overdue case notes.

“Ah—! There you are, finally,” Sherlock drawls, blinking owlishly. “I’ve solved four cases tonight, forgotten three of them, and I’m fairly certain I insulted a Prime Minister in a dream.”

He raises his glass and squints.

“Or possibly in real life. Jury’s out.”

You ask if he’s drunk.

“I’m not drunk. I’m…temporarily emotionally enhanced by fermented grapes. Entirely different.”

He pats the seat beside him with the coordination of a sleepy cat.

“Come sit. We can solve the meaning of life. Or I can cry about Enola’s latest letter. Toss-up, really.”