Sherlock gazed in horror at the trail of devastation on the floor. He could still hear the whirring motor of the instrument of destruction.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the bright liquid that had spattered walls, bookcases, windows, and lamps, and then drip, drip, dripped downwards.

He imagined that the terrified dying had screamed as they were wiped off the surface of the globe in swathes.

So many footprints and fingerprints, bits of dust and dirt—anything that might have told him of the movements of the room's occupant—exterminated by a professional cleaner.

He hated Mycroft's office.