I remained in my crouching position on the floor, staring at the page written in Holmes's shaky handwriting, until my cramping muscles painfully brought my mind back to the present. I stood, not even feeling the pain as the blood rushed back to my aching limbs, as I tried to comprehend what I had read.

'Moriarty gave me his ultimatum – drop the case, or Watson dies.' The words sent a chill through me. What part had I unwittingly played in that drama, so many years ago? And why had Holmes not told me of it? How had I affected what had transpired? Could I have prevented any of it?

My mind reeled with what I had read, question after question bombarding my stunned senses. I forgot about the rest of the mess on Holmes's floor and took the leather-bound book out to the sitting room, where I collapsed into my chair by the fire. The heat did little to drive the chill from my core, however, as all the questions I had been harboring since Holmes's return came to the front.

I am not a fool, and it did not take a fool to know that some parts of Holmes's story about what had transpired at Reichenbach were absolute fabrications. I knew my Holmes too well – I could tell he was hiding something even as he glibly reeled off the list of his actions after his struggle with Moriarty. I had been hurt, deeply hurt, by his revelation that he had confided in his brother instead of me, and even after almost four years, those wounds had not yet fully healed.

The reader will no doubt be shocked at my blatant disregard for Holmes's self-imposed reticence, but I had been hurt, and angered, and still was to some extent, by his actions in '94. And now, as I stared at the book I held in my hands, I realized I could at last have all the answers I sought, and the temptation was too much for me to resist. Therefore, I am somewhat ashamed to say, that without a second thought about Holmes's privacy I opened the book and turned to the first page.

It was dated November of 1890, and I found nothing in that or the next few pages of any interest; apparently Holmes had connected a few crimes in London to the Professor and had recorded his suspicions in this journal. I flipped a few pages ahead in the journal to January, where my friend had recorded a detailed account of a forgery/robbery case in which the perpetrators had let slip something that allowed him the evidence he needed to start an investigation in earnest against the Professor.

I read his account with interest – although not written in fiction form, Holmes's account was so succinct and well-written I was surprised, and a little disconcerted, to learn that his writing skills were very definitely on at least an equal plane with my own. It is of no wonder he deplored my romantic writing style.

I followed his investigation through the pages of his journal through January, then February, March, and then the beginning of April. Holmes's writing took on a more intense, excited tone; I could almost hear his clipped, curt voice relating the events as they transpired.

He was close now, very close. According to this journal, he now had enough evidence to put Moriarty away and most of the members of the gang. I saw no mention of Colonel Sebastian Moran, save a footnote from Holmes to himself that the Professor's chief lieutenant was very heavily protected, but there was an overwhelming amount of evidence against Moriarty himself. I wondered abstractedly if it was this particular journal that prompted the arson attack on these rooms the night before our departure for the Continent.

I turned the page to an entry marked April 26, 1891, and began to read.

April 26, 1891

I must confess to being thoroughly shaken by a sudden, and malicious, turn of events. I am close, so very close, on Moriarty's trail that he has tried already to dispose of me several times. That close call last night with a four-wheeler showed me that he is running very scared indeed.

I was quite jubilant about the possible rapid denouement of the case until this afternoon, when the man himself showed up in my sitting room.

I had been out, in disguise for safety's sake, to see my brother and get his advice on one aspect of the Moriarty gang's defenses. Upon my entry of the sitting room, I closed the blinds as I have done now for the past week, and then threw my disguise on Watson's old desk in the corner. A small sound alerted me just in time to thrust my hand into my coat pocket, where I had taken to carrying my pistol at all times of the day or night, and whirl around, only to find the Professor himself, standing in my bedroom doorway, pointing a gun of his own at my head.

"Professor, I didn't expect to see you so soon," I said coolly, trying to assess my chances at shooting through my coat pocket if need be.

"Mr. Holmes. May I say, that it is a dangerous habit to finger a loaded firearm in the pocket of one's jacket? And it does make such an unsightly hole in one's clothing, firing through several layers of fabric."

"I have many dangerous habits, Professor," I replied, "including the pursuit of you and that gang of yours, eh?"

"Touché," the man said, his head slowly oscillating back and forth in that snakelike fashion that comes so close to unnerving me.

After a moment's hesitation, Moriarty stepped into the sitting room and placed his pistol on the sideboard. It is a testimony to the man's supreme nerve that he directly turned his back on me to do so. Then he turned around, his head moving back and forth, still assessing my every move. After we stared at each other for a few moments in silence, I also removed my revolver and placed it within easy reach on Watson's desk. How I wished at that moment that the man himself was standing at my side – times like these I realized just how much I really needed my Boswell.

"I believe it is your move, Professor," I stated.

"Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind, Holmes."

"Then perhaps my answer has crossed yours."

"You stand fast?"

"Absolutely."

I read the all-too-familiar exchange between my friend and the professor, and the warmth that had filled my heart at Holmes's mentioning needing me was replaced by something of the same dread and fear that had chilled me when Holmes related this discussion for the first time nearly seven years ago. However, the dialogue took on a radically different turn than the one Holmes had originally described to me.

I snatched up the pistol as Moriarty put his hand in his back pocket, but the man merely shook his head tolerantly and drew out a small memorandum book. I mentally berated myself for my momentary lapse of emotional control and reverted back to my calm, aloof exterior.

"Forgive my hastiness, Professor."

"You amuse me, Holmes. You are standing here in the face of absolute destruction, and yet you still worry about your precious defenses against all showing of emotion." Moriarty's head inclined slowly as my gaze narrowed, proving to him he had hit home.

"You did not come here to discuss my emotional shortcomings, my dear Professor. Pray proceed, for my time is of value, and I am neglecting important business elsewhere."

Moriarty glared at me for a moment, and then opened his memo-book.

"I find here that you crossed my path on the 4th of January. On the 23rd you incommoded me. By the middle of February I was seriously inconvenienced by you; at the end of March I was absolutely hampered in my plans, and now, at the close of April, I find myself placed in such a position through your continual persecution that I am in positive danger of losing my liberty."

"That was certainly the objective I had in mind," I replied dryly.

"You must drop it, Mr. Holmes. You really must, you know." His head began that oscillation again, creating an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"Professor, I repeat my words of earlier, that I do stand fast. Absolutely. And I can assure you, no amount of danger can change my mind upon that point." I stated firmly.

"You are not in mere danger, Holmes," Moriarty said calmly, "you are standing in the face of inevitable destruction. And nothing you may say or do save dropping the case will change that fact."

"There is not a man alive that fears death less than I, Professor. Personal danger will never get me to yield. You obviously do not know me."

Moriarty's reptilian eyes took on a venomous appearance as he replied, "On the contrary, I think it is fairly evident that I do," said he, fixing a snake-like stare upon me.

"Pray enlighten me, then, Professor." I scoffed, trying to ignore the gnawing unease I felt under that gaze.

"Just this, Holmes. I give you my final ultimatum. Drop this case, or the Doctor dies." Moriarty spun on his heel and reached for the doorknob.

"Wait!" I called frantically, before I could restrain my first impulse. The Professor turned slowly around, a malevolent smile of satisfaction on his face. I cursed myself mentally for letting him know I had let down my guard.

"I rather thought so," the man said, the smile never leaving his face, "you see, I do know you better than you think. I admire you, Holmes. You've put up a façade for all the world to see that you're untouchable, aloof. But every man has his price, Holmes, even calculating machines, where all emotions, love especially, are abhorrent to the cold, precise, but admirably balanced mind, eh?"

I cringed at hearing the Napoleon of Crime using my own words as a weapon against my dearest friend. Written in the early days of our association, before I began to truly know Holmes and understand the man who was to become my best friend, those early, hasty words were now being twisted into a very effective weapon in this sordid drama I was reading.

I must have blanched, for his smile grew wider. Reining in every vestige of control I had, I looked at him for some minutes in silence.

"You wouldn't dare, Moriarty," I said finally in a low voice, wishing desperately I could believe it to be true.

"Really, Mr. Holmes. A cliché worthy of the Strand Magazine. But yes, you ought to know me well enough to know I would certainly dare. Think about it, Holmes. Think about it. Every man has his price, and I would dare say I've found yours." He smiled again, a twisted, snakish expression, and wished me goodnight.

For a fleeting instant I contemplated shooting him where he stood - but for some odd reason, I suddenly, unaccountably, thought of Watson and how he was solidly on the side of justice. He would never shoot an unarmed man in the back, even the greatest criminal mastermind of the century.

When the door had shut behind him, I collapsed into my usual chair, feebly trying to process what I had just heard. I stared gloomily at Watson's empty chair across from me, my thoughts in absolute turmoil, my composure close to shattered.

Watson has always said it helps to talk about things. I have no one in which I can confide, which is why I have here recorded the events of this afternoon. I have no idea where to turn now – what to do, how to get Watson out of danger. Even if I could drop the case, it is too late now - the police have a major portion of my evidence, holding it in readiness for when we can make the arrests. What am I to do? God help me. It is most definitely going to be a sleepless night.

SH

I sat there as the entry finished, stunned at the conversation I had just finished reading. Why had Holmes not told me of this when he came to see me later that week? Surely it was not out of distrust? Was he under some strange impression that ignorance was a form of protection for me? Why would he not at least inform me of the danger I evidently was in? My mind filled with questions, I turned to the only source of answers I had at the moment, the next entry in the journal.


To Be Continued...