Do you have a circled T?

We introduced Sir Arthur to Sherlock Holmes. While the author had made it clear that he hated the character of Sherlock he himself had created, he seemed fascinated by our addled friend.

“How could I possibly resist? It’s not often that a writer gets to meet his own creation.”

Sherlock on the other hand, seemed displeased. He puffed steadily on his pipe and glared at the celebrated author. After some discussion over tea downstairs, Sherlock sat back.

“What you’re suggesting, after I strip away the condescension, is that I don’t exist,” he said flatly.

Arthur shook his head. “You exist as a man, sir, but Sherlock Holmes is an artistic invention. I created him. Um, look.” He picked up a copy of The Sign of the Four that Crabtree had brought with him. “This book was written by Arthur Conan Doyle. I am Arthur Conan Doyle.”

Sherlock laughed. “I am familiar with these scribblings,” Sherlock replied. “I had always assumed you are a pseudonym for my dear friend Doctor Watson. It appears you have put your name on his work. Given that you seem to have earned your reputation on the basis of my adventures, I submit to you, Mr. Doyle, that I created you.” He dropped the book back on the table with a thud.

Not put off in the slightest, Arthur continued. “All right then, Mr. Holmes. In The Final Problem, you died, did you not?”

“No, I shamefully led Watson to that conclusion.Moriarty’s agents were determined to kill me. I had to make them think I was already dead.”

“But there were two sets of footprints leading to the edge of the falls and none coming back,” Arthur argued. “How did you survive?”

Sherlock raised his brows as though the answer were obvious. “I retraced my own footsteps backwards to where I could scale the cliff and escape,” he said flatly.

Arthur froze for a moment, then pulled a notebook and pen out of his jacket pocket and scribbled down a note. “Actually, that’s not bad…” he mused. “What did you do after that?”

“I set out to see the world. I met the Dali Lama in Tibet, Caliphate in Sudan. Eventually I came here and caught sight of Sebastian Moran.”

Still scribbling, Doyle gestured for him to continue.

“One of Moriarty’s henchmen,” he explained. “Or do you not know his name?”

Sir Arthur stuttered, clearly unfamiliar with Moran.

“You likely also have not heard of The Case of the Vanished Star,” Sherlock sneered.

“The what?” Doyle asked. “I have never written a story called The Case of the Vanished Star.”

“It was ten years ago,” Sherlock explained. “I had just solved the case of The Sign of the Four and was about to conduct chemical experiments with gypsum when a young lad appeared at my door. He was about thirteen, although the sorrow in his eyes made him look older. I knew from his countenance–“

“I don’t care about his bloody countenance,” the Inspector interjected. “Get to the facts.”

“He wanted me to solve the murder of his father,” Sherlock continued. He appeared unusually serious and subdued as he explained the case. “And retrieve the Star of Tarsus. The boy’s father had joined with a couple of thieves to steal a precious diamond from a regular exhibit at an embassy in the city. They replaced it with a glass replica so no one would know it was gone.”

“And what happened to the father?” Murdoch asked.

“He was double crossed. The henchman, Moran, shot him on the orders of Moriarty, but not before he hid the diamond where only his son would know where to look.”

“And where was that?” Brackenreid asked.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock sighed. “He promised his son a clue would come to him but none ever did.”

“And what was this boy’s name?”

“If memory serves me correctly, his name was David Kingsley.”