WATSON: The year was 1891. London was the capital of the world, the height of modernity, with the hiss of steam and smell of coal in the air. It was also the great cesspool into which all the sinners and criminals of the empire drained. I had come to London, ten years prior, to find a life after the Afghan war. I had hoped to start a medical practice and settle into a nice, steady existence. The life I found was anything but nice and steady. And that had everything to do with one man. My friend, my partner, my burden... Sherlock Holmes.

 

WATSON: May I present Miss Mary Morstan?
HOLMES: My pleasure. For the life of me, I don't know why it's taken him so long to get us properly introduced.
MARY: The pleasure's mine. It really is a thrill to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I've a whole stack of detective novels at home. Poe, Wilkie Collins...
WATSON: It's true.
MARY: They can seem a bit far-fetched sometimes, though. Making these grand assumptions out of tiny details.
HOLMES: Oh, no. The little details are by far the most important.

WATSON: I haven't slept all night. I deserve this. I clearly deserve it. How could I ever be so deluded as to believe I could meet Mary's parents for tea once I let myself be talked into going with you. Now, of course, I'm in jail.
HOLMES: You're not implying that I am responsible for our current situation, are you, Watson? We were set upon, man. It was self-defense.
WATSON: I've used the time to review my notes on our exploits of the last seven months and I've come to the conclusion that I must be suffering from some profound psychological aberration. Why else would I continually allow myself to be led into situations where you're deliberately withholding your intentions from me?
HOLMES: You've never complained about my methods before.
WATSON: I'm not complaining. I never complain. I never complain about your violin playing at three in the morning, your mess, your lack of hygiene, your stealing my clothes, your setting our home on fire!
HOLMES: That was an accident...