(Or: prufrocking is a very bad influence)
The game, Anderson deduced, was definitely on, if the headband thrown at his general direction was any indication. It was ping-pong night at the pub- yesterday was darts, and the day before that were pints. Looking at the energetic ex-military doctor now, Anderson swore that the man developed a sort of inhuman metabolism. He and half of the Yarders who took him up against it were still feeling the effects of the bet.
“How far up is John?” he asked as he reached Lestrade, who was scribbling on a pad of paper with a look of a man possessed.
“Five points up on Sherlock,” answered Lestrade without looking up. He waved his arm vaguely to the left. “He’s lost his jacket and shirt; this round’s for his shoes.”