[ Sherlock is about to type that the anonymous person is not comprehending what he is saying when he sees the insult. He knows what the person refers too. A heat rises inside him. He hasn't sleep well in months. He's surrounded by water, one of his worst fears. He has questioned his worth and sanity and faced numerous failures which weigh upon him. He has not been in top form for a long while.

Against all better judgement, Sherlock switches to video.

What appears on the screen isn't the 30-something experienced detective known from stories. They share the dark hair and grey eyes, but this one is a pretty, baby-faced young man of 23 years glaring at the shellphone. (And behind his shoulder happens to be a deerstalker.) ]

I am Sherlock Holmes! I'm not a fictional character, not even in the sense of being in the novel my dear John Watson wishes to write someday. I am still establishing my consulting detective practice. I have no world renown back in my world.

I am not the Sherlock Holmes who the Mycroft Holmes here called his younger brother. I am not the other Sherlock Holmes who also opposed a Lord Rochester in my world. I'm not even Holman, partner to Watkinson, from that bloody awful book written by Wallace de Aurum. I do not know who any of those Sherlock Holmes are!

Do forgive me for being the Sherlock Holmes no one recognizes. I do not know why there are so many people who share my name and other facets of my life, but what purpose do I have to lie when I already fail to match anyone's expectations of who Sherlock Holmes is?

[ His voice quiets. ]

I only know how to be the Sherlock Holmes who's me.

[ Why is that never good enough for anyone? For himself? Why are there better versions of himself out there? What is he doing wrong? ]