"This isn't the right necklace."
The jeweller frowned, taking the pearls from Sherlock's hands. "Of course it is," he said, sliding it under the light to take a second look. "I examined it myself."
"Then your examination was faulty," Sherlock said.
"But they come from the right dealer, they're the right age, the right shape, the correct kind of clasp." The jeweller was going red in the face, looking flustered.
"Yes, indeed – however, that necklace has never been worn. It's obvious if you look at the clasp." Sherlock smiled. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, now would you?"
"Earrings? What do – Sherlock!"
He was already in her room, searching.
"When hiding in plain sight, one must dress accordingly. Will these do?"
"That's costume jewellery, dear."
"Is it? It's hard to tell."
He could tell. He could probably tell her exactly which party she'd bought them for.
"Why can't you get your own?"
"Mrs Hudson, you're the only woman with whom I am currently on decent enough terms to borrow jewellery."
"I doubt there's any woman with whom you are on decent enough terms to borrow jewellery."
He stared at her.
"These will do nicely. Have a nice day!"
There was the expression "wearing your heart on your sleeve".
He'd always thought it more appropriate to say "wearing a watch beneath your sleeve." There was much to be said about watches – adult watches, pocket watches, no watches. He could tell half a person's life story just by looking at their watch. Economic status was the easiest, written in the watch type. With an antique, the family relationship was there. With a dead battery, personality traits began to show.
He had sworn off wearing watches. It was easier to check his phone, anyway – which no doubt said something about him.
John told him he needed to eat more. He said he didn't eat when he was working. It interrupted his thinking; too much energy was put into digestion, when he needed it for his brain.
Recently, he had been doing a lot of thinking – it was evident from the way his clothes refused to fit. Everything was too big now; it was getting difficult to run around London with his trousers threatening to slide down.
John told him to eat.
He argued eating was for his brother.
John gave up and offered him a belt to solve the trouser problem.
They argued about the ring.
By then he had already seen it; curiosity had gotten the better of him, even though he had no interest whatsoever in the superfluous societal function that was marriage. But he felt John needed to show it to him in person, so he brought the topic up and weaselled the ring out of him.
It was pretty, as far as rocks went. Diamond and gold, simple and modern. Nothing out of the ordinary.
In other words – dull.
John didn't think much of that comment.
"Well, then it's a good thing I'm not proposing to you."