"If only," says Sherlock with a smile. "That isn't a crime here, I fear." The fellow's trying to take things in stride, and that's a little admirable, in its way: poor man. Bagoas had to have been discombobulated too. The thought of Bagoas makes Sherlock feel a little guilty, thinking of hair and differing cultural standards, and that motivates him to endeavor towards being a little more helpful.

He stands up and goes over to his desk to fiddle with the chassis of the desktop he's trying to build. Belatedly, he shrugs off his housecoat; fortunately he hasn't bothered to get undressed from the day yet. While he tinkers with the computer parts he switches his tablet to holo and a ghostly, full-sized image of him flickers up next to Horst in the Sanctuary.

"That isn't me," he says conversationally. "You can think of it as a kind of magic, but it really has more to do with Nikola Tesla, if you know him. When were you born, 1860, 1870? I'm afraid things have changed a bit."