Approaching Anderson I untie the ropes, then I help him to the bed. He lays against my chest like the body of a limp martyr in an Italian painting. Except I am the master and Anderson’s brokenness is my art. I look at him. “Have you no self-respect, Anderson?” I ask, my voice dripping with distain.
He looks up at me and says, “No Sherlock, not when it comes to you.”
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