IT was the 4th of May, 1892, a full year since my friend had met his sad fate in the falls of Reichenbach, having taken the single most nefarious masterminds of crime, Professor Moriarty, with him to both their ends.
As I sat in my room and raised my glass of the finest whiskey in the house to his sacrifice, there was suddenly such a thunderous knocking at the front door that I had to interrupt my solemn toast in order to answer it.
The noise had woken up my wife, too, and it was she who opened the door and took the stranger's coat. Whilst I approached, I began to wonder who it could have been at such a late hour, seeing as the hours of my practice were clearly posted outside, and surely there would be no cause for any of my neighbours to visit, lest it was an emergency in need to immediate attention.
I emerged from my room and quickly made my way down the stairs to meet my curious visitor. As soon as he fell into my gaze it was clear that he would need my drink more than I.
The figure framed by the doorway, in the foreground of a slight storm, was the very embodiment of frenzy and fatigue all at once, his body heaving with every labored breath. His fair hair recently had had a hat too small upon it, and creases on his otherwise youthful face betrayed his true age, which I wagered to be nearly forty. His left hand, slightly stained with ink, gripped the doorknob loosely. His vest and evening-jacket were of good weave, but were hastily put on, judging by the fact that the third button on his vest was in the wrong hole. A dark red stain on his shin revealed the reason for his sudden intrusion.
He spoke first, "Good doctor, forgive me, but…"
"It's quite all right. Please, follow me, and we shall see what can be done about that."
He nodded his assent, and with him leaning on my good shoulder, we both entered my consulting room. I settled him upon the examination table, and I observed his wound. It was undoubtedly a caused by a bullet; this man evidently had not been in polite circles prior to this visit. As I began work on the wound, I noticed that his tie had a certain unusual tie-pin as it lay in a neat pile on the next table, placed on top of his jacket.
My patient spoke no word as I removed the bullet and dressed the wound, his eyes furtively darting from window to window. However, once the surgery was over and I had released his calf, he spoke to me in a hushed whisper.
"I thank you, Dr. Watson. How much will that be?"
I quoted my price, the money for which he quickly withdrew from his wallet, with a curious slip of paper among the notes.
"Dr. Watson, there are those in this part of the country whose wishes are the exact opposite of yours. You must not let your next visitors get your hands on it, nor those after that. It must be kept safe until J arrives."
"This is highly irregular, Mr…"
"My name is less important that what is contained in it. Please, good doctor, I beg you. I can stay no longer."
With that, he retrieved his hat and coat, along with a small bag, and headed back out into the night, limping all the way. As the door slammed shut, I took a closer look at the mysterious slip of paper he had passed me. It was covered in numbers and letters, whose meaning was not immediately obvious. I placed it in a drawer, and still pondering my strange visitor and his purpose, went back to my room and the waiting glass of whiskey.