[ You should think the man's done this before which, let's be real, he probably has, pulling out slowly, carefully only once the old lady's small car is nearing the main street further down. John glances sideways at him, watches while Sherlock manages to take them through what must be an unfamiliar city centre (unless he happens to have all of Liverpool crammed inside his head, too) while simultaneously summarizing the case down to the last detail and how does he multi-task that effortlessly? It's taken John literally years to perfect asking for a scalpel when in the middle of cutting people up. Christ.

Overstowe appears to not only be intimately familiar with the many turns of midtown as a general thing, but it's obvious she's perfectly familiar with whatever destination she's headed for, too. John mulls over Sherlock's presentation of Staunton's disappearance for a moment, focusing on how there seemingly has been no break-in in his apartment (no obvious signs of theft or an attack, only the rose-scented rosin) and neither has he simply opted and left, because his suitcase has been left untouched behind. What can make a man take off with only the clothes on his back, ditching a huge work opportunity like that? What makes you misdial a text asking an old friend from the past for help? Very strong feelings, presumably. ]

We're back to that, then - someone else is involved? Someone he's personally connected to and whose, what, hands smell like roses? [ Up ahead, Overstowe starts backtracking. Don't tell him they've been made already... His gaze shifts between her darkened rear window and Sherlock's face, half-lit by a passing car's headlights. ] The lonely violinist.