[He finds the closet without trouble. Sure enough, there's a dressing gown in mouse-brown that looks like it will fit. What are all these -- other suits, though? Their cuts are all strange. The style seems American, but not in a way Sherlock can definitively identify.

The photographs, too, are something else -- in colour, all of them, which would in his time be a rarity and a ridiculous expense -- and none of them ones he remembers taking. He is arm in arm with a woman he doesn't know in the dullest pose anyone might imagine, and there he is holding a baby -- who could believably be the Leo he met.]

They did find an infant with similar features, [he remarks to himself.] If this is a hoax and not a mere dream, they certainly made an effort.

[Similar remarks are made at the other knickknacks and photos.

In a drawer in the closet, though, he finds--]

This is -- Placido's gun. What is it doing here? Why did they leave it, but not any of my usual clothes...?

[Sherlock slips the pistol into the pocket of the dressing-gown, because that's firearm safety, and ties it around his waist. A pair of slippers go on, also strangely fitted to his feet, and then Sherlock's on his way downstairs, following the teenage mutant vocalizing. At the door, with a haunted look in his eyes -- though with the red rims and dark circles, it'd be much harder for them not to look haunted -- Sherlock announces his presence by way of saying:]

You were right about the photographs.