Sherlock's own confusion and clear upset stopped Will's rage cold, and almost made him just about believe the man that he really was who he said he was. If he was a fake, he wouldn't be this upset about it.

"Magnus... didn't tell you?" Why the hell not? She must have had good reason, but he'd gone and screwed that up now... then again, if she didn't want him to say she would have told him to keep his mouth shut, and warned him that there was a Sherlock Holmes living in the Carnival. She didn't do either, and he can't help but wonder why.

Well, no hope for it now. He'll have to explain everything.

"James Watson. That was the name of the man who inspired one Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to write about a detective, the greatest detective who ever was. He could read your life's story in how you wore your watch--or your pants, probably. He would take any case, no matter how small, as long as it was interesting." He took a deep breath, folding his hands in front of him and looking down at them. "He was... Watson was a good friend to Magnus. They were... well, they did an experiment, with a few others, and Watson became so smart he was able to build himself a machine that kept him alive for more than a century. The books were written before they did the experiment, so..."

He glanced up, trying to fix Sherlock with a hard glare. "If you're half the man James Watson was, then... then I'll believe you're Sherlock Holmes."