The best part of this is the peculiarly accurate portrayal of what it's like to be roommates -- and roommates with an eccentric. Sherlock Holmes is amiable enough, an expressive violinist, an educated peer, but he has a je ne sais quois that Holmes cannot divine ... until a dead body, a wedding ring, and a German word written in blood shows up, and the lightbulb goes off.

Maybe the most fascinating part of the story -- way more fascinating than the murder itself -- is Doyle discovering his own iconic character's potential. When the book disappears in many chapters where Sherlock Holmes isn't involved, it sags and loses all velocity. But when the text comes back to Holmes and his elusive wit, the book takes off like a piston and you hang on every word. The electric joy isn't trying to figure out who did it, but figuring out how Sherlock figured out who did it.

All the pieces are there, with just enough missing to make me want to read some more about Sherlock and his exceptionally curious roommate.