Don turns up about the time you'd stop waiting, as evening starts to ferment. His suit deep blue sinking into black, his appearance sharp and spare as a knife's tip. All night he'll seem to go untouched by the breeze.

The room is legible at a glance, elegant scrawl read with bemused appreciation: Irene Adler's apartment doesn't let you forget it's Irene Adler's apartment. He looks around, picks out faces from the network.

He smells of cigarettes. He's empty handed.