As Roger Moore is the only real James Bond, Jeremy Brett was not only the best but the only true and authentic Sherlock Holmes.  I reach this assertion not as a purely subjective interpretation of the many facets of the character in our civilization but after extensive research into Conan Doyle’s original character and his many characteristics. Basil Rathbone looked the part, certainly, with the signature thin-boned face and deep set eyes but, alas, that generation of Holmes was too light and witty – almost comedic.  Brett, bless his soul, was not only an actor’s actor but possessed the haunted darkness of a long-tormeted man – restless spirit, deviant preoccupations, lack of comfort in comforting things such as food, drink and companionship.  His only friends were his longheld cocaine addiction, a poorly-tuned violin, and a morose proclivity for abnormal psychology.  And, of course, his trusted dear Watson.  It is my contention that Jeremy Brett is what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle intended of the character – thus the reason for his sole presence in this forum.

“Water,” begs Holmes before my hand slaps over his moving lips.

“Quiet!” I hiss back, pointing to the door. “I’ve got a plan.”

His brows raise but an inch, as if my feeble brain could conceive of anything but food and tobacco. “We’re going to play dead, but I shall my revolver poised in my right hand upon their closer inspection.”

“The taller one’s got a lame leg – the left – use it to your advantage.”

“That’s it!” I exclaim, recalling in that moment the newspaper boy perched on the opposite side of Baker St. this morning, hobbling on one leg.  From our present location in the building diagonally across from our own well-respected rooms, I could garner his attention by tossing a note out the window.  Careful where I apply my weight upon the creaky floor, I reach slowly into the tuck of my trouser pocket to retrieve my notebook and pencil, scribble two words upon the crinkled page and beg the powers above us to conceal the sound of tearing parchment.

Ah, a cleared throat, the shuffle of a boot dragged across the wooden floorboards and bodies and clothing rustling to stand.  I gently tap Holmes’ knee to signal him, but then see that his wide eyes wouldn’t miss a narrow escape for all the cocaine in London.  He is near death, I must gravely admit to myself, but as always, he is ready for whatever comes next…

I calmly rise and take one step to the window, raise it with one hand and peer to find the hobbled boy actually meeting my gaze.  With an index finger to my lips, I toss the paper to him and wave a hand to signal haste.  After seeing the words on my note and the quid in the center, he runs as quickly as his mal-formed legs will take him.

“I’ll bet you two rounds he’s dead as a…” and as the door to our hideout creaked open, I pulled Holmes’ upper body over my left shoulder and reached under him with my right hand…and fired.  One of them shot back, but the round ricocheted against the door’s edge, redirecting the bullet into the west wall.  Holmes and I tumbled clumsily out the first story window into a hedge of Juniper, met by the comforting two-toned siren of Scotland Yard.

By Lisa Polisar

Copyright 2008

“Holmes.”

“What?”

“You’re leaking.”

“Well stick a rag in it, Watson, stop the blood.  And while you’re at it, be a good chap and pour a swig of brandy in my mouth.”

“Certainly not,” I said.  “Alcohol dehydrates and lowers the body temperature.”  I looked seriously at him.  “It’s a wonder you’re alive at all.”  He set his beady snake eyes upon me, assessing the strength of my resolve. 

“Can you fix me up at all?”

“No.”

“A field dressing—”

“The less we move right now, the better.” 

After feeling the weakening pulse from Holmes’ wrist, I gazed upon the door and our precarious proximity to it.  “It’s already down to…thirty five degrees I should think.  What I will do, though, is be your brains for you.”

“Please,” he gasped, milking the fleeting opportunity to belittle me.  “It hurts too much to laugh.” 

Holmes closed his eyes and sighed heavily.  “I venture we’re alright for the moment.  They’ve just eaten and no doubt sipped on a flask of whiskey.  That should buy us at least a couple of hours.”

“Eaten?”

Still with his eyes closed, “Yes,” he mumbled.  “Tinley’s tea cake, with a tinge of lemon curd still on it.”

See, Sherlock Holmes may have died through the natural course of literary attrition.  Some say Arthur Conan Doyle intended to truly kill him off, only to renew his presence later.  The truth is that I am the reincarnation and personification of Sherlock Holmes.  Okay, fine, call me a vampire if it makes you feel better, as I am immortal.  But I don’t drink blood (despite my constant pallor) to stay alive.  The truth is I really don’t eat anything, and I rarely sleep.  Blood, to me, comes in the form of PUZZLES.