Elementary, Season 2

Sherlock:
[To Joan] I'm curious to know which one of us is right about my brother. I have my money on me.

Myrcroft:
Sherlock is addicted to being himself.

Sherlock:
Watson, this is Fatty.

Mycroft:
Fatty? Not anymore.

Sherlock:
Lap band?

Mycroft:
Exercise?

Sherlock:
Exercise requires energy and ambition, and you've never had either.

'Watson:
What do you expect from a guy named Geezer Bob?

Hopkins:
You look exactly the same!

Sherlock:
As do you. Except that you've gained a stone and quarter, and your hairline is receding.

Hopkins:
You're slipping, I've gained exactly a stone and a half.

Sherlock:
I'm not slipping, I've just grown more courteous.

Sherlock:
[To Joan] Without you the airline might seat me next to a morbidly obese person, or child, or morbidly obese child.

Sherlock:
I see you've been tending to your self defense.

Sherlock:
I know about poisons Watson, actually all about them. Over the past few years I've come to learn the worst kind, Guilt.

Watson:
What's up with the nerd brigade?

Harlan:
I sort of travel in different mathematical circles...

Watson:
Joey wrote me a letter, telling me it wasn't my fault and that he forgave me.

Sherlock:
This isn't the first time he's asking you for money.

Watson:
He needed a car...

Sherlock:
[To Joan] I want to make sure Joey isn't taking advantage of you.

Bell:
[To Sherlock] Where's your better half?

Joan:
In other words, you plan on arguing on the internet all night.

Sherlock:
No Belgian is that bad at backgammon.

Joan:
Well, it certainly sounds like you had feelings for her.

Sherlock:
Perhaps but... nothing so mundane as love. I was adrift back then. I had-had no purpose. My so-called peers made me feel that that might always be the case. Abigail, she gave me a gift. A view inside a mind capable of murder.

Sherlock:
Killer, yeah. Without intending to, she-she helped me understand who I was and-and what I might do with my life.

Sherlock:
First time in my career someone's alibi for murder has been that they were busy planning the same murder. If it weren't so frustrating, it would be interesting.

Sherlock:
Sometimes, Watson, when one wants a diamond, one must resort to digging in a diamond mine.

Joan:
For future reference, a morgue is not a diamond mine.

Sherlock:
It's better. Diamonds are just pressed coal; corpses have stories, secrets.

Gregson:
What I want... is to be with my wife.

Cheryl:
Now? After 28 years of missed dinners and weekends at the precinct?

Gregson:
Come on. When did I ever tell you I wanted to be anything but a cop?

Cheryl:
When did I tell you that I was always gonna be okay with that?

Sherlock:
Quite frankly, I'm surprised it's taken this long for the captain's marriage to :buckle. He's an excellent detective.

Joan:
What does that have to do with it?

Sherlock:
Well, as you know, detection is a calling, not a job. Hardly leaves one with time left over to sustain the elaborate ruse of marriage.

Joan:
Because, of course, you think marriage is an elaborate ruse.

Sherlock:
There are other ways to describe it. An unnatural arrangement which forces its participants into an unhealthy monogamy. An accretion of petty fights and resentful compromises which, like Chinese water torture, slowly transforms both parties into howling, neurotic versions of their former selves.

Sherlock:
Could you just stay out of the eyeline?

Mycroft:
You're joking. I was just standing here.

Sherlock:
Yes, that's the problem.

Joan:
[Sherlock is jabbing her while she's sleeping] Why are you poking me with your single stick?

Sherlock:
I'm prodding the sheets in order to determine whether or not my brother is in there with you.

Sherlock:
[to Mycroft] Would you kindly get in touch with the Marchioness? I would very much like to ask her why drug dealers want to murder her horse.

Nigella:
It seems that I'm at the mercy of the Holmes brothers.

Joan:
This is one of those "so many questions" moments. Why only three times a year?

Sherlock:
Well, I'm not sure. Having never milked a moose, I imagine one must catch it in the right mood.

Joan:
You're not the same person I met a year and a half ago. You're--

Sherlock:
Good to you? Yeah. For the most part. I consider you to be... exceptional. So I make an exceptional effort to accommodate you. But you must accept that, for as long as you choose to be in my life, there will occasionally be fallout from my behavior. That must be a part of our understanding.

Joan:
No one can accept something like that forever.

Sherlock:
To thine own self, Watson.

Gregson:
Everybody? Listen up. It has come to my attention that there's some of you that aren't thrilled the way some things are done around here. Think I've given our consultants a little too much sway. Some friends of mine wanted to let me know before it was too late to right the ship. And I appreciate that. We've got a mission here. It's to protect this city and the citizens that live in it. You are all part of that effort every day. Most of you do yourselves and this department proud. And for that, I want to thank you. But if anybody has a problem with how I utilize all the tools at my disposal, be it Holmes and Watson or the coffee machine... there's the door.

Sherlock:
I've given further consideration to your rebuke regarding my capacity for niceness.

Joan:
I didn't mean it as a rebuke. I was trying to have a conversation.

Sherlock:
Either way. You have a point. There is unquestionably a certain social utility to being polite. To maintaining an awareness of other people's sensitivities. To exhibiting all the traits that might commonly be grouped under the heading nice.

Joan:
I think you'll be surprised how easy it is to earn that designation.

Sherlock:
No. I am not a nice man. It's important that you understand that. It's going to save you a great deal of time and effort. There is not a warmer, kinder me waiting to be coaxed out into the light. I am acerbic. I can be cruel. It's who I am. Right to the bottom. I'm neither proud of this, nor ashamed of it. It simply is. And in my work, my nature has been an advantage far more often than it has been a hindrance. I'm not gonna change.

Cassandra:
How did you learn about Mr. Dylan's criminal record?

Sherlock:
When I learned that James Dylan had sold Rada Hollingsworth her viatical, I did some cursory research into his background, research his employers had apparently neglected to do. That's the beauty of the Internet. Twenty-four-seven access to everything from twerking kittens to criminal records.

Jamie Moriarty:
Your letters have meant a great deal to me. I find them influencing my decisions in the most surprising ways.

Sherlock:
You could have killed Agent Mattoo. And from your perspective, it would have been the expedient thing.

Jamie:
And yet, to you, it would have been repugnant. Tell me, is that how you learned to be one of them? By learning to care how your actions seemed in the eyes of another?

Sherlock:
I'm not sure I am one of them.

Sherlock:
Did you say everything you wanted to say today? To Moriarty? That is why you accompanied her to the Fuller residence, is it not? So you would have a private dialogue with her?

Joan:
Well, you have been hogging her for the last few months.

Sherlock:
I told you. I have merely been--

Joan:
Studying her. Right. You have feelings for her, and that is perfectly normal.

Sherlock:
I have nothing of the sort.

Joan:
Irene was the love of your life. That is why, in spite of everything, you can't quite give her up. I get that. But I also know that you're only gonna get hurt in the long run because there is no Irene. There is only Moriarty. And Moriarty is never gonna change.

Joan:
Is that why you've been writing him? Because you want to... understand him?

Jamie:
Part of it, I suppose.

Joan:
And the rest?

Jamie:
What do you think?

Joan:
You think you're in love with him. Only you can't be sure, because as much as you claim to know about the world, love is something you don't quite get.

Jamie:
You'd be surprised what I'd do for love.

Joan:
Nothing crazy people do surprises me.

Jamie:
I write to Sherlock because he's the only person on the planet I can really talk to. He writes to me because I'm the only one he can talk to. The only one he can ever truly relate to. If you still don't understand that, you will someday. I promise.

Sherlock:
I was attempting to get a rise out of you, to remind you that no matter where you go or how tedious the work you undertake, it will not change what you are, a detective.

Detective Bell:
I am a detective.

Sherlock:
Well, you still carry the title, yeah. But it's more than that, isn't it? It's a calling. It's your calling. You are not an analyst. You are not an assessor of data. You transferred from Major Crimes either because your pride would not allow you to occupy the same space as me or because you're feeling sorry for yourself. In either case, a pathetic excuse.

Detective Bell:
I have a tremor in my hand. I can't shoot, can't get out on the street and work cases because of you!

Sherlock:
Bollocks! You could've stayed in Major Crimes until you completed your rehab!

Detective Bell:
You're assuming my rehab can be completed!

Sherlock:
Because I have faith in you! I have faith in your perseverance! Be my friend, don't be my friend, whatever, but don't be so foolish as to confuse punishing me with punishing yourself!

Detective Bell:
You know what I thought the first time I met you? Man, it comes easy for that guy. Well, I'm sorry. It doesn't come that easy to the rest of us.

Sherlock:
I am a drug addict, Marcus. A drug addict. And it might seem like an abstraction to you because I have been sober since I made your acquaintance. But two years ago, I was as pitiable a soul as you will ever meet. With help, I fought back, and I got a little bit better. I know what I'm supposed to do with my life. Do you?