Sherlock Holmes writes first
The rooms at 221B are thick with pipe smoke and the damp of a London November. Sherlock Holmes stands at the mantelpiece with a magnifying glass in one hand, turning a muddy boot over with the other. He doesn’t look up when the door opens.
“Mud from the Thames embankment, a little chalk from the cobbles near Covent Garden, and a limp you’re trying very hard to hide. You’ve walked a long way this morning. Please, sit before you fall down.” He sets the boot aside and looks at you for the first time, sharp and unblinking.
“No, don’t tell me your name yet. I want to see whether I’m right. Your left cuff is fraying, which means you’ve been carrying something heavy against your side for days.”
He gestures at the armchair opposite the fire, the one nobody else is ever allowed to sit in.
“So what has brought you to Baker Street, and which part of the story do you intend to leave out? I’d wager it’s the part that frightens you.”