(From the journal of Jonathan Longstreet and Dr. John H. Watson)

It was a singular case, so singular, in fact, that I had determined it should never be written. However, it has had a strange hold on me, this singular case, this tale which makes all fiction pale…which makes me pale. I have determined, then, or have been driven, perhaps, to record it somewhere and so have borrowed this journal which belonged once to Holmes' client. It contains the beginning portion of this strange tale and now will contain its conclusion. What I will do with it when it is written, I do not know, but I know no one should ever read it – not the audience of the Strand, not Mary and absolutely never Holmes.

What marked the beginning of the case was a visit, not at Baker's Street, but at my practice and the late evening visitor was not a client of my esteemed friend, but a patient named Jonathan Long. An anemic, he was pale and delicate but for his intense, brilliant gaze that shone with a power his frail body could not itself express. He had sat quietly through my examination, answered my questions with a soft, tired voice, but when I turned away, I would turn back to find him watching me. I paid it no mind. I had seen a similar watch from other patients and it usually meant a deeper question, a more pressing reason for their medical visit that they were vacillating in voicing. At the time, that is all I believed it to be.

"A trip to the country perhaps," I suggested, "It would do you good to get away from the city, breathe the fresh air. Perhaps you and your wife…?"

The answer was quiet. "I have no wife."

"Then a friend or a relative, perhaps?" He didn't answer, but his gaze turned up to meet mine. Never before have I seen such loneliness that flashed there and gone as he smiled and shook his head knowingly. Perhaps that is the reason I pressed him, "Surely, someone…?"

His expression became far away, dreamy. "I suppose if this were one of your marvelous adventures from The Strand, there would be no such question. There is always "someone" there in the stories, is there not, Doctor Watson?" He said and to that softly smiling face, I had no answer.

I closed up my practice soon after that night and found myself, not at home with Mary, as I had every intention of being, but at Bakers Street, with none other than Sherlock Holmes. Well, we were in the rooms together, but I'm not sure Holmes realized I was there, so enthralled was he in his chemical experimentations. After a time, as I sat smoking by the fire, lost in thought, even I might not have known he was there…But he was. Odd as it was to say, this commonplace event was at that moment, such a profound realization that I sat bolt upright in my seat, turned hurriedly to tell him as if I were the one who had just made the most unimaginable of discoveries…

Only to be abruptly cutoff by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade. Never before had I seen such a look on his face. Pure panic lined the wide, dark eyes, his cheeks were flushed and his breathing irregular from running. He did not wait to be acknowledged, but flung himself at Holmes, grabbed my friend by the arms and ejaculated, "If you ever were needed, Mr. Holmes…Please….Please…."

I had risen, but Holmes spoke calmly, gently, "Why, Lestrade, you look like you have seen a ghost."

"Not…not…a…." Lestrade shook himself and I tried to usher the gasping inspector into a seat. When he refused, I brought him a brandy which he accepted gratefully. "I wasn't sure whether to come to you or a priest, Mr. Holmes. I still am not sure…Please. Will you come?"

Sherlock Holmes paused, set down his test tubes, and slowly, something between excitement and curiosity brightening his face, turned to me. Nothing would have changed had I not gone with him that night, and yet I cannot help but think that was the moment, the very moment, when I made my greatest mistake.

I nodded at him and when he turned back to Lestrade he said, "We will."

To Be Continued…