cars will one day reside in the museums of hate

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece and his hypodermic syringe from it's neat Morocco case. With long white nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirt cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston and sank back into the velvet lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.