Sherlock raises his hands up alongside his head, shoulders hunched, fingers curling like claws. He wiggles them slightly and widens his eyes. "Cursed."

At that his hands drop and his face returns to its normal relative impassivity, save for the air of amusement about it.

"Can't have you getting complacent. Dangerous. Not the good sort. You'll also be happy to know that your reflexes are in good working order." He pauses and stretches over John to poke his head in the door. Dust and cobwebs and a pile of miscellanea. As he expected. Used for storage. Probably not cursed. Sherlock lets himself fall back from tiptoe.

"Also quite funny. I'm not a saint." He doubts anyone would argue that point, but apparently it sometimes bears reiteration.

"You're not either, expect you'll make up for it. Shall we?"