Finally the Final Final Problem
A Sherlock Holmes Story
By Helena Benedict
I knew something was wrong the moment I got up. Holmes sat straight and stiff in his chair, his face white and drawn. "Holmes!" I cried. "Whatever's the matter?" "Nothing" he replied in a flat voice. "Nothing at all is the matter, Watson. I am going out." With that, he stood up and strode out the door. I was puzzled, and slightly alarmed. It was clear that something was very wrong indeed. However I knew Holmes would not take kindly to my interfering in his private affairs, and resolved to put the matter out of my mind.
This proved easier said than done, and after a restless morning at Baker Street I went to the club to play Billiards with Stamford. Holmes was home by the time I returned for supper, more composed but still visibly troubled. Over our meal I asked if he had any professional inquiries at the moment. He responded with a curt no, and that was the last I spoke to him that night. Over the next few weeks he continued to be silent and moody, and often I awoke in the night to hear him pacing endlessly about the sitting room. One night I pressed him harder for the cause of his troubles. He looked at me for a long moment and seemed about to speak, then shook his head sharply. "I would confide in you if I could, Watson. As it is I am afraid I'll have to keep you in the dark." I grew more and more worried about him, but knew not what I could do. He wouldn't tell me what was wrong, and I could see no clue to it. It seemed I would have to let the matter rest.
One morning a few weeks later I awoke to find Holmes gone. He had taken nothing with him that I could see except his coat, hat, and walking stick. This in itself was not unusual. Holmes was often up and about long before I rose, and sometimes didn't return from his excursions for hours. Lately, though, a curious sort of lethargy seemed to have gripped him. Since I had woken up that fateful morning to find him so disturbed, there had been times he did not come out of his bedroom until after ten. I told myself that perhaps his early start was a sign that he was returning to his old self. I had some errands to run in town, and so after breakfast I called a cab and left for some hours. I came back for dinner, and then settled down to read. By tea-time, though, I was beginning to get worried. When Mrs. Hudson came up to collect the tea things I asked her if Holmes had said left any word with her about where he was going and when he might return. "No sir." She said. "He left about six this morning with another gentleman. They drove away in a cab he had waiting." "Hmm..." I hemmed. 'Thank you Mrs. Hudson." "Yes Sir." "Odd" I thought. A nagging worry began to trouble me, but for most of the night I was able to suppress it. I was alarmed, though, when Holmes was again absent the next morning. I asked Mrs. Hudson if he had been back in the night. She said he hadn't, that she knew of. This was very worrisome. I knew of no acquaintances Holmes might have gone to see, and to my knowledge he was investigating no case at the time. And he had been acting so strange lately...
As the day passed I grew more and more agitated. I told myself that Holmes was perfectly capable of looking after himself, far more than me, and I was a meddling old fool to worry. But I did not believe it. By nightfall I gave up all pretenses of nonchalance and determined to do something if Holmes was not back on the morrow. I went to bed, but did not sleep much that night.
Holmes was not back the next morning. After breakfast I took a cab to Scotland Yard, not knowing what else to do. Perhaps Lestrade had some idea concerning the disappearance of my friend.
At the yard I asked the young man behind the desk if Inspector Lestrade was there. "You're in luck, he just walked in. Lestrade!" Lestrade came out, wearing his official uniform. "Watson!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?" "It's Holmes." I said. "What a surprise. What's the old rascal up to now?" "I don't know." I said. "He's been gone for two days now." "Well that's nothing to new. He's always off gallivanting around the country on some wild goose chase." "I know, but this time its different" I said, and told him everything.
"I still don't think you have anything to worry about." said Lestrade when I finished. "Holmes is a clever old fox, always up to something. It's probably just a case he's working on, and for some obscure reason incomprehensible to us mere mortals he's chosen not to tell anyone. He's sure to turn up soon." "Well Lestrade I hope you're right." I replied rather heatedly, for I could see he thought I was silly to be concerned. "Good day." "Good day Watson. I'll tell you if I hear anything."
I did hope Lestrade was right, fervently so. But something seemed to tell me, perhaps some sixth sense picked up from years of living with Holmes, that something far more sinister was afoot.
When I returned home I sat for some while staring out the window. It was a cold, bleak November day and did nothing to improve my mood. It was clear I was to get no help from Lestrade, at least not anytime soon. Holmes had often warned against theorizing before facts were obtained, so I tried hard not to. In any case, it would do neither me nor my friend any good to imagine what could have happened. The prudent course of action seemed to be to find some facts, and quickly.
I briefly considered contacting Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes, but discarded that idea. It seemed too drastic an action for a problem I had no evidence of. Most likely the minute I sent a telegram to Holmes's important brother he himself would walk through the door, alive and well.
I also considered and decided against placing an advertisement in the Times, thinking that if Holmes had been the victim of foul play it would be best to be more discreet in my actions. What then was there to do?
After much thought I hit upon the idea of calling Wiggins, a young street urchin who had frequently been employed by Holmes to scour the jungle of London for some person or other. Perhaps he had heard some word of Holmes. Or if not, he would likely be more willing than Lestrade to help me investigate.
I donned my coat and hat, and then spent the afternoon walking the streets and back alleys until I found a lad who knew Wiggins. I gave him a shilling and told him to find Wiggins and tell him to come to Baker Street at once. After returning home I changed into dry clothes and settled down, much refreshed, to wait for the boy. He came sooner than I expected, and charged in without waiting to be announced. "Where's Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "He sent for me." "No, actually, it was I who sent for you. You're Wiggins, are you not?" "Yes Sir. And you're Watson. Where's Mr. Holmes?" "I don't know. I was hoping you did." "No, guv'nor. I'll help you find him though. He's been good to me." "Good, I was hoping you would. He left here early in the morning three days ago in a cab with another gentleman. I haven't seen or heard from him since." "What'd the other chap looked like?" "I didn't see him. The landlady did though." I rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson. She came up and after giving Wiggins a dirty look she turned to me. "Yes Sir?" "Do you recollect anything about the gentleman who left with Mr. Holmes on Tuesday morning, Mrs. Hudson?" "Not rightly." She said. "Tallish, I think. I didn't get a good look at him though. Dear me, haven't you heard from Mr. Holmes yet?" "No." I said. "Not a word." 'Dear dear, I do hope nothing's happened to the man. I'll let you know if I remember anything else." "Thank you." She left, with one last glare at Wiggins. "Did you catch all that?" He cocked his eyebrow at me. "Wasn't much to catch. I'll ask around though." "Thank you. Here's half a crown for you. Report back here every other day. And come at once if you find anything. Leave a message with the landlady if I'm not here." "Yes Sir." He took the coin I held out and left.
It was growing late, and I had had a rather trying day. I had a quiet super and then retired for the night but once again I did not get much sleep. The next few days I passed in an agony of restlessness. I took to getting up early and after breakfast wandering the street for hours in hopes of finding some sign of Holmes. I never did though, and nor did Wiggins. I was by this time convinced that my friend's strange disappearance was in some way connected to whatever had upset him so those many long weeks ago. It was upon the third, or maybe fourth day after I talked to Lestrade that I came home, hungry, weary, and wet to the bone, to find a telegram waiting for me.
WATSON- COME TONIGHT AT IO:OO TO THIS ADDRESS. BRING LESTRADE AND 3 OFFICERS. TELL THEM AT ALL COSTS TO KEEP QUIET DO NOT LET THEM REVEAL THEMSELVES. 13 BRIXTON RD, BLACKWALL -HOLMES
Words cannot express my excitement on receiving this message. Holmes was alive! At once I took the telegram and rushed to Scotland Yard to show to Lestrade. "Well! What have we here?" He read the message, a little frown forming between his eyes. "We'd better do what he says. This sounds serious. If we leave here about quarter past nine we'll have plenty of time to get to Blackwall" "Yes Lestrade of course we'll do what he says. If you bring three officers over to Baker Street we can all have dinner there and then call a cab. We'll all have to cram into one, two would be suspicious." "Suspicious? Oh yes at all costs we are not to reveal ourselves. Very well. Go home and the officers and I will be there in half an hour."
I went home and took this opportunity to clean and load my old service revolver. My hands were shaking with relief and adrenaline and, I suppose, tiredness, for I had had little sleep in the last week.
We ate a quiet supper, not attempting to make small talk. Afterwards the tension in the room was palpable as the hours slid by until it was time to call the cab. The night air was wet and stormy as we traveled through the winding London streets. It did not set a happy mood for our journey. The cab was silent except for the clip-clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone road. Where we finally stopped was a lonely mansion, high on a lonely hill. As I got out I signaled once more to the members of the official force to be quiet and approached the mansion. None of us heard the second cab pull up. The house was dimly lit from within, all the doors unlocked. Lestrade and the officers stopped at the door and signed that they would spread out around the house. I continued on alone. No one seemed to be about, and there was an air of baited breath around the place. For the first time it occurred to me that this might be a trap. I crept up a flight of stairs and down the hall until I came to a door. I opened into a large room, a library I think. A fire crackled and popped merrily in the fireplace and in a large armchair beside it sat Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes!" I cried, joy in seeing him and horror at his condition mingling in my voice. He was paler than I'd ever seen him, with hopeless, sunken eyes and the shadow of a beard on the chin he'd always kept clean shaven. His ankles were shackled together, his wrists tied behind his back. He shook his head in a weak gesture to keep quiet, but it was too late. Through the door of the library walked the late Professor Moriarty. Holmes started, and I could see from his face that whatever horrors he'd been expecting, this wasn't one of them. I fumbled for my revolver but before I could get it out a burly thug came through the door and held a gun to Holmes's forehead. "Don't even try, Dr. Watson, Don't even try." Said Moriarty scornfully. "One more move, and you'll both die. And then you won't hear my story. Sherlock Holmes always likes to hear the stories." Vengeance burned in his greedy little eyes. "This might take awhile. So get comfortable." I looked at Holmes. In his eyes where there had been hopeless sorrow a moment ago now was white-hot fury. He turned to look at me. "Watson" he croaked. "So sorry..." "Shhhhhhh......" I said. I could tell he was seriously dehydrated, and probably hadn't slept for days. I tried to maneuver myself closer to him, but the thug with the gun to his head cocked his pistol. I stopped. "Soooooooooooooo......" said Moriarty. "Sherlock Holmes thought he was clever. Thought he finally got me at last. Thought he wiped out all my followers. Well he was WRONG! 'Sherlock Holmes seems to have a gift for coming back to life. Well so do I. Whereas he was never in the gorge, I survived the fall. Oh yes, I was bloodied and broken, but alive. I was swept downstream a ways, but then washed up on a sandy spit. My men found me and took care of me. They took me away to Russia, to grow strong again. Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who can be clever. I, too, can bide my time and wait. I spent years building up a new cult. People to follow me, to help me get what I wanted. And what I wanted was you. You got my letter. You knew something was coming. But you never for an instant suspected it was me. You thought I was merely an annoyance you got rid of long ago. Just one more prize in the successful career of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes. But no. I shall be the one to kill you. HEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" He gave a mad maniacal cackle, long and loud. Holmes and I looked at each other in wonderment. When we last met Moriarty he had been evil, but sane. Smart. Calculating. Now he seemed to have been driven mad by his one burning desire; to have revenge on Sherlock Holmes.
And he appeared to have got it. As Moriarty threw back his head and laughed I tried once more to use my revolver, but his head snapped back down and he knocked it out of my hands. "Naughty boy, Doctor Watson. Naughty boy. You're not to be trusted with that thing. And don't think you'll get any help from the bungling excuses for policemen out there. By now they'll be trussed like turkeys, with gags stuffed down their throats. They'll die too, before the night is done." He picked up my revolver and looked at it, smiling slightly. "This will do." He said. "Yes. This will do. Now who should I shoot first? He studied each of us in turn. "Watson, I think. Then Holmes can watch his friend die for his own foolish pride." Holmes twisted violently in his chair. "No!" he cried. "Moriarty, you fool-" "DON'T YOU CALL ME A FOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!" Moriarty leaned down, screaming in Holmes's face. His rage was almost inhuman. He pointed the revolver and I think it would have all been over for Holmes, for both of us, had not Moriarty been suddenly tackled by a snarling ball of wiry muscle. The screaming wildcat grabbed the gun, there was an explosion and a shower of sparks, and then Moriarty was lying on the floor with a red stain spreading across his chest, and Wiggins was lying on the floor halfway across the room staring in amazement at my revolver in his hand. Although we didn't see it, a similar struggle went on almost simultaneously behind us with the thug guarding the door and another of the baker street Irregulars. Holmes, exhausted from shock, dehydration, and lack of sleep, had quietly fainted. For a moment everything was quiet. Then came a great tramping of feet on the stairs and Inspector Lestrade and his men charged in, accompanied by nearly a dozen street boys.
"Wiggins!" I cried. "How on Earth-" "Well" he said, grinning shyly "I was coming back to report to you like you said and I saw you waving the telegram and catching the cab to Scotland Yard so I thought something must be happening so I went to round up my mates. And then when I got back about two hours later your nasty housekeeper wouldn't let me up to talk to you so I just hung around your flat. And then you came tramping down with the detective and all the police officers and I don't like cops and they don't like me and anyway you looked in such a hurry that we just piled in a cab and followed you. And when we came to the house we waited a few minutes to see what would happen. We saw the thugs jump on the cops and tie `em up so we jumped on the thugs and tied them up, and then me `n Wilkins came up here to see how you was getting on and the crook was about to kill Mr. Holmes there so I jumped on him and Wilkins did the same for the other thug. And here we are."
The End
E*P*I*L*O*G*U*E
I revived Holmes and we returned to Baker Street together. He has told me that he plans to retire from being a detective but I, who know him so well, wonder if he will be able to keep himself away. I think he was really quite mortified that for once he was helpless, in the clutches of his enemy, instead of the brave and daring rescuer. He is grateful though, as am I, and is paying for schooling for the boy Wiggins. I confess I cannot imagine Wiggins in a school, watched over all day by strict masters with canes, but I am sure he will have no qualms about running away, should the fancy strike him.
Holmes is again back to his old arrogant self, Lestrade has returned as thick as ever to Scotland Yard, and I myself am expanding my medical practice. As far as I know the Baker Street Irregulars, minus Wiggins, still live a happy life in the misty underworld of London. Holmes and I have not spoken of our latest adventure, other than to say that I was very foolish to be taken in by Moriarty's telegram. I confess I agree, though as things turned out I am glad I was. It is now positively verified that Moriarty is dead, and if Holmes keeps his promise to investigate no more cases it seems this will really be the final problem.
A Sherlock Holmes Story
By Helena Benedict
I knew something was wrong the moment I got up. Holmes sat straight and stiff in his chair, his face white and drawn. "Holmes!" I cried. "Whatever's the matter?" "Nothing" he replied in a flat voice. "Nothing at all is the matter, Watson. I am going out." With that, he stood up and strode out the door. I was puzzled, and slightly alarmed. It was clear that something was very wrong indeed. However I knew Holmes would not take kindly to my interfering in his private affairs, and resolved to put the matter out of my mind.
This proved easier said than done, and after a restless morning at Baker Street I went to the club to play Billiards with Stamford. Holmes was home by the time I returned for supper, more composed but still visibly troubled. Over our meal I asked if he had any professional inquiries at the moment. He responded with a curt no, and that was the last I spoke to him that night. Over the next few weeks he continued to be silent and moody, and often I awoke in the night to hear him pacing endlessly about the sitting room. One night I pressed him harder for the cause of his troubles. He looked at me for a long moment and seemed about to speak, then shook his head sharply. "I would confide in you if I could, Watson. As it is I am afraid I'll have to keep you in the dark." I grew more and more worried about him, but knew not what I could do. He wouldn't tell me what was wrong, and I could see no clue to it. It seemed I would have to let the matter rest.
One morning a few weeks later I awoke to find Holmes gone. He had taken nothing with him that I could see except his coat, hat, and walking stick. This in itself was not unusual. Holmes was often up and about long before I rose, and sometimes didn't return from his excursions for hours. Lately, though, a curious sort of lethargy seemed to have gripped him. Since I had woken up that fateful morning to find him so disturbed, there had been times he did not come out of his bedroom until after ten. I told myself that perhaps his early start was a sign that he was returning to his old self. I had some errands to run in town, and so after breakfast I called a cab and left for some hours. I came back for dinner, and then settled down to read. By tea-time, though, I was beginning to get worried. When Mrs. Hudson came up to collect the tea things I asked her if Holmes had said left any word with her about where he was going and when he might return. "No sir." She said. "He left about six this morning with another gentleman. They drove away in a cab he had waiting." "Hmm..." I hemmed. 'Thank you Mrs. Hudson." "Yes Sir." "Odd" I thought. A nagging worry began to trouble me, but for most of the night I was able to suppress it. I was alarmed, though, when Holmes was again absent the next morning. I asked Mrs. Hudson if he had been back in the night. She said he hadn't, that she knew of. This was very worrisome. I knew of no acquaintances Holmes might have gone to see, and to my knowledge he was investigating no case at the time. And he had been acting so strange lately...
As the day passed I grew more and more agitated. I told myself that Holmes was perfectly capable of looking after himself, far more than me, and I was a meddling old fool to worry. But I did not believe it. By nightfall I gave up all pretenses of nonchalance and determined to do something if Holmes was not back on the morrow. I went to bed, but did not sleep much that night.
Holmes was not back the next morning. After breakfast I took a cab to Scotland Yard, not knowing what else to do. Perhaps Lestrade had some idea concerning the disappearance of my friend.
At the yard I asked the young man behind the desk if Inspector Lestrade was there. "You're in luck, he just walked in. Lestrade!" Lestrade came out, wearing his official uniform. "Watson!" he exclaimed. "What brings you here?" "It's Holmes." I said. "What a surprise. What's the old rascal up to now?" "I don't know." I said. "He's been gone for two days now." "Well that's nothing to new. He's always off gallivanting around the country on some wild goose chase." "I know, but this time its different" I said, and told him everything.
"I still don't think you have anything to worry about." said Lestrade when I finished. "Holmes is a clever old fox, always up to something. It's probably just a case he's working on, and for some obscure reason incomprehensible to us mere mortals he's chosen not to tell anyone. He's sure to turn up soon." "Well Lestrade I hope you're right." I replied rather heatedly, for I could see he thought I was silly to be concerned. "Good day." "Good day Watson. I'll tell you if I hear anything."
I did hope Lestrade was right, fervently so. But something seemed to tell me, perhaps some sixth sense picked up from years of living with Holmes, that something far more sinister was afoot.
When I returned home I sat for some while staring out the window. It was a cold, bleak November day and did nothing to improve my mood. It was clear I was to get no help from Lestrade, at least not anytime soon. Holmes had often warned against theorizing before facts were obtained, so I tried hard not to. In any case, it would do neither me nor my friend any good to imagine what could have happened. The prudent course of action seemed to be to find some facts, and quickly.
I briefly considered contacting Sherlock's brother, Mycroft Holmes, but discarded that idea. It seemed too drastic an action for a problem I had no evidence of. Most likely the minute I sent a telegram to Holmes's important brother he himself would walk through the door, alive and well.
I also considered and decided against placing an advertisement in the Times, thinking that if Holmes had been the victim of foul play it would be best to be more discreet in my actions. What then was there to do?
After much thought I hit upon the idea of calling Wiggins, a young street urchin who had frequently been employed by Holmes to scour the jungle of London for some person or other. Perhaps he had heard some word of Holmes. Or if not, he would likely be more willing than Lestrade to help me investigate.
I donned my coat and hat, and then spent the afternoon walking the streets and back alleys until I found a lad who knew Wiggins. I gave him a shilling and told him to find Wiggins and tell him to come to Baker Street at once. After returning home I changed into dry clothes and settled down, much refreshed, to wait for the boy. He came sooner than I expected, and charged in without waiting to be announced. "Where's Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "He sent for me." "No, actually, it was I who sent for you. You're Wiggins, are you not?" "Yes Sir. And you're Watson. Where's Mr. Holmes?" "I don't know. I was hoping you did." "No, guv'nor. I'll help you find him though. He's been good to me." "Good, I was hoping you would. He left here early in the morning three days ago in a cab with another gentleman. I haven't seen or heard from him since." "What'd the other chap looked like?" "I didn't see him. The landlady did though." I rang the bell for Mrs. Hudson. She came up and after giving Wiggins a dirty look she turned to me. "Yes Sir?" "Do you recollect anything about the gentleman who left with Mr. Holmes on Tuesday morning, Mrs. Hudson?" "Not rightly." She said. "Tallish, I think. I didn't get a good look at him though. Dear me, haven't you heard from Mr. Holmes yet?" "No." I said. "Not a word." 'Dear dear, I do hope nothing's happened to the man. I'll let you know if I remember anything else." "Thank you." She left, with one last glare at Wiggins. "Did you catch all that?" He cocked his eyebrow at me. "Wasn't much to catch. I'll ask around though." "Thank you. Here's half a crown for you. Report back here every other day. And come at once if you find anything. Leave a message with the landlady if I'm not here." "Yes Sir." He took the coin I held out and left.
It was growing late, and I had had a rather trying day. I had a quiet super and then retired for the night but once again I did not get much sleep. The next few days I passed in an agony of restlessness. I took to getting up early and after breakfast wandering the street for hours in hopes of finding some sign of Holmes. I never did though, and nor did Wiggins. I was by this time convinced that my friend's strange disappearance was in some way connected to whatever had upset him so those many long weeks ago. It was upon the third, or maybe fourth day after I talked to Lestrade that I came home, hungry, weary, and wet to the bone, to find a telegram waiting for me.
WATSON- COME TONIGHT AT IO:OO TO THIS ADDRESS. BRING LESTRADE AND 3 OFFICERS. TELL THEM AT ALL COSTS TO KEEP QUIET DO NOT LET THEM REVEAL THEMSELVES. 13 BRIXTON RD, BLACKWALL -HOLMES
Words cannot express my excitement on receiving this message. Holmes was alive! At once I took the telegram and rushed to Scotland Yard to show to Lestrade. "Well! What have we here?" He read the message, a little frown forming between his eyes. "We'd better do what he says. This sounds serious. If we leave here about quarter past nine we'll have plenty of time to get to Blackwall" "Yes Lestrade of course we'll do what he says. If you bring three officers over to Baker Street we can all have dinner there and then call a cab. We'll all have to cram into one, two would be suspicious." "Suspicious? Oh yes at all costs we are not to reveal ourselves. Very well. Go home and the officers and I will be there in half an hour."
I went home and took this opportunity to clean and load my old service revolver. My hands were shaking with relief and adrenaline and, I suppose, tiredness, for I had had little sleep in the last week.
We ate a quiet supper, not attempting to make small talk. Afterwards the tension in the room was palpable as the hours slid by until it was time to call the cab. The night air was wet and stormy as we traveled through the winding London streets. It did not set a happy mood for our journey. The cab was silent except for the clip-clop of the horse's hooves on the cobblestone road. Where we finally stopped was a lonely mansion, high on a lonely hill. As I got out I signaled once more to the members of the official force to be quiet and approached the mansion. None of us heard the second cab pull up. The house was dimly lit from within, all the doors unlocked. Lestrade and the officers stopped at the door and signed that they would spread out around the house. I continued on alone. No one seemed to be about, and there was an air of baited breath around the place. For the first time it occurred to me that this might be a trap. I crept up a flight of stairs and down the hall until I came to a door. I opened into a large room, a library I think. A fire crackled and popped merrily in the fireplace and in a large armchair beside it sat Sherlock Holmes. "Holmes!" I cried, joy in seeing him and horror at his condition mingling in my voice. He was paler than I'd ever seen him, with hopeless, sunken eyes and the shadow of a beard on the chin he'd always kept clean shaven. His ankles were shackled together, his wrists tied behind his back. He shook his head in a weak gesture to keep quiet, but it was too late. Through the door of the library walked the late Professor Moriarty. Holmes started, and I could see from his face that whatever horrors he'd been expecting, this wasn't one of them. I fumbled for my revolver but before I could get it out a burly thug came through the door and held a gun to Holmes's forehead. "Don't even try, Dr. Watson, Don't even try." Said Moriarty scornfully. "One more move, and you'll both die. And then you won't hear my story. Sherlock Holmes always likes to hear the stories." Vengeance burned in his greedy little eyes. "This might take awhile. So get comfortable." I looked at Holmes. In his eyes where there had been hopeless sorrow a moment ago now was white-hot fury. He turned to look at me. "Watson" he croaked. "So sorry..." "Shhhhhhh......" I said. I could tell he was seriously dehydrated, and probably hadn't slept for days. I tried to maneuver myself closer to him, but the thug with the gun to his head cocked his pistol. I stopped. "Soooooooooooooo......" said Moriarty. "Sherlock Holmes thought he was clever. Thought he finally got me at last. Thought he wiped out all my followers. Well he was WRONG! 'Sherlock Holmes seems to have a gift for coming back to life. Well so do I. Whereas he was never in the gorge, I survived the fall. Oh yes, I was bloodied and broken, but alive. I was swept downstream a ways, but then washed up on a sandy spit. My men found me and took care of me. They took me away to Russia, to grow strong again. Sherlock Holmes is not the only one who can be clever. I, too, can bide my time and wait. I spent years building up a new cult. People to follow me, to help me get what I wanted. And what I wanted was you. You got my letter. You knew something was coming. But you never for an instant suspected it was me. You thought I was merely an annoyance you got rid of long ago. Just one more prize in the successful career of the illustrious Sherlock Holmes. But no. I shall be the one to kill you. HEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!" He gave a mad maniacal cackle, long and loud. Holmes and I looked at each other in wonderment. When we last met Moriarty he had been evil, but sane. Smart. Calculating. Now he seemed to have been driven mad by his one burning desire; to have revenge on Sherlock Holmes.
And he appeared to have got it. As Moriarty threw back his head and laughed I tried once more to use my revolver, but his head snapped back down and he knocked it out of my hands. "Naughty boy, Doctor Watson. Naughty boy. You're not to be trusted with that thing. And don't think you'll get any help from the bungling excuses for policemen out there. By now they'll be trussed like turkeys, with gags stuffed down their throats. They'll die too, before the night is done." He picked up my revolver and looked at it, smiling slightly. "This will do." He said. "Yes. This will do. Now who should I shoot first? He studied each of us in turn. "Watson, I think. Then Holmes can watch his friend die for his own foolish pride." Holmes twisted violently in his chair. "No!" he cried. "Moriarty, you fool-" "DON'T YOU CALL ME A FOOL!!!!!!!!!!!!" Moriarty leaned down, screaming in Holmes's face. His rage was almost inhuman. He pointed the revolver and I think it would have all been over for Holmes, for both of us, had not Moriarty been suddenly tackled by a snarling ball of wiry muscle. The screaming wildcat grabbed the gun, there was an explosion and a shower of sparks, and then Moriarty was lying on the floor with a red stain spreading across his chest, and Wiggins was lying on the floor halfway across the room staring in amazement at my revolver in his hand. Although we didn't see it, a similar struggle went on almost simultaneously behind us with the thug guarding the door and another of the baker street Irregulars. Holmes, exhausted from shock, dehydration, and lack of sleep, had quietly fainted. For a moment everything was quiet. Then came a great tramping of feet on the stairs and Inspector Lestrade and his men charged in, accompanied by nearly a dozen street boys.
"Wiggins!" I cried. "How on Earth-" "Well" he said, grinning shyly "I was coming back to report to you like you said and I saw you waving the telegram and catching the cab to Scotland Yard so I thought something must be happening so I went to round up my mates. And then when I got back about two hours later your nasty housekeeper wouldn't let me up to talk to you so I just hung around your flat. And then you came tramping down with the detective and all the police officers and I don't like cops and they don't like me and anyway you looked in such a hurry that we just piled in a cab and followed you. And when we came to the house we waited a few minutes to see what would happen. We saw the thugs jump on the cops and tie `em up so we jumped on the thugs and tied them up, and then me `n Wilkins came up here to see how you was getting on and the crook was about to kill Mr. Holmes there so I jumped on him and Wilkins did the same for the other thug. And here we are."
The End
E*P*I*L*O*G*U*E
I revived Holmes and we returned to Baker Street together. He has told me that he plans to retire from being a detective but I, who know him so well, wonder if he will be able to keep himself away. I think he was really quite mortified that for once he was helpless, in the clutches of his enemy, instead of the brave and daring rescuer. He is grateful though, as am I, and is paying for schooling for the boy Wiggins. I confess I cannot imagine Wiggins in a school, watched over all day by strict masters with canes, but I am sure he will have no qualms about running away, should the fancy strike him.
Holmes is again back to his old arrogant self, Lestrade has returned as thick as ever to Scotland Yard, and I myself am expanding my medical practice. As far as I know the Baker Street Irregulars, minus Wiggins, still live a happy life in the misty underworld of London. Holmes and I have not spoken of our latest adventure, other than to say that I was very foolish to be taken in by Moriarty's telegram. I confess I agree, though as things turned out I am glad I was. It is now positively verified that Moriarty is dead, and if Holmes keeps his promise to investigate no more cases it seems this will really be the final problem.