There was something warm on his back. Like, very warm. It was like sticking one very specific part of his back near a hot oven- not really on the grills where flesh would burn, more like just outside one when it's cracked open just a tad.

And then he felt okay. His hands went itchy for a brief second as flesh began to knit back into place, but his knuckles went back to normal.

He looked back with near astonishment. There sat a child. A bunny rabbit. A cat. One or more of those things. "Kid, whoever you are," He mutters aloud. "You're better than a night with ketamine and a Colombo marathon." A pause. "Okay, you're better than seasons four through ten of Columbo and ketamine. Not quite ready to call you better than the best bit of television yet or since. But thank you."

Eat shit, Sherlock.

He steps forth and places his hand on the doorframe. "So. Where's the moogle?"