From Domina Temporis: The supernatural
I do not have Watson's flourish nor his fancies; I will make no attempt to speak of what I have seen in terms that shall please others. This private journal shall merely contain my observations and my experiences, no more. It was past midnight when I awoke, suddenly, to the realization that I was not alone. Watson, who had not yet sold his practice, was absent, yet there was undeniably the sound of footsteps outside my door. Whoever it was was making no attempt to hide their approach; I could distinctly hear the wetness of each footfall on the carpet, as if the intruder were soaked through. Yet - here my gaze darted to the window - there was no sign of rain.
No matter. The intruder clearly meant to enter my room. My revolver lay in the bedside table; I calmly retrieved it and ensured that it was loaded. Then, clearing the coverlet from my legs, I waited patiently for the knob to turn.
"I'm afraid that will not save you, Mr. Holmes."
I jerked in surprise. I had been prepared to swear that the room had been empty but for myself, yet a figure now stood in the far corner of the room, partly concealed by shadow.
"Quite impressive," I said boldly, though my heart sank, "to have entered my room undetected. You and your compatriot are evidently skilled. Who are you?"
The figure laughed. "Oh, we are quite alone now, Mr. Holmes," he said. I blinked. The fear that I had begun to feel but faintly at his appearance in my room stirred. That voice...impossible. "Do you remember what I promised you?"
He stepped forward, and moonlight fell across his face. One sunken eye was gone, eaten away, while the corpse-white curve of his forehead had swelled to horrible proportions. Bruises marred his face where the blood had pooled; water dripped from his clothes to soak steadily into the carpet. Yet the one remaining eye was fixed on me; that drowned and bloated face swayed from side to side.
"If only your senses were failing you," he said. "I am very real, Mr. Holmes, though you in your desire for logic are desperate to think otherwise."
That was utterly ridiculous, of course, dead men did not suddenly spring to life three years after you had killed them. I forced down my rising fear, reaching for that logic that the figure spoke of. This was no doubt a hallucination of some kind, perhaps due to the stress of my return. Or perhaps an unknown toxin had been subtly introduced; I still had enemies in London who would no doubt be moved to action by my return...
"Three years I have trod unseen at your elbow, Mr. Holmes," said the vision softly. "I have learned a great deal about you in that time. Your motivations. Your weaknesses."
Despite the knowledge that this was not, could not be real, I felt a shiver of fear run down my spine.
"Tell me," Moriarty said. "When does the good doctor plan to return?"
My stomach clenched, yet I lifted my head and affected my most casual air. "I fear the years have been kinder to Watson than to you, Professor, if that is who you claim to be."
"Truly? Even with the death of his wife?"
I flinched.
Moriarty shook his head sadly. "A tragedy, and one which could have so easily been avoided with the proper care. If only Dr. Watson had been less distracted by his grief."
My grip on the revolver shook. The cold fear was abruptly doused by guilt.
"'Til tomorrow, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty said lightly. "Pleasant dreams."