Who's the best Sherlock Holmes? Ben or Rob? Who would win if they went head to head? Read When Iron Meets Mettle to watch them slug it out.
A visitor arrives at 221B, unlike any other Holmes has encountered before. Watching his arrogant friend flu...
It was late on a Thursday evening at 221B Baker Street. Holmes and I had just put to bed a mystery involving a Russian Count and a missing Faberge egg. For hours, we'd sat in the comfortable chairs of the warm parlour examining details of the case, ferreting out fact from falsehood, peering into the darkest recesses of the criminal mind seeking motivations from things said, and – more importantly – unsaid to arrive at our conclusion. Though my mind was energised by the workout, my body was sorely in need of some exercise. So I put on my coat, slipped down the stairs and out onto London's streets for some of the crisp evening air the city so generously supplied.
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I hadn't gone more than a dozen steps from our dwelling before I felt raindrops, squat and cold, upon my face. Turning upon my heel, I made for home, taking the stairs two at a time, intending to locate an umbrella and sally forth once again.
When, there, in the middle of our sitting room, stood a well-dressed gentleman, somewhere in his fourth decade, with wavy hair (which had not seen a comb for some time) and dark eyes, shiny as beetles. Unaware of my presence, he turned slowly about the room, open-mouthed, wearing an expression of enchantment. As if he were a child who'd stepped into a circus Tent.
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I cleared my throat to give the fellow a chance to collect himself. Upon spotting me, however, he seemed anything but abashed at being discovered thus. Indeed, his mouth stretched into a wide smile of delight – or was it amusement? Suffice it to say, it was not the usual demeanour of strangers arriving in our rooms to consult with the great detective, Sherlock Holmes.
"Dr Watson, I presume?" he said.
I nodded and smiled. "At your service. But you have the advantage of me, sir?"
"My name is Bradley Pitt. Brad Pitt." As we shook hands, the man's smile assumed a roguish aspect, a dimple appearing upon his right cheek and arousing my suspicions that 'Pitt' was not his real name. It was not uncommon for Holmes's clients to give false names upon arrival.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr Pitt. May I ask how you got in?"
"Oh, I knocked," he said. "The door was open, so I...?"
