Re: Upstairs halls (for now...)
Sherlock Holmes had no inner voice. It was all him. Purely, thoroughly; every nerve, every frisson of energy moving through him, it was all focused on his purpose, on rolling through thoughts and taking in observations. He was middle-aged now, through half of his life, come back from the dead once already, and now there were fewer thoughts. It was just conclusions. Polish. East End. Recent workhouse exit. He read them the way learned men read books, the way farmers read the weather.
"You assume about my purpose here, sir," he commented, calmly, turning away to pace around the exterior of the room like an extraordinarily bored tiger in tweed.
He spun around, eyebrows in a high exaggerated arch. "And have you been entertained?"