[The tea steeps and Sholmes wastes no time in seeking out his pipe in the meanwhile. It's resting atop the fireplace, easily picked up and put between his lips as he finds a match next.]

Ms Sapione, should I present the current situation to you once again? You are a blue-skinned, horned, tailed woman with a Russian accent seated in my flat as a guest. Someone who I assume has some measure of belonging in this world, dare I say this city, but is for some reason hesitant to provide more detail. At this rate, I am eager to hear more from you, whether or not it sounds delusional.

What might you plan on doing otherwise? Sit here and hope a solution falls into your lap?