Sherlock reaches into his coat pocket and withdraws the handful of straw he'd collected from the ground, along with the one long thin strip of palm fiber. It's only a matter of moments before he's wrapped a small bundle together, and fortified it with pocket lint.

Another casual circuit around the goat and another moment kneeling on the ground.

And then he walks back towards the bar, hands in his pockets, grinning like the devil himself.






A wisp of smoke rises from the base of the goat's hind legs.