Sherlock Holmes recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of '87.
14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong.
Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings, save upon those not infrequent occasions when he was up all night, was seated at the breakfast table.
Holmes was sitting with his back to me, and I had given him no sign of my occupation.
Sherlock Holmes, "London has become a singularly uninteresting city since the death of the late lamented Professor Moriarty."
At the time of which I speak, Holmes had been back for some months, and I at his request had sold my practice and returned to share the old quarters in Baker Street.
I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes.
"We have been hearing Gregson's view of the matter," Holmes observed.
"I should do so," Sherlock Holmes remarked impatiently.
"Really, Holmes," said I severely, "you are a little trying at times."
Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery red hair.
"Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods.