I have the results from this round, the first line of which was:
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote:Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case.
And here are the second lines:
The real deal, guessed by inspiration and Stan Cold.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote:With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff.
Yep, I listed the real quote first. I'm curious as to whether this threw off anyone's metagame.
drachefly wrote:I sat up straighter - any event which called for his concentration-aiding coca extract was no ordinary crime.
Guessed by Jorodryn.
CCC wrote:He placed the needle into the bottle, and drew a precise amount of the liquid into the syringe.
Solara Hanover wrote:He placed the items next to his chair and reached for his violin.
No guesses. A shame, as it mentioned the famous violin, though perhaps it was because people didn't think he'd pick them up just to put them down again.
Guessed by drachefly.
Jorodryn wrote:He looked at it for a moment before thrusting it into his arm.
Guessed by CCC.
kitoba wrote:As a physician I was not a fan of Holmes' habit, but as a friend I had long learned the uselessness of argument.
I liked that this line was submitted, as in the book Watson indeed proceeds to protest Holmes' drug habit with some vehemence. (see below) This line made me curious about the usage of the term "fan" as being short for "fanatic." From what I've read, it is an American abbreviation, so I don't know that Doyle would have used it. Still, it attracted a guess, so that's all that matters!
Stan Cold wrote:He then proceeded to fill the syringe with the substance withing the bottle and, with a sigh of content, injected the contents into his arm.
Guessed by kitoba and Solara Hanover.CCC: +1
inspiration wrote:His most recent case having been finished in a highly satisfactory fashion, and with a great deal of interest from the news-papers, he had quit London for the quieter air of the countryside these past three weeks.
Stan Cold: +2
As I very much enjoy this book and thought you might like to see how the scene proceeds, here is the start of the book, courtesy of Wikisource
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantelpiece, and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle and rolled back his left shirtcuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist, all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally, he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined armchair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject; but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.
"Which is it to-day," I asked, "morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened.
"It is cocaine," he said, "a seven-per-cent solution. Would you care to try it?"
"No, indeed," I answered brusquely. "My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said. "I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment."
"But consider!" I said earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process which involves increased tissue-change and may at least leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable."
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together, and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram, or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession, or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world."