"If we could, somehow, help the poor thing ... gift it with closure and ... release," Watson started, leaning forward over his breakfast to whisper. "A draft is not a phantom, my dear Watson, and it is not a living thing that hears," Holmes responded, not looking up (but raising his voice exactly as much as Watson had softened his). "Nor does giving said draft a name pulled from the metaphysical prattling of our housekeeper lend credibility to any kind of intervention." "It is not just a draft," Watson sighed, irritated. "Something has been seen; things have been ... interfered with." "Yesterday, Mrs. Hudson entered the apartment to remove two pairs of my shoes for polishing," Holmes replied flatly. "She left one of her handkerchiefs on the mantle and a tea kettle sitting on the floor in her wake. I was most decidedly interfered with, yet no ghost was required." Watson picked at his poached egg and dropped the subject, a tiny bit of doubt tugging at the edges of his mind. In Holmes' bedroom, the phantom retreated forlornly into his armoire, sulking and turning all of his underthings ice cold.