"Smarter," Watson said, leaning back, "but without the will to extend energy running about needlessly."

He watched Lestrade toy with the penknife, not sure what he thought of seeing him handle something that was so quintessentially Holmes. It wasn't anger, it wasn't jealousy, it was just... odd. He'd considered leaving the knife there, as a sort of monument, a memorial, but at the same time wasn't sure he could stand to see it on a regular basis.

"He was... entirely unique." His voice was haggard, small. "I don't always know what I'm going to do without him."