Howard's eyes go from his cuff to Sherlock's, then to Sherlock's eyes. The real question hangs between them. Howard's vindictive enough to have the very same answer, and, fortunately, smart enough not to say so.

He nudges some of the meat over to near the fire. There isn't anything to cook it on, and anything stick-like here is made of chocolate or sugar, so the work will be messy.

"Why don't you petition out?"