Ladies and Gentlemen, for all those who were worried about what happened to me over the past two days, I’ll have you know that I am well and safe hiding in the East of London. However there is something of more gravity I wish to tell you.
I have made a decision (not lightly, mind you) to reveal my true identity to you, which you in jest told me. You will probably not believe me, and it will seem that I am mad but I assure that is true; for you all know me better as the famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes. I have been transported to this realm by some means unknown to me which I am thoroughly devoting my efforts to solving. I have since discovered that I am transported not only through conventional time and space but to another dimension of reality where my existence is regarded as a fiction – that is, an element of the popular culture which, though people may access it, their ignorance leads them to maintain a shallow and most flawed impression of me. And for all of you readers who have heard of me but are not well familiar, those who have decided not to observe me well and draw their own conclusions of me out of sloth – oh, you future Lestrades, you! – I would like to inform you of the following.
- I do not frequently say “Elementary, my dear Watson”; to my knowledge I have never said it once. I do speak of the elementary details to my comrade, but only to imbue him with a particular philosophy of observation, and never merely to gloat!
- While I am not known to display it frequently in the crowds I am a tasteful, sensible dresser. I wear a well-tailored suit around town and in my abode I enjoy donning a nice smoking jacket with a pipe of tobacco smoke. I would never wear a deerstalker hat and tweed cape anywhere but the far-reaching countryside; to wear such an outfit otherwise around my well-to-do acquaintances – some of whom are friends of the royal courts of Europe – I would positively look like an ass!
I could go on about how my story has been reduced to a shallow caricature – I imagine to be compatible with your odd social mores – but I have made the mistake in the past making a qualm about your absurdities. For my outburst I have been accused for a crime against some bottom dwelling panderer. I move on to this business.
You have all spoken of this Reynald St. Jerome to me… or Hercule Poirot which many of you wish to call him. By good chance, I happened to have received information of where he is hiding on the east end of London. I shall go to his apartment and figure out who this person really is and what he wants from me. Tonight I shall settle the score!