[ A flash of genuine confusion crosses Sherlock's face. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that. Sherlock drops to sit on the bed and and tents his fingers before his lips. He needs to think. Mikotoba is right, it sounds unbelievable. He could be lying, but what would his motive be then? There's no logical reason for such a lie. Especially when the man before him seems just unnerved. ]

I... Sixteen years ago I would have been seven. I wasn't yet a consulting detective.

[ That is something he can put into place easily. His father passed away a year earlier. Jon was with him. His mother... and Mycroft probably realized everything was beginning to fall apart. ]

I took up diggings just last year with Doctor John Watson. I keep my own notes, but I think he's been taking some of his own in hopes of writing a story based on this case.

[ His grey eyes go wide when he realizes he's left the good doctor alone in a cultist lair in the Louisiana Bayou. Thankfully, Watson has a shotgun and can help Arneson if he finds him still alive. ]

Arsène Lupin addressed the letter he left with "Herlock Sholmes." I thought he was either misspelling my name, possibly as an attempted taunt. It's never been my name or anything anyone has called me.

[ Somehow, putting the pieces together into some kind of order doesn't put him at ease. He grabs his battered casebook and starts writing down notes, the need to do something instead of lingering in nebulous state is too strong. This really is too much like when he first met Watson, seeing and hearing the ghost of Jon at the same time. ]