Holmes glanced over at his friend, then gave a surprised, almost reflexive laugh. "Yes, they definitely have," he chuckled. "He only gives that particular expression of humiliation when he has just said the word 'sodomy.'"

"No," Holmes replied, "it wasn't. We did not speak of it. I have only seen that look once or twice, perhaps three times. And no, I do not shudder. It's only a criminal offense." He shrugged. "I deal with many, in my work."

"Oh, no," Holmes answered. "It is a subject private individuals almost never involve others with. Far too humiliating."

"Moriarty has made something of a special case of me, I should like to think," Holmes said, smiling ironically. "I have spent the vast majority of my time in the past few months trying with remarkable effort to get him killed, or put away for life at the very least, and consequently he dislikes me quite a bit. He does deal in blackmail, yes, and often, but his victims are far too often too ashamed to come to me. They have no guarantee, you see, that I will not simply blackmail them."

"Oh, I have something resembling fame - nothing remarkable." Holmes grinned ruefully. "I am not sure that I should like to become a figure of renown. I confess myself surprised that I am conceived as such in your time."

"Fictionality?" Holmes looked, puzzled, at Gabe. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, I see what you mean - the quality of being fictional - but I don't see how it applies to me." This was beginning to worry Holmes slightly, for reasons he could not explain.

"I. . .what?" Holmes very rarely looked bewildered, but he did now. "I am fictional? Only the product of an imagination?" He took a long pause, during which it became obvious that he had gone rather pale. "May I ask whose imagination?"