I’m the Greatest Detective in the World of Sherlock Holmes!

After transmigrating into the body of Arthur Doyle, an impoverished nobleman, he made a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.

To save money, he rented an apartment at 221B Baker Street with his maid.

Then he discovered that his new roommate was none other than Sherlock Holmes.

To avoid being tormented by the madman who played the violin in the middle of the night, conducted explosive experiments in the living room, and sometimes took it into his head to fire at the walls, and to pay off his debts as soon as possible,

Arthur decided to become a writer who recycled detective stories.

And so The Ice-Pick Murder, And Then There Were None, and Murder on the Orient Express burst onto the scene!

The locked-room mystery, the unreliable narrator, the country-house murder... Every classic trick sent readers in Victorian London into a frenzy, and countless fans hailed Arthur as the British Empire's god of detective fiction.

Holmes, however, picked up his manuscript and found fault with it: "A murder weapon made of ice? It wouldn't melt that fast at London's winter temperatures!"

"A locked room made with a thin wire? The scrape marks on the lock would be enough for any detective with a normal IQ to spot!"

"And this little Belgian fellow named Poirot..."

Holmes tossed down the newspaper and said, "Why does he get more love letters from readers than I get client letters?"

Just as Arthur thought he was about to pay off his debts, an inspector from Scotland Yard came to see him. "Mr. Arthur, someone has committed a series of murders in the East End using the methods from your books."

Years later, when questioned by Scotland Yard, Arthur still insisted:

"I'll say this one last time."

"I'm just a detective novelist."

"I'm definitely not an underworld crime boss!"