As the film begins, Watson enters Holmes' chambers, complains of the excess smoke--Holmes smokes a pipe, cigars and cigarettes in this movie, although not all at once--and Holmes promptly informs Watson that he walked on the left side of the street to get to Baker Street.
"By Jove, Holmes, however did you -"
"Elementary, my dear Watson! I can see by the reddish soil adhering to your left shoe. They're pulling up the pavement stones by the Post Office on Penistone Road, and one can't help but tread in the dirt."
I wish Watson had rolled his eyes and said "Did you know you're a horrible showoff sometimes, Sherlock? And don't you think that you should have said the north side of the street instead of the left, the latter being a relative orientation?"
"Ah, my dear fellow, you fail to take into consideration -"
"Oh, shut up. Must you always be so deucedly deductive? It's a strain on us all. We walk into the room wondering whether you'll inform us that we had shaved that morning, and you can tell by the slight piece of paper covering a minor nick. Well, of course we shaved this morning. And yes, perhaps we nicked ourselves. You don't have to bring it up. Half the time you've a jot of liquid in your trouser front, but you don't see me saying ah, Holmes, you had tea this morning, I can tell because your pants betray evidence of recent urination."
Amy: One little girl crying. So? The Doctor: Crying silently. Children cry because they want attention; because they are hurt or afraid. When they cry silently it's because they can't stop. Any parent knows that. Hundreds of parents walk past this spot, not one of them asking her what's wrong. Which means that they already know. It's something they don't talk about. Secrets. They are not helping her. So it is something they are afraid of. Shadows, whatever they are afraid of is nowhere to be seen. Which means it is everywhere. Police State.
Vimes: I want someone who can look at the ashtray and tell me what kind of cigars I smoke. Littlebottom: Pantweed's Slim Panatellas. Vimes: Good gods! Littlebottom: You've left the packet on the table, sir.
Sigmund Freud: Who am I, that your friends should wish us to meet? Sherlock Holmes: Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a while in Paris, and that certain radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity, beyond this I can deduce little. You're married, with a child of... five. You enjoy Shakespeare and possess a sense of honour.
—The Seven Percent Solution
John Watson: You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb. Sherlock Holmes: Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.
[After they have survived a shoot-out with 4 armed soldiers vs one un-prepeared Josie and one downed Lone Watie.] Lone Watie: How did you know which one was goin' to shoot first? Josie Wales: Well, that one in the center: he had a flap holster and he was in no itchin' hurry. And the one second from the left: he had scared eyes, he wasn't gonna do nothin'. But that one on the far left: he had crazy eyes. Figured him to make the first move. Lone Watie: How 'bout the one on the right? Josie Wales:Never paid him no mind; you were there. Lone Watie:...I could have missed.
Larrabee: We've all heard of your wonderful methods--and the astonishing manner in which you gain information from the most trifling details. Now I daresay--in this brief moment or two--you've discovered any number of things about me! Holmes: Nothing of consequence, Mr Chetwood. I have scarcely more than asked myself why you rushed off and sent that telegram in such a frightful hurry--why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window--and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.
Professor Mordin Solus: Hmm. Don't recognise you from area. Too well-armed to be refugees. No mercenary uniform. Quarantine still in effect. Here for something else? Vorcha? Crew to clean them out? Unlikely, Vorcha a symptom, not a cause. The Plague? Investigating possible use as bioweapon? No, no, no- not enough data equipment. Soldiers, not scientists- yes, yes! Hired guns? Maybe. Looking for someone? Yes, yes, but who? Someone important. Valuable. Someone with secrets. Someone like... me. Me! Looking for me? Why? What do you want? Shepard: ... do you ever pause for breath? Professor Mordin Solus: Sorry. I'llll tryyyyy toooo slooooow doooown... No! Nononono! Can't do it! No time! Who are you? Shepard: I'm Commander Shepard, and I'm involved in a critical mission. I need you to come with me. Professor Mordin Solus: Mission? What mission? No, nononono! Too busy! Clinic understaffed! Plague spreading too fast! Who sent you? Shepard: It's a covert and privately funded human group. Professor Mordin Solus: Related to Plague? Doesn't effect humans. Human-centric interest? Few human groups would know me. Equipment suggests military origin. Not Alliance standard. Spectres not human. Terra Firma too unstable. Only one option.... Cerberus sent you... (inhale) unexpected.
