ur previous day's excursion had left us quite exhausted, so we had a late start to the next leg in our journey. I'm afraid I was a terrible companion in our carriage as I kept my thoughts to myself along the way. While Watson pointed out the glorious vistas, I pondered Mycroft's words of advice before I left London.

Moriarty was now an old man, and he could poise no physical threat to me. He did not, as Watson painted in his account, have a legion of spies and hit men. However, he was a calculating and intelligent man, and if he sought to bring me ruin, it was within his power to do so.

It is foolishness to think the rock fall had any connection to the professor, but my mind had been so wound up in thoughts of him, I had come to an irrational conclusion. I berated myself for being as emotionally unkempt as a woman. I determined I would not let the memory of Professor Moriarty drive me to insanity.

Thus bolstered with logic and reason, by the time we settled on the train from Brienz, I became more talkative and cordial with my companion. From the humour that glinted in his eye, I sensed Watson was glad to have his friend's company again.

At last we arrived in Meiringen. As we supped that early evening, Watson, who has always had a penchant for small talk, gleefully made fast a friend of our landlord. I listened with only half an ear as the proprietor gave suggestions for further expeditions along our way, for I was already dreading the fulfillment of my promise to Watson the day before.

It is true that Watson has been privy to my private thoughts and moods for ten years of our acquaintance, and I dare say none other than my own brother knew me better than Watson, yet I remained apprehensive to divulge incidents from my past to my chronicler. I knew beyond doubt that he would respect any and all sensitive information presented to him, for there were from time to time incidents within our years together which he has held back from the public.

So it was with quiet contemplation we adjourned to our room. As Watson sat next to the fire and enjoyed a glass of port, I paced before the hearth. With my back to Watson, I spoke: "In all the years you have known me, Watson, what have I told you about my past?"

"Very next to nothing," he replied. "In fact, you once went so far as to tell me to use your methods against you if I wished to glean a kernel of truth."

"And what have you discovered?"

Watson paused at that. I knew he had kept some of his deductions about my person to himself. The days of old when I had mistreated the poor chap and feigned ignorance in certain areas of study in order to mislead him were long gone. Although I could still confound him at times with my insights on his own doings, I knew Watson well enough that he was not always taken by my tomfoolery.

"Well...," he began tenuously. "If I were to venture a guess...."

"A guess, Watson!"

"An observation, then," he corrected himself. I motioned a hand at him to proceed, which he did presently. "Although you've spoken of your years at University, you have never divulged which one, nor do you display any certificates or diplomas."

"Pieces of paper that make men congratulate each other without merit!" I dismissed. "Anything else?"

He continued, "Until you introduced me to your brother Mycroft, I had no inkling that you even had relatives. In fact, I had begun to believe that you were an orphan."

I smirked at that. "I have not told you of my past, Watson...for the simple truth that I do not wish you to know."

"That much is certain, Holmes, but—" his tender brown eyes questioned mine, "—why? For a man so wrapped up in righting the justice of others, surely you harbour no secrets of your own?"

In agitation, I leapt from my chair, turning my back again to Watson as I poured myself a glass of port. "If only it weren't so," I murmured as if to myself. Raising the glass to watch reflections of the fire flickering through the tawny liquid, I began: "It was no exaggeration when I told you that my brother Mycroft processes greater abilities than myself. As young lads, he was beloved of his teachers. They doted upon him praises of every kind, whilst myself.... I was an embarrassment to the whole of my family."

A look of shock lit Watson's face, but I forged onward to keep him from interrupting. "No, it's true. There were times when numbers and letters were meaningless to me. Finally thinking they could do no more, I was sent back to my parents with a note that perhaps it was best to think of an institution for me."

"Holmes!" Watson exclaimed his continued incredulousness at my revelation.

"It was Mycroft who came to the realization that it was not my mind but a matter of memory. Thus he pressed our mother into seeking for me a tutor to bring me back into the world of scholarship.

"It seemed that Providence had lead Professor Moriarty to seek an employ as a tutor. His resumé was, indeed, quite impressive. It seemed he was overqualified for such employ, but he was eager to begin shaping the mathematical minds of young men, and at such a reasonable sum, my father simply could not refuse."

A knock on the door startled me. I stopped where I was and regarded the door. Watson watched me, hesitant to move from the spot. With a wave of my hand, I retreated to my chair while Watson went to answer the summons.

Watson opened the door a crack and received a post from a young Swiss lad. The good doctor returned to the fire, but did not sit, electing to stand instead and proclaim, "This note is for me!"

"It is undoubtedly from our landlord—note that it is written on this lodging's letterhead," I revealed.

Watson opened the missive and read out loud, "Dear Dr. Watson: I do not wish to impose on you, but an English gentleman who has arrived recently suffers from the last stage of consumption. He feels he may not survive the night, and has refused to see a Swiss doctor. It would be a great consolation to him to see an English doctor...etc., etc."

He looked up from the note. "Holmes, your story!"

"Tut. You are a doctor, Watson. I would be remiss in keeping you from your duties. Besides, where am I going? My tale will wait."

Watson nodded and retrieved his bag. With one last glance in my direction, I reassured him, "I will be here."

He left me then, and suddenly I felt a chill over me. The interruption reminded me that we were not truly alone. Over the past week, Watson had been a most amiable companion, but my nerves were frayed, and I had not been able to sleep a full night since our journey began.

I made the decision then that I would not begin my story until I was assured no-one would overhear it, and it seemed that the landlord's suggestion of visiting the gorge on the morrow would be the most opportune locale for it.

Determined for a full night's rest, I retrieved my Moroccan case and measured a small dosage of morphine to ease my troublesome ache. As I undressed, already the drug began to take its effect on me. I was completely limp by the time Watson returned.

"How is the old chap?" I mumbled barely coherently from my bed as Watson looked over me in the door frame.

"Better than the landlord let on," Watson explained. "He was seized with a coughing fit, but I gave him a draft, and he will likely sleep soundly now."

"Hum." I felt as if I were wrapped in gauze.

"To bed already, Holmes?"

I wondered absently if Watson was disappointed that I had decided not to continue my tale to-night.

"Hum. Yes. We will have to-morrow."

For a while, I was unsure if I had completely dozed off until I heard a mumbled, "Good night, Holmes."

or the next few days, Watson and I leisurely made our way through the Alps along the Rhône, taking on sights via foot as well as by train. Watson was well taken by the spectacular vistas of Nature, and were I not plagued by the unpleasant memories of Moriarty, I would have delighted in them as well. As it was, every face that passed, every village we traversed through, I scrutinized in my usual way.

Although Watson wrote in his account that I remained in good spirits along the journey, I'm afraid it was a façade. I managed to slip my Moroccan case into my belongings, but with Watson's rueful gaze keeping a most watchful eye, I was unable to slip myself any dosage.

Instead, I threw myself into the physical exertion and suggested that we go by foot up the Gemini Pass. The trail was not a leisurely one, but with the help of a knowledgeable guide, we traversed over the rocky terrain where dense snow allowed us to pass.

I was grateful for the exercise, finding that the mountain air did do me much good. However, before we arrived at Kandersteg, just as Watson described, a large bolder dislodged itself from high above and came crashing down upon the lake beside us. My reaction to the incident left both Watson and our guide into thinking I was a wanted criminal.

Watson tried to bring levity to the situation when, once entering Kandersteg, we discovered a Hotel Adler to stay the night. I faked a humorous smile, but there was no fooling my good friend. By the time dessert was taken away and we had lit our pipes, Watson could take the silence no more, and he pressed upon me: "Holmes, are you or are you not going to tell me what the deuce is going on?"

I feigned some surprise. "Whatever d' you mean, Watson?"

"Come, Holmes. I've known you, and your methods, long enough." He whispered tightly across the table. "Who is this Moriarty? And what has he done to you?"

I lit my eyes squarely upon my friend for a moment before resting my gaze back upon the fire.

"Very well." Watson leaned back in his chair and examined his pipe before continuing, "I know you are not a man who takes idle blustering from braggarts. And I know you do not put your confidant into danger without precaution. Which lends me to believe the fire on Baker Street was a ruse—a ruse you engineered to thwart a very cunning man whom you still believe to be of some danger to your person."

"I applaud you, Watson," I congratulated. "Although patience may have stilled your tongue, you have not allowed your mind to become idle."

"Dammit, Holmes! This isn't a course on the logistics of deduction!" Watson reprimanded as he leaned forward again. "You have taken me into confidence in times of greater peril than this. Why do you keep your peace now?"

I sighed, releasing the breath of smoke from my mouth. After a moment, I answered him; "I'm sorry, old friend, for not being frank with you on the matter. I am not certain how much I can say—or should say, for that matter." Watson opened his mouth again as if to speak, but I raised a hand to silence him. "No, Watson, you are in no danger. And perhaps I was wrong to try to fool you otherwise." With another draw upon my pipe, I stated, "Once we enter into Meirigen, I promise to tell you everything I know."

s readers of Watson's chronicles, you know I am not prone to fits of romanticism; however, at this juncture, I must give credit its due and tell you of the enduring friendship the good doctor has extended to me throughout the years. Not only has he been indispensable as my assistant on numerous cases, he has been a constant companion and dearest friend. I am much obliged that he has put up with my inclement temperament, as I am not an easy man to live with. I have come to him in all manner of dress, at any time of the day or night, and imposed upon him the most pressing of requests, yet every time he has stood fast to our friendship.

So he has again now, agreeing to come away with me so suddenly to the Continent with little regard as to his practice. A simple telegraph to his wife along with arrangements with his neighbour, and we were away. I had put a strain upon him when in our mad dash I changed our plans quite suddenly, employing a special to change our route. I admit he looked quite pained to see his luggage go in one direction whilst we went in another. Oh, dear friend, forgive me for being so callous to you and your creature comforts!

I will admit, it was a great relief to be in the company of Watson again. His very presence had begun to put me at ease once we had put England behind us. I could not put Moriarty completely out of my mind, however, and by the beginning of the new week, I stole my chance to telegraph Mycroft for news. He replied by evening, informing me that, despite having lived a long and full life, Moriarty had no transgressions pressed against him of any sort.

Confounded that I was, I advised Watson to return to London at once; I felt a Black Mood coming upon me as none other I have experienced before, and already I had asked Watson to do so much. We argued the point for a good half-hour before he insisted he would go on with me, regardless. Moreover, Watson began to question me as to Moriarty's villainous deeds. I feigned tiredness on the train as we left for Geneva, and managed to escape his questioning gaze.

I have seen the ridiculous parodies in the papers of Dr. Watson's and my exploits. Always my associate is depicted as a walrus of a man, clumsily tripping over his own feet upon the crime scene with me examining clews with a large magnifying glass, checkered cap adorning my head, and explaining thusly: "Elementary, my dear Watson." Nothing of our relationship could be farther from the truth. Although a sturdy-built man, Watson, in spite of his war injuries, has kept a daily constitutional to keep himself fit, and he certainly is by no means an ignorant man. Does the public forget he is a doctor of medicine! Such depictions of his character gall me to no end, but Watson is a compromising and genteel sort, and forgiving beyond reason.

Thus I knew it would only be a matter of time before my companion had sussed me out and discovered my ruse.

pon leaving Mycroft's rooms, I had one small comfort from my brother. He promised to look into finding another way in securing Professor Moriarty for me, if not for the crimes we both knew he was guilty, but for a lesser, if not more common one. "It would only be a matter of time," said he, and encouraged me to seek out the other companion I have frequently turned for sage advice and a helpful hand.

I speak, of course, of my old friend and long-time associate, Dr. John Watson. Although by this time he had long settled into a married life, from time to time he found opportunity to impose himself upon me, and I in turn upon him. Watson is too much of a gentleman to speak of it, but my dear friend would on occasion find himself at odds with his Mrs. Watson. Bedraggled, he would appear at my door, seeking a bed for his weary head, and of course, I would not turn my old companion away. It was my pleasure to entertain the good doctor for a few days while he sorted out his affairs with his better half.

This was why, then, I felt no remorse to call upon Watson in the dark of evening that spring of '91. As fortune had it, Mrs. Watson was away; although she had no kin in the whole of England, she remained quite close to friends in Edinburgh and considered them like family.

I appeared in such a state in Watson's consulting room, I am certain I had given quite the impression on the poor fellow! Watson had no prior knowledge of Moriarty or my dealings with him, so naturally he came to the conclusion that my adversary was of great impediment to the general populace. I did not dissuade him on the matter, and simply begged him to accompany me to the Continent. Of course, he agreed.

The elaborate instructions which Watson outlined in his account was by no way fictitious; I did, in fact, detail such items to rendezvous with me upon the train. At my request, Mycroft went in disguise to deliver Watson to the train station. I, too, put on a pretense as an elderly Italian man, just as Watson described.

It may seem odd to relay these items as truths now that I have revealed I was not, in actuality, fleeing for life and limb. It may seem stranger still when I tell you that the incident of the fire on the rooms of 221B Baker Street was my own doing. No, not an accident with my chemicals, but a deliberate attempt to throw subterfuge upon my departure.

I had thought Mrs. Hudson gone for the week-end to visit family out of town, but alas, she had only been to a concert with some lady friend. You can imagine her startled expression when she returned to discover the upper rooms ablaze with me tending the embers. At once she sent for the fire brigade, but I had the means to cease what I had started, never intending the incident to get out of hand. I thank the good woman for not revealing it was I who fed the fire with scraps, and the police who came to investigate accepted my story that a criminal upon whose heels I tread attempted to eliminate me.

Certainly, you think me a mad man revealing these things to you, but I assure you, Moriarty's appearance in my rooms had been very threatening indeed, as the man had a prior reputation for coming after those who exposed him.

In all this, gentle reader, I had not revealed Moriarty's true crimes nor any intentions to my dear friend, Watson. I allowed him to believe as you once did that my very life was in danger least I departed England immediately, and that Moriarty was a vile and vicious man.

My utter sanity now lay in the hands of my friend as we made our way across Europe.

efore I begin, I will say that I do not exonerate the professor from his wrong-doings. Although he may not actually be the kingpin of crime in London or Europe or any part of the World, his true crimes are indeed heinous. I cannot, however, bring him to justice in the legal courts, for doing so would bring disgrace not only to some of England's finest citizens, but tear at the very fabric of our society.

Watson's account of that fateful night in April 1891 when I came to him distraught and at wit's end was very faithful to what had actually transpired. Most of my own account Watson conveyed was also quite factual, especially where I revealed my dogged surveillance of every move Moriarty made. What I told Watson was true—Moriarty did come to my consultation room on Baker's Street and told me in no uncertain terms to cease my vigilance of his person. But it was I, and not he, who threatened his life. I did indeed pull a revolver upon him, but the professor was as sharp as I made him out to be, and unlike Watson, he knew the complexity of his true crimes and why I had been pursuing him.

Slyly, Moriarty confronted me on the matter. "There is nothing you can do to me," he stated plainly, "for to bring up charges against me would only cause your own person and reputation to be scrutinized.

"And what would you do then, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" He goaded, "How many of your clients would be shamed by their association with you? How many men would be set free—the very public you tried to protect questioning your own powers of deduction on your quest for justice?"

He played me like his fiddle. There was nothing to do but let him go. His logic was impeccable, and the truth doubly against us both.

For days I was in fits of rage and agony, unable to determine my next course of action. I turned to my one confidant who knew Moriarty's history and his deceptive ways. My brother Mycroft took me in, but upon revealing the details to him, he urged me to drop my obsession with the matter. Moriarty's crimes were in the past, and despite my best efforts, I had been unable to prove that Moriarty had continued his illicit crimes behind closed doors.

The truth of the matter was that I had let my emotions take hold of me in regards to this case. Yes, unbelievable as it may seem, it is true. As cold and calculating as I may seem to many who approach me, as even Watson can attest, I am certainly prone to fits of my own drama. It is something I thought I had conquered over years of honing my inscrutable methods. I found myself at a crossroads, uncertain if I should continue in my pursuit, for though I had the Law on my side, to take further steps would have meant disaster.

I know, kind and patient readers, that I as yet have not revealed the crimes which were perpetrated by the professor, and I confess, I am loathe to reveal them now. I fear to put them to paper for they are so vile, so heinous, that I daren't even utter them aloud. So forgive me yet again, dear readers, that I do not spell out the details of his crimes at this juncture, or even perhaps at any other. Only know that if his crimes ever came to light, everything he threatened me on that night would come to pass. It is not for my sake that I remain silent on the matter, but for all the people I have helped as well as the people who have put so much trust and faith in my abilities. The truest travesty in all of this would be if the truth of justice was shattered, and this, I cannot do.

s I have already stated, Dr. Watson's account on "The Final Problem" was as factual and accurate insofar to its beginnings, if not its endings. I, as well as Watson and other parties involved, had agreed that the story could only be told as if it were one of my many exploits into the world of crime. To my chagrin, Watson has managed to make some of my most mundane cases into a galloping adventure—why not this one as well?

But certain truths had to be covered with subterfuge. Even I, a lover of truth and master of details, found it necessary to tell a lie at times, whether to uncover a greater truth or for the protection of the innocent.

Perhaps you have already heard the rumour that Moriarty was no more than my own mathematics tutor when I was but a boy. This is, in fact, the truth. All other speculations in regards to the realities of the case are, however, erroneous. There are only three persons on this entire earth who know all the details that transpired—myself, my brother Mycroft, and of course my beloved friend, Dr. Watson.

This is why, my gentle reader, I have chosen to record these facts, so that the light of truth will one day be rekindled, though it may be long after those involved have shucked this mortal coil. I ask your forgiveness, then, as you seek understanding to why such an elaborate ruse was necessary.

Now that I have revealed the deception, it is time that I reveal the true details of the case.

t is with conflicted disposition that I take pen to paper in reciting matters of a personal nature. It is usual that my long suffering companion, Dr. John H. Watson, would be my scribe for my tirades and matters of thought, but recent events have rendered his services unavailable to me. Alas! But of what comfort I would take to have my confidant with me now!

Forgive me, dear reader, for I do get ahead of myself. As I have iterated, Watson is my usual journalist to my affairs, and I am not one for story-telling. Often I have taken the good doctor to task for his outlandish embellishments to fact, and it would seem a certain tendency on my own part to do the same now that I must fend for myself.

So I shall begin again, as I expect all good writers to start, at the beginning of my tale in hopes to sort out the vileness of existence that now stretches out before me.

Perhaps as readers of Watson's works, you would know all the particulars of one Professor Moriarty and my dealings with him; specifically, that of my demise. Of what travesty! Yes, my dear readers, I am quite alive, as my pen attests, as is the diabolical professor.

What! you say? How can this be? I assure you, Watson did his best in retelling of the matter, as delicate a situation as it is. It was at my behest that he killed off both my nemisis and myself upon those waters.

And why? That, my friends, begins my tale of woe.