"After spending several minutes researching the different types of dirt, skin conditions and weather patterns in England — which, according to Sherlock, are the only things I need to know to know everything about everybody — I am ready to inflict my genius on my fellow man."
"I wish Watson had rolled his eyes and said 'Did you know you're a horrible showoff sometimes, Sherlock? And don't you think that you should have said the north side of the street instead of the left, the latter being a relative orientation? ...Oh, shut up. Must you always be so deucedly deductive? It's a strain on us all. We walk into the room wondering whether you'll inform us that we had shaved that morning, and you can tell by the slight piece of paper covering a minor nick. Well, of course we shaved this morning. And yes, perhaps we nicked ourselves. You don't have to bring it up. Half the time you've a jot of liquid in your trouser front, but you don't see me saying ah, Holmes, you had tea this morning, I can tell because your pants betray evidence of recent urination.'"
— James Lileks reviews
Murder at the Baskervilles
Murder at the Baskervilles"When Seagal is on patrol, darting his head around like a 250-pound bird of prey, he may suddenly see a 107. This is the police code for 'suspicious person.' It's also when Steven Seagal's aikido-trained eyeballs turn on their Crime Vision. Two things happen then: the camera zooms in and white light fills the screen. This allows viewers to then see the black people, I mean 107s, as Steven Seagal does— digitally zoomed and pulsing with crime! If I didn't know any better, all these visual effects would make me think that Steven Seagal was transforming into the Hulk."
Amy: One little girl crying. So?
The Doctor: Crying silently. Children cry because they want attention; because they are hurt or afraid. When they cry silently it's because they can't stop. Any parent knows that. Hundreds of parents walk past this spot, not one of them asking her what's wrong. Which means that they already know. It's something they don't talk about. Secrets. They are not helping her. So it is something they are afraid of. Shadows, whatever they are afraid of is nowhere to be seen. Which means it is everywhere. Police State.
The Doctor: Crying silently. Children cry because they want attention; because they are hurt or afraid. When they cry silently it's because they can't stop. Any parent knows that. Hundreds of parents walk past this spot, not one of them asking her what's wrong. Which means that they already know. It's something they don't talk about. Secrets. They are not helping her. So it is something they are afraid of. Shadows, whatever they are afraid of is nowhere to be seen. Which means it is everywhere. Police State.
The Doctor: I see from your collar stub that you have an apple tree and a wife with a limp. Am I right?
Simeon: No.
The Doctor: Do you have a wife?
Simeon: No.
The Doctor: Bit of a tree? Bit of a wife? Some apples? C'mon, work with me here.
Simeon: No.
The Doctor: Do you have a wife?
Simeon: No.
The Doctor: Bit of a tree? Bit of a wife? Some apples? C'mon, work with me here.
Vimes: I want someone who can look at the ashtray and tell me what kind of cigars I smoke.
Littlebottom: Pantweed's Slim Panatellas.
Vimes: Good gods!
Littlebottom: You've left the packet on the table, sir.
Littlebottom: Pantweed's Slim Panatellas.
Vimes: Good gods!
Littlebottom: You've left the packet on the table, sir.
[Sam Vimes] distrusted the kind of person who'd take one look at another man and say in a lordly voice to his companion, “Ah, my dear sir, I can tell you nothing except that he is a left-handed stonemason who has spent some years in the merchant navy and has recently fallen on hard times”, and then unroll a lot of supercilous commentary about calluses and stance and the state of a man's boots, when exactly the same comments could apply to a man who was wearing his old clothes because he’d been doing a spot of home bricklaying for a new barbecue pit, and had been tattooed once when he was drunk and seventeenFootnote and in fact got seasick on a wet pavement. What arrogance! What an insult to the rich and chaotic variety of the human experience.
Sigmund Freud: Who am I, that your friends should wish us to meet?
Sherlock Holmes: Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a while in Paris, and that certain radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity, beyond this I can deduce little. You're married, with a child of... five. You enjoy William Shakespeare and possess a sense of honour.
Sherlock Holmes: Beyond the fact that you are a brilliant Jewish physician who was born in Hungary and studied for a while in Paris, and that certain radical theories of yours have alienated the respectable medical community so that you have severed your connections with various hospitals and branches of the medical fraternity, beyond this I can deduce little. You're married, with a child of... five. You enjoy William Shakespeare and possess a sense of honour.
John Watson: You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.
Sherlock Holmes: Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.
Sherlock Holmes: Yes, and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone.
— Sherlock, "A Study in Pink"
[After they have survived a shoot-out with 4 armed soldiers vs one un-prepeared Josie and one downed Lone Watie.]
Lone Watie: How did you know which one was goin' to shoot first?
Josie Wales: Well, that one in the center: he had a flap holster and he was in no itchin' hurry. And the one second from the left: he had scared eyes, he wasn't gonna do nothin'. But that one on the far left: he had crazy eyes. Figured him to make the first move.
Lone Watie: How 'bout the one on the right?
Josie Wales: Never paid him no mind; you were there.
Lone Watie: ...I could have missed.
Lone Watie: How did you know which one was goin' to shoot first?
Josie Wales: Well, that one in the center: he had a flap holster and he was in no itchin' hurry. And the one second from the left: he had scared eyes, he wasn't gonna do nothin'. But that one on the far left: he had crazy eyes. Figured him to make the first move.
Lone Watie: How 'bout the one on the right?
Josie Wales: Never paid him no mind; you were there.
Lone Watie: ...I could have missed.
Larrabee: We've all heard of your wonderful methods—and the astonishing manner in which you gain information from the most trifling details. Now I daresay—in this brief moment or two—you've discovered any number of things about me!
Holmes: Nothing of consequence, Mr Chetwood. I have scarcely more than asked myself why you rushed off and sent that telegram in such a frightful hurry—why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window—and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.
Holmes: Nothing of consequence, Mr Chetwood. I have scarcely more than asked myself why you rushed off and sent that telegram in such a frightful hurry—why your friend with the auburn hair left so suddenly by the terrace window—and what there can possibly be about the safe in the lower part of that desk to cause you such painful anxiety.
Professor Mordin Solus: Hmm. Don't recognise you from area. Too well-armed to be refugees. No mercenary uniform. Quarantine still in effect. Here for something else? Vorcha? Crew to clean them out? Unlikely, Vorcha a symptom, not a cause. The Plague? Investigating possible use as bioweapon? No, no, no- not enough data equipment. Soldiers, not scientists- yes, yes! Hired guns? Maybe. Looking for someone? Yes, yes, but who? Someone important. Valuable. Someone with secrets. Someone like... me. Me! Looking for me? Why? What do you want?
Shepard: ... do you ever pause for breath?
Professor Mordin Solus: Sorry. I'llll tryyyyy toooo slooooow doooown... No! Nononono! Can't do it! No time! Who are you?
Shepard: I'm Commander Shepard, and I'm involved in a critical mission. I need you to come with me.
Professor Mordin Solus: Mission? What mission? No, nononono! Too busy! Clinic understaffed! Plague spreading too fast! Who sent you?
Shepard: It's a covert and privately funded human group.
Professor Mordin Solus: Related to Plague? Doesn't affect humans. Human-centric interest? Few human groups would know me. Equipment suggests military origin. Not Alliance standard. Spectres not human. Terra Firma too unstable. Only one option.... Cerberus sent you... (inhale) unexpected.
Shepard: ... do you ever pause for breath?
Professor Mordin Solus: Sorry. I'llll tryyyyy toooo slooooow doooown... No! Nononono! Can't do it! No time! Who are you?
Shepard: I'm Commander Shepard, and I'm involved in a critical mission. I need you to come with me.
Professor Mordin Solus: Mission? What mission? No, nononono! Too busy! Clinic understaffed! Plague spreading too fast! Who sent you?
Shepard: It's a covert and privately funded human group.
Professor Mordin Solus: Related to Plague? Doesn't affect humans. Human-centric interest? Few human groups would know me. Equipment suggests military origin. Not Alliance standard. Spectres not human. Terra Firma too unstable. Only one option.... Cerberus sent you... (inhale) unexpected.
Zed: May I ask why you felt little Tiffany deserved to die?
James Edwards: Well, she was the only one that actually seemed dangerous at the time, sir.
Zed: How'd you come to that conclusion?
James Edwards: Well, first I was gonna pop this guy hanging from the street light, and I realized, y'know, he's just working out. I mean, how would I feel if somebody come runnin' in the gym and bust me in my ass while I'm on the treadmill? Then I saw this snarling beast guy, and I noticed he had a tissue in his hand, and I'm realizing, y'know, he's not snarling, he's sneezing. Y'know, ain't no real threat there. Then I saw little Tiffany. I'm thinking, y'know, eight-year-old white girl, middle of the ghetto, bunch of monsters, this time of night with quantum physics books? She about to start some shit, Zed. She's about eight years old, those books are WAY too advanced for her. If you ask me, I'd say she's up to something. And to be honest, I'd appreciate it if you eased up off my back about it. Or do I owe her an apology?
James Edwards: Well, she was the only one that actually seemed dangerous at the time, sir.
Zed: How'd you come to that conclusion?
James Edwards: Well, first I was gonna pop this guy hanging from the street light, and I realized, y'know, he's just working out. I mean, how would I feel if somebody come runnin' in the gym and bust me in my ass while I'm on the treadmill? Then I saw this snarling beast guy, and I noticed he had a tissue in his hand, and I'm realizing, y'know, he's not snarling, he's sneezing. Y'know, ain't no real threat there. Then I saw little Tiffany. I'm thinking, y'know, eight-year-old white girl, middle of the ghetto, bunch of monsters, this time of night with quantum physics books? She about to start some shit, Zed. She's about eight years old, those books are WAY too advanced for her. If you ask me, I'd say she's up to something. And to be honest, I'd appreciate it if you eased up off my back about it. Or do I owe her an apology?
Leviathan, nonstandard cardiac, nervous systems: irregular biology. No standard organs or weak points. No brain, heart or center of operations for rest of his body.
Irregular biology, no vulnerable organs: body divided into layers, extending down to hyperdurable core body, each layer down is slightly more than twice as durable as previous. Exterior skin is hard as aluminum alloy, but flexible, lets him move. 3% deeper in toward core of arms, legs, claws, tail, or .5% in toward core of head, trunk, neck, tissues are hard as steel. 6% in toward core of extremities or 1% toward core of main body/head, tissues strong as tungsten. 9% toward core of extremities, 1.5% toward core of main body, head, tissues strong as boron.
Irregular biology, no vulnerable organs: body divided into layers, extending down to hyperdurable core body, each layer down is slightly more than twice as durable as previous. Exterior skin is hard as aluminum alloy, but flexible, lets him move. 3% deeper in toward core of arms, legs, claws, tail, or .5% in toward core of head, trunk, neck, tissues are hard as steel. 6% in toward core of extremities or 1% toward core of main body/head, tissues strong as tungsten. 9% toward core of extremities, 1.5% toward core of main body, head, tissues strong as boron.
— Tattletale briefly getting more information on Leviathan than anyone else has in decades of fighting him, Worm
Yes, I call you 'Warrior'. Your eyes have already swept your surroundings, identifying threats and escape routes. There is anticipation in your stance, deadly focus in the easy ebb and tide of your breath. Yours is a heart that fights with every beat. I have need of a heart like that.
— Haku the Armourmaster, Path of Exile
House: He is not a saint. He figures out what's going on in people's lives by watching, listening, deducing...
Wilson: And you're worried about... trademark infringement?
—"House vs. God," House
Dawson: W-Wait just a moment. How the deuce did you know I was a doctor?
Basil: A surgeon to be exact. Just returned from military duty in Afghanistan. Am I right?
Dawson: Why, yes; Major David Q. Dawson. Uh... but how could you possibly...?
Basil: Quite simple, really. You've sewn your torn cuff together with a Lembert stitch, which, of course, only a surgeon uses. And the thread is a unique form of catgut, easily distinguished by its peculiar pungency, found only in the Afghan provinces.
Dawson: Amazing.
Basil: Actually, it's elementary, my dear Dawson.
Leyla Slade: You’re making this up.
Zygmunt Molotch: Am I? The man at the booth next to us. We passed him on the way in. Rogue trader, armed. Where was his concealed weapon?
Leyla: Left armpit. I saw the bulge. Got a blade in his right boot too, under the hem of the trouser.
Molotch: You are sharp.
Leyla: It’s my business to know.
Molotch: Was his moustache longer on the left or right?
Leyla: I… why does that matter?
Molotch: Shorter on the right, because he smokes an obscura pipe, and the hairs don’t grow so fast on the side he sucks the mouthpiece. You could see it in his mannerisms, with the lho-stick. A habitual rise-and-draw. Which means?
Leyla: He’ll be unpredictable. And jumpy. Obscura does that.
(…)
Molotch: The man by the window. Left- or right-handed?
Leyla: Right. He’s drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table top beside his cup of caffeine.
Molotch: Wrong. He’s watching the street crowd, because he’s waiting for a business partner he doesn’t know. His left hand is under the table, on the butt of his weapon. A Hecuter model, badly stowed. The right hand is a distraction.
Leyla: Should I go over and ask him to prove it?
Molotch: If you want to get shot. The barman. 19th Gudrunite Irregulars. A Guard veteran.
Leyla: Why?
Molotch: Tattoo on his left wrist. “Company of Angels”. The vets of the 19th took that as a tat after Latislaw Heights.
Leyla: You can see that?
Molotch: Not from here. But on the way in. And you—
Leyla: Me?
Molotch: You’ve eaten enough, you’re full. But you like the rice, so you keep picking at it, even though you don’t want it.
Leyla: It’s good rice.
Molotch: And you haven’t touched your wine in thirteen minutes. You keep playing with the glass, but you don’t drink, because you’re scared that if you get merry, you’ll lose control of this situation. But you play with the glass all the same, so as not to draw attention to the fact that you’re not drinking.
Leyla: That’s just nonsense.
Molotch: Is it? You sit slightly sidelong to me, favouring your left buttock, because your right hip gives you pain. Old wound? An augmetic?
Leyla: An augmetic.
Jonas: Don't tell me you haven't noticed how strangely people have been acting around here.
Carter: (confused) What are you talking about?
Jonas: Well, for instance, that man there, right behind Teal'c... he doesn't realize it, but he just put eight cubes of sugar into his coffee. And that lady over at the counter, she's been reading the same article for half an hour. Since we sat down, that waitress has dropped her tray twice, the cook has gotten three orders wrong, including my hamburger, which I ordered medium rare but is in fact well done.
Hoyt Volker: So, you look like you want to be in my inner circle, Foster. But, you know, I can read people. And you, you're a floater. You jump from job to job and never commit.
Jason Brody: Nothing's satisfied me yet.
—Far Cry 3.note
Therapist: What are you thinking about right now, Michael?
Bryce: I'm thinking about the fact that you're seated six feet away from an exposed window with multiple sniper nest positions on the building opposite, most likely on the eighth floor. The additional height gives the marksman an advantage. I'm thinking about the closest available weapon to me right now - the letter opener/stabbing instrument on the desk to my right. What are you thinking about?
Bryce: I'm thinking about the fact that you're seated six feet away from an exposed window with multiple sniper nest positions on the building opposite, most likely on the eighth floor. The additional height gives the marksman an advantage. I'm thinking about the closest available weapon to me right now - the letter opener/stabbing instrument on the desk to my right. What are you thinking about?
Princess Ashesa: No.
Timon The Black: Why not?
Princess Ashesa: Because we both know you wouldn't get it, break Father's heart though it would. And then there's all this... [indicates the surrounding fineries] That tapestry alone is of finer quality than my copy, and I know how much that one cost - poor Father nearly had a stroke. You obviously have great resources at your beck, Magician. That rules out any conventional ransom short of greed, and that's one sin I've never heard spoken of you. So, what do you want?
Timon the Black: [admiringly] You have an exceptional mind, Highness. It's really unfortunate that Daras will never allow you to use it.
—A Time For Heroes, by Richard Parks
"The length of the stock determines his reach, and that in turn suggests an approximate height. He's probably around six feet tall. Snipers usually scale heights, so he's probably fit, and average weight for his height...say 155 pounds. The curve there could mean he's left handed. But that's all conjecture. He could turn out to be a short, fat, right-handed orangutan."
— George Cowley, The Professionals, "Killer With A Long Arm"
Show Holmes a drop of water and he would deduce the existence of the Atlantic. Show it to me and I would look for a tap. That was the difference between us.
—Watson, The House of Silk
Akechi: ...Perhaps I can sway you? Maybe if I teach you to do deductions, you could speak with me regularly, and—
Ren: Teach me to do deductions. You mean, teach me how to make observations and draw reasonable conclusions from them?
Akechi: (smiling smugly) Why, yes.
Ren: Great. Maybe after that you can teach me how to chew my food and drink my coffee. Hit the bricks, flatfoot.
Akechi: I can tell you, it’s not so simple—
Ren: You care about appearances more than anything else.
Akechi: ...What?
Ren: Your hair is messy and shaggy, but arranged the same every time I see you. You’ve purposely styled it that way to look like you don’t care about your appearance, to make it seem like you don’t have the time to worry. And yet, it’s always out of your face just enough, perfectly ready for a picture or interview. Your speech is stilted and excessively formal. You might think it makes you sound like an adult, but all it does is make actual adults laugh at you, like watching a child wear his father’s suit. That’s part of your appeal for interviews, I’d imagine. People find you ‘cute’. And speaking of fathers. Unlike every other high school student in this country, you insist on carrying a vintage style metal briefcase. It’s been artificially distressed. The scratches on it are far too regular. And the monogram on it isn’t a sticker, so the whole thing is custom made. You specifically wanted a briefcase that you imagined an adult male professional would carry. More precisely, you seem to have designed a briefcase that a successful professional would have - a man with a family. A man with roots. A man who loves his son. So in short, I deduce that you are a lonely, annoying, police-suck up with daddy issues who I have no reason to trust and every reason for me to not trust. You stalked me, you idiot. And you just tried to read my girlfriend’s texts. What the fuck is wrong with you?
Ren: Teach me to do deductions. You mean, teach me how to make observations and draw reasonable conclusions from them?
Akechi: (smiling smugly) Why, yes.
Ren: Great. Maybe after that you can teach me how to chew my food and drink my coffee. Hit the bricks, flatfoot.
Akechi: I can tell you, it’s not so simple—
Ren: You care about appearances more than anything else.
Akechi: ...What?
Ren: Your hair is messy and shaggy, but arranged the same every time I see you. You’ve purposely styled it that way to look like you don’t care about your appearance, to make it seem like you don’t have the time to worry. And yet, it’s always out of your face just enough, perfectly ready for a picture or interview. Your speech is stilted and excessively formal. You might think it makes you sound like an adult, but all it does is make actual adults laugh at you, like watching a child wear his father’s suit. That’s part of your appeal for interviews, I’d imagine. People find you ‘cute’. And speaking of fathers. Unlike every other high school student in this country, you insist on carrying a vintage style metal briefcase. It’s been artificially distressed. The scratches on it are far too regular. And the monogram on it isn’t a sticker, so the whole thing is custom made. You specifically wanted a briefcase that you imagined an adult male professional would carry. More precisely, you seem to have designed a briefcase that a successful professional would have - a man with a family. A man with roots. A man who loves his son. So in short, I deduce that you are a lonely, annoying, police-suck up with daddy issues who I have no reason to trust and every reason for me to not trust. You stalked me, you idiot. And you just tried to read my girlfriend’s texts. What the fuck is wrong with you?
(Sherlock is upset and trembling after seeing the Hound)
Sherlock: We're looking for a dog, yes? A great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good. Excellent. Yes. Where shall we start? How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman? The answer's yes.
Watson: Yes?
Sherlock: She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for.
Watson: Sherlock, for God's sake—
Sherlock: Look at the jumper he's wearing, hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material, more likely the hideous pattern. Suggests it's a present. Probably Christmas. So, he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He's treating her to a meal, but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economize on his own food.
Watson: Well, maybe he's just not hungry.
Sherlock: No. Small plate. Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her pavlova. If she'd treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry, all right. And not well off. You can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. [imitating Watson] "How do you know she's his mother?" Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an older sister, but mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. The scarring pattern on his hands is very distinctive. Fish hooks. They're all quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he's turned to his widowed mother for help. [again, imitating] "Widowed?" Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain around her neck, clearly her late husband's and too big for her finger. She's well-dressed but her jewelry's cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it. Sentimental. Now, the dog. Tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly. But no hairs above the knees, suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact, it is a West Highland terrier called Whisky. [once again, imitating] "How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?" 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name. And that's not cheating, that's listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people. So you see, I am fine. In fact, I've never been better, so just leave me alone!
Sherlock: We're looking for a dog, yes? A great big dog, that's your brilliant theory. Cherchez le chien. Good. Excellent. Yes. Where shall we start? How about them? The sentimental widow and her son, the unemployed fisherman? The answer's yes.
Watson: Yes?
Sherlock: She's got a West Highland terrier called Whisky. Not exactly what we're looking for.
Watson: Sherlock, for God's sake—
Sherlock: Look at the jumper he's wearing, hardly worn. Clearly he's uncomfortable in it. Maybe it's because of the material, more likely the hideous pattern. Suggests it's a present. Probably Christmas. So, he wants into his mother's good books. Why? Almost certainly money. He's treating her to a meal, but his own portion is small. That means he wants to impress her, but he's trying to economize on his own food.
Watson: Well, maybe he's just not hungry.
Sherlock: No. Small plate. Starter. He's practically licked it clean. She's nearly finished her pavlova. If she'd treated him, he'd have had as much as he wanted. He's hungry, all right. And not well off. You can tell that by the state of his cuffs and shoes. [imitating Watson] "How do you know she's his mother?" Who else would give him a Christmas present like that? Well, it could be an aunt or an older sister, but mother's more likely. Now, he was a fisherman. The scarring pattern on his hands is very distinctive. Fish hooks. They're all quite old now, which suggests he's been unemployed for some time. Not much industry in this part of the world, so he's turned to his widowed mother for help. [again, imitating] "Widowed?" Yes, obviously. She's got a man's wedding ring on a chain around her neck, clearly her late husband's and too big for her finger. She's well-dressed but her jewelry's cheap. She could afford better, but she's kept it. Sentimental. Now, the dog. Tiny little hairs all over the leg from where it gets a little bit too friendly. But no hairs above the knees, suggesting it's a small dog, probably a terrier. In fact, it is a West Highland terrier called Whisky. [once again, imitating] "How the hell do you know that, Sherlock?" 'Cause she was on the same train as us and I heard her calling its name. And that's not cheating, that's listening. I use my senses, John, unlike some people. So you see, I am fine. In fact, I've never been better, so just leave me alone!
Holly: How did you know I was here?
Artemis: [steepling his fingers] There were several clues. One, Butler did not conduct his usual bomb check under the car. Two, he returned without the items he went to fetch. Three, the door was open for several seconds, something no good security man would permit. And four, I detected a slight haze as you entered the vehicle. Elementary, really.
Holly: [scowling] Observant little Mud Boy, aren't you?
Artemis: I try.
Artemis: [steepling his fingers] There were several clues. One, Butler did not conduct his usual bomb check under the car. Two, he returned without the items he went to fetch. Three, the door was open for several seconds, something no good security man would permit. And four, I detected a slight haze as you entered the vehicle. Elementary, really.
Holly: [scowling] Observant little Mud Boy, aren't you?
Artemis: I try.
— Artemis Fowl: The Arctic Incident, Chapter 3: Going Underground
