How dare you. [ He says this with feigned disgust as he takes up knife and fork to begin slicing into the pheasant. For a moment, Sholmes lapses into silence with nothing but appreciative sounds and monosyllables that, taken out of context, might be mistaken for a different act of hedonism.

But after the first few bites, he slows down, pacing himself. He needs to savor this. Much like the scent, the nostalgic flavors take him back to London. He swirls his wine thoughtfully, takes a drink, and asks: ]

It's been a long while since we plied our respective trades, hasn't it? [ He saws off a drumstick, knife grinding against gristle. ] Do you miss conducting autopsies? Or have you come to prefer live patients—with all their squirming and complaining?