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When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
— Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock Holmes is a fictional detective created by author Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. A London-based "consulting detective" whose abilities border on the fantastic, Holmes is famous for his astute logical reasoning, his ability to adopt almost any disguise, martial arts expertise, and his use of forensic science skills to solve difficult cases. Alongside his companion, Dr. John H. Watson, Holmes has solved numerous intricate cases for clients such as Scotland Yard.

Battle vs. Sam Spade (by Danites)[]

The Crime Scene: A Riverfront Pier

Lestrade, Holmes, and Watson watched as the motor carriage pulled up to the dock. The three Englishmen were apprehensive about this meeting, and had prepared accordingly. Sadly for them, so had the three Americans.

Spade, Archer, and Polhaus got out of the car and approached the Englishmen. It was a terse meeting; neither side trusted the other. And when Spade reached into his jacket for a cigarrette, all Hell broke loose.

Watson drew his Webley up, thinking Spade was going for his gun, and fired. His bullet, intended for Spade, instead killed Tom Polhaus, who fell with a loud cry. Spade and Archer both drew their Colts and returned fire, killing Lestrade before taking cover.

The two sides exchanged shots, with the American Colt 1911s keeping the British detectives pinned down. While the British were reloading, Miles Archer attempted to advance, only to have Holmes draw his supressed revolver and gun him down. Spade, enraged by the death of his friend, fired his last three bullets at Watson. They failed to hit the doctor.

The American detective drew his Pocket Pistol from his trench coat and edged along the pier, obscured from Holmes's view. Watson fumbled a round, and, bending over to pick it up, gave Spade the opening he needed. Two rounds from the pocket pistol hit Watson in the shoulder, and, with a cry, the doctor fell backwards into the water.

Holmes, needless to say, was angry.

The detective, crop in hand, rushed out from behind his cover. Spade turned the Pocket Pistol on Holmes, but the detective skillfully disarmed him. Dodging a blow from the crop that would have sent him sprawling, Spade grabbed a pipe that was lying on the dock. He hit Holmes's hand, breaking the crop and sending him backwards. The Englishman ran back towards the end of the pier. Spade dropped the pipe and drew his knife, pursuing him.

Unfortunatly for Spade, Sherlock was running towards his rapier scabbard. He reached the piers edge, and drew the rapier. He looked over his shoulder at the bullrushing Spade.

"A feint with the rapier to draw him off balance, than a sweeping kick under his leg to topple him. A quick stab through the stomach into his lungs and intestines, followed by a second stab in the same area. If he gets proper medical care, two months of physical recovery. Mental capacity to kill my associates; nil."

Holmes turned and made a blind stab with the rapier. Spade slowed, slipping on the wet dock. The Englishman's leg went under his own, tripping him. The American hit the ground hard, and looked up in time to see the rapier stab down twice. He clutched his gut, bleeding out onto the pier.

Sherlock Holmes took out his handkerchief and calmly wiped his blade. He replaced it in the scabbard, and, taking his walking stick, gingerly stepped over the body and walked away. With the current tides, Watson would be somewhere along the beach to the South. If Holmes hurried, he may even be able to save his arm.

VICTOR: SHERLOCK HOLMES

Expert's Opinion[]

Even though Spade had the adavtage because of modern weaponry, Holmes' intellectual genius, quick thinking, and better close quarter weapons and combat earned him the victory.

To see the original battle, weapons, and votes, click here.

Battle vs. Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday alongside Dr. Watson (by 123chaseyoung)[]

“You hear somethin’ Doc?” Marshall Wyatt Earp said as both men traverse the badlands in the hot afternoon. Doc Holliday, the infamous gunslinger, tips his hat to hide his head from the searing sun. Both men were sweating like rump roast, but still continue their quest to kill the assassins responsible for Morgan Earp’s death. “I hear nothin’ but death’s tune waitin’, when we finally cross his path,” Doc said, gentlemanly as ever in their horses.

Wyatt ignored the smart-ass yip yaps. He gets off his horse and stabs the ground with his bowie knife. He puts his ears in the hilt and listens. “I hear a stagecoach comin’ this way. The informant must be hear,” Wyatt said, his cold dark tone vibrates in the air.

For a long time, Doc has been worried for his friend. Their brotherhood has survived through countless of violence, and Doc watches and worries as he sees his great companion, Wyatt Earp, destroys himself into a true monster. “Listen Wyatt, I think enough blood has been spilled throughout. We had a good run, Curly Bill is dead, that was the important thing right? We should end this menagerie soon, you and I will not forever be invincible,” Doc warns him.

But Wyatt, hating the pure guts Doc dared to throw in his ears, grabs him by the collar and pulls him off his horse, his dark eyes meets the dentist’s. “You and I both know this is the only way! Those cowboys are out there laughin’ their ass off while my brother lies 6 feet under! Yeah Curly Bill’s dead, but Phony Diehl and Johnny Ringo are still out there. I ain’t stopping until every single cowboy is dead! With or without you...”

Riding in the East, Dr. Watson puts more speed in his galloping carriage. Stumbling and hoping things will go well. Their opponent is waiting, and the great Sherlock Holmes isn’t the man who lets his fellow men wait. In the searing hot desert filled with red rock and sand, Holmes didn’t even had the interest to light his pipe as the heat burns his back.

“My dear Watson, how do you ever cope up with this temperature? This place feels like the furnace of Tartarus,” Holmes said hanging inside the carriage, comfortable and well, drinking a glass of sherry as their horses drag them to their destination. Watson, being an Afghan War veteran, knows the extent of a city boy’s first reaction to hot weather and cold sweat. “Carry on Holmes. My, it was like the first time I set foot into fellow Afghan’s territory. Trust me you’ll get used to it.”

“Hmm. My oven will get used to it,” Holmes replies sarcastically.

“Better be ready old boy. I see two horses in front of us. Remember the plan eh?” Watson said.

The plan, an idea that rings in Watson’s head. Today, they will be up against a terrible force of nature, two bloodthirsty gunslingers. Watson fully knows the chain of events that lead to this battle. Holmes and he were contacted by the Pinkertons to aid them in capturing two vigilantes, Marshal Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, who were wanted for murder. They arrived in America two days ago, and Holmes ingenuity led them to where they will meet them. But help from the pinkertons never arrived as they were ambushed yesterday in an Arizonian canyon by unknown assailants.

Holmes could have given up this quest, but looking to give a good end for this adventure, pursues to carry on even without the aid of anybody in the region. Yesterday, Holmes disguised himself as a cowboy whistleblower, where he talked with a man named Texas Jack Vermillion in a saloon, and gave them false information to lure Wyatt and Holliday into an open desert, and finally arrest them... if they can.

Watson was always against this adventure. They are far away from home, and up against vicious men. But Watson trusts Holmes, he trusts him with all his life, the same way he trusted him in their fight against Moriarty and other countless adventure. If they survive this, it would make a great novel.

“Watson, I think its better if you and I switch places,” Holmes said, trying to put Watson inside the more protected carriage.

“Nonsense Holmes, things will be fine. Did I ever doubt you?” Watson said. Holmes on the contrary, didn’t want his friend to be in harm’s way—again. The last time they tangle up against an American gunfighter, Watson almost lost his life. Holmes swore never for it to happen again.


Wyatt and Doc sees the carriage stop right in front of them. Watson bows his head at the two gunman. Wyatt on the other hand, was impatient as ever.

“Yer’ fella said he knows where Phony Diehl is,” Wyatt said. “Now its time you give the end of the bargain.”

Watson, using his fake American accent which he and Holmes have practiced, said, “Diehl is in Minnesota. If you have the time, you can tag him riding with the James’ gang.”

Dr. Watson picks up a bottle of sherry and hands it over to Doc Holliday. “Drink up. It’ll be a long ride. Sympathizers from Arizona have donated some weapons for ya’. There in the back if you want any.”

Doc Holliday and Wyatt look at each other. Then unmount their horse and heads to the back of the large stagecoach. Watson opens the door and lets Wyatt inside. As Wyatt goes deeper inside the carriage, he sees a big pile of weapons ranging from odd-looking European pistols to bolt action rifles. Doc Holliday and Dr. Watson stay outside the coach.

But Doc, with his cunning instincts tingling, smells a puff of smoke in the air coming from the inside of the coach. Someone’s been smoking inside, and Doc knows the coach is hiding someone. He gets ready.

“Wyatt look out!” Doc yells as he sees Sherlock Holmes tackle Wyatt. Watson grabs his revolver, but Doc was too fast, drawing his six-shooter and shoots Watson in the gut. Watson drops to the floor clutching his abdomen. The horses jumped and screamed at the ensuing battle.

“Watson!” Holmes yells as he pummels Wyatt in the face, followed by a knee to the groin and a jab to the sternum. Doc Holliday tries to aim his revolver at Holmes, but fears he may hit Wyatt. Dr. Watson, though wounded, managed to get up and fires at Holliday with his revolver. But Holliday quickly took cover behind the stage coach and continues firing with his shotgun.

Holmes and Wyatt were in a gruesome melee. Wyatt managed to pistol whip Holmes in the face, breaking his nose, but Holmes quickly slashes his cheek with a riding crop, before punching Earp again in the torso, breaking a rib. With a quick punch in the shoulder’s nerve, Holmes paralyzes Wyatt in his left arm. Battered and bruised, Wyatt unsheathes his bowie knife with his remaining arm and strikes at Holmes, cutting deeply into Holmes chest. But Holmes disarms Wyatt with his riding crop and continues savagely punching Wyatt in the face into a bloody pulp.

Doc Holliday and Dr. Watson too were locked in a gunfight. Watson loads his Mauser, and takes a careful aim, which grazes Holmes in the thigh. Still firing his shotgun, Holliday is still worried about Wyatt.

Holmes however, readies his death blow, but Wyatt manages to kick himself away and ran outside the carriage. Holliday gives Wyatt his winchester, which Wyatt viciously fires at the carriage. Holmes lay down and crawls to the entrance as bullets fly above him. Watson fires at Wyatt with his mauser, shooting Wyatt’s rifle and putting it out of commision. Pissed, Wyatt throws the rifle to the ground and continues firing with his revolver.

Holliday, knowing that this battle has to end, circles the coach to flank Watson. Watson however, anticipates, still ready with his rifle. As the two were about to meet at the corner, Holliday dives in the air at Watson, and shoots him multiple times in the torso with his two revolvers. Watson died before he hit the ground, and Holliday stumbles.

Holmes, upon seeing this, yells in anguish. He draws a pepperbox hidden in his sleeve and fires at the downed Doc, hitting him two times in the back. Holliday yells as hot lead penetrate his shoulder blades.

Wyatt suddenly comes from behind aims his revolver at Holmes. But Holmes, in deep though, was in shock of his beloved friend’s gruesome death.

“Watson took 4 bullets in the chest. 2 hit the heart. Chances of survival... nil. Must not let his death be in vain. Bastard gunman behind me, will attempt to fire his pistol. Bullet will fly in the right side. Circle around and dodge. Get close beyond his range, before jabbing at his nose. Gunman will attempt another pistol whip, block with elbow, fracture his phalanges, disable gunman’s ability to shoot. Perform heel kick in the left lung. Stunned for 6 seconds, finish him by a strike at the wind pipe. Chances of survival...nil.”

Holmes does so perfectly, and Wyatt slumps to the ground trying to catch a breath. Holmes continous savagely punching Wyatt in the face. Wyatt lays on the dusty ground half-dead with a broken, undesirable face. Holmes attempted to shoot Wyatt with his pepperbox, but the gun misfires. So he walks towards Watson’s corpse, tears flowing in his eyes, but tight-lipped nonetheless.

To honor his dead friend, Holmes unsheathes Watson’s cane sword, and approaches with bloodthirsty eyes on the down Wyatt. Holmes raises the sabre to chop Wyatt’s head off.

BANG!

A shot suddenly rings out and a bullet hits Holmes in the left ventricle. Looking behind him, he sees Doc, who still had a pint of strength, holding a smoking revolver in his hand. Holmes, though wounded, still attempts to slash Wyatt. But Wyatt grabs his revolver in time, and fires at Holmes, hitting him in the neck. Holmes yell in pain as the two gunfighters simultaneously took turns emptying their revolvers at him. Holmes took 3 bullets in the chest and 6 bullets in the head. The great detective fell down dead, dead as a rag.

“Wyatt...” a man calls him. It was Doc Holliday, wounded and bleeding, but still alive. Wyatt, with relieving joy, helps his down comrade and puts him inside the stagecoach. “You sure are one tough redneck sonuvabitch,” Wyatt said.

“And you are one crazy fucker,” Doc Holliday said. “I told you, I’ve always been the better gunman than you.”

Wyatt smiled as he climbs to his seat. “Sure you are Doc. I owe you my life tenfold.”

“That’s what friends are for you dumbprick,” Doc said as they rode away into the sunset to get medical attention. Leaving behind two corpses for the condors to feast.

Winner: Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday

Expert's Opinion[]

Holmes may had the advanatage of his intellect and stealth and Watson with his military training, but the two gunfighters were more experienced in a violent confrontation. Holliday and Earp were also better marksman, better eqquipped, and were faster on the draw than the two crime-solvers.

To see the original battle, weapons, and votes, click here.

Battle vs. James Bond (Novels) (by LokoDito)[]

The British secret agent, James Bond, code-named 007, was feeling angsty and anxious. He sat on a cold rickety bed inside a lonely dappy room for rent, with an orange lighting flicking above his head. Not a good place to stay for someone with style, but he needed a safehouse that was unknown and undetectable. In case someone did find him, he always had his pistol and knife ready.

Bond still did not understand why he got into this predicament. He seriously did not cheat with the wife of a senior marine commando, and definitely did not kill her husband when the bastard came home earlier than usual. He did not remember any scream, pleads, and begs from no woman. He was a comfy and peaceable man, who left at the first signs of trouble. So it was a mystery how the news reported that there were two bodies found dead inside their house.

A knock jolted Bond out of his bed, his pistol in his hand. At first, he decided to ignore it and create an illusion that he was fast asleep. But the knocking persisted beyond crazy, prompting Bond to inquire who it was, hoping that this was just the landlord wanting to say goodnight, or to tell him of some maintenance work. Bond crept into the door, pistol now behind his back, and answered, "Who is it?"

To his surprise, he heard a female's voice, saying, "Good evening, sir. I am here to deliver some blankets and beddings for the cold."

Normally, Bond would have just told her to piss off. But the woman seemed... enticing. Her sweet, pleasant, soft voice, was very womanly and lacking any straight tone of a bitch with a brain. From that voice, he could discern that the woman was in her mid-20s, probably a young college girl working for a tuition fee or something. This girl was probably soft, supple, submissive, and someone who would be a good cuddle at the very least, and at the very best, a mighty reason to thank God for Genesis 1:28.

Not wanting to delay it further, Bond decided to holster his pistol and let the woman in. Ask her to fix his bed and... we'll maybe he could think of something on the fly. When Bond opened the door, however, there was no woman to enjoy the night with. A girl's footsteps could be heard thudding in the hallways, probably belonging to the one whom he should be meeting with. Instead, an old man in a long coat and a deerstalker, stood in front of Bond.

"Commander Bond, I presume?" the great detective, Sherlock Holmes, remarked upon seeing the agent. "Would you care for a chat?"

Holmes had been hired to track down this wanted man, and upon finally seeing him face-to-face, his deductions did not disappoint. Strong jaw and eat hair created an image of someone with pride. His expensive white jacket and black suit and slacks spoke of someone who was leisured. Yet, the crooked brow and sinister smirk screamed of someone narcissistic and dangerous. It didn't take much from what Holmes could gather to concoct the best plan for this son of a bitch. He knew that a woman would make the easy bait. It might have sounded creepy and utterly dangerous, but all Holmes needed was to find Bond, and find the best lure to get him literally with his trousers down.

"Guess you caught me," Bond said as he allowed Sherlock Holmes into his room. "I had a feeling that if there's anyone who was going to track me down in London, it would be you."

Unfortunately, it seemed Bond himself had been expecting the hunter as well. He closed and locked the door behind the great detective, making the latter turn around in surprise. Bond then slammed his fist on the switch, taking away their only source of light. Holmes then felt a kick into his abdomen that sent him crashing unto a wooden cabinet. After hearing the click of a pistol, Holmes quickly drew his revolver and fired blindly into the dark.

Bond knew the sound of an old-fashioned revolver, and the moment he counted six shots, it was his turn to fire back. A bullet from Bond's Walther slammed into Holmes's shoulder, making the detective drop his revolver. Not like it would be useful anyways at this moment. With his shoulder damaged, and weapon out of action, Holmes made a calculated risk. He dashed towards the only light he could find, the shimmering window, and dove head first, breaking glass everywhere. The detective fell from the second floor and slammed painfully on the concrete sidewalk. But such pain was nothing now that he was safely outside, forcing his adversary to race down to the street.

The secret agent did not see that one coming. Cursing, he grabbed his brief case, went out of his room and into the stairs, doing his best to get down immediately before his quarry could escape. The smart thing to do was to forget about that detective and get out of London. But he had to finish off Holmes since the info that he had might led to his eventual capture. Bond also knew that Holmes was one of the only few who could track him in his own game, and one could imagine the boost in Bond's reputation when he finally become the one to take out the great Sherlock Holmes.

Bond arrived unto the foggy London streets, grabbing fresh magazines and a suppressor from his brief case. There was a trail of blood leading to an alleyway. Hoping that the injury must have crippled Holmes's movement and decision-making skills, Bond gleefully entered the lane with hungry eyes. He was eager to finish this battle soon, then find that girl afterwards and invite her to tea in his room, whether she liked it or not.

Suddenly, a sharp pain ignited on Bond's palm, making him drop his pistol. It came from Holmes's riding crop. One slap was enough to lacerate skin, but a second one actually fractured a bone. Yelling in pain, Bond bolted out of the alley and back into the street. He grabbed a switchblade from his leather shoe holster and threw it at Holmes, which the great detective parried away with a cane. Bond then went for Holmes's legs, but the detective caught him, before flipping the agent to the pavement.

As Bond grunted in pain, his back laid flat on the street, a French kiss from Holmes's cane finally knocked him out. Holmes then called a cabbie to haul this meat sack into jail.

Expert's Opinion[]

Although Bond has an advantage with better pistol and professional training, Holmes's other weapons and superior x-factors, especially his intellect, won him the day.

To see the original battle, weapons, and votes, click here.

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