(Blame this one on rereading 'Jekyll and Hyde'...)
"Sir," I said, feigning a calmness that I was far from feeling, "you speak riddles, but if you are truly here on Dr. Watson's behalf, I will hear your tale."
"It is well," my visitor replied, smiling sadly. "What follows, Inspector, I entrust to your discretion. Behold!"
He slid the needle into his vein and pressed down the plunger. A cry burst from his lips; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, gasping for breath. His figure thickened, features seeming to melt and alter – and the next moment, I leapt to my feet and back against the wall, arms raised in fruitless defence, my mind gripped with terror.
"Oh, God! Oh, God!" I screamed, over and over; for there before my eyes – pale, shaken, half fainting and groping before him – stood John Watson!
What he told me, I cannot bear to set on paper: a plan which, for all its daring brilliance, was no less horrifying in its execution. I will say only one thing, Lestrade, which, if you can bring yourself to believe it, will be more than enough. The man who entered my house that night was, by Watson's own confession, none other than the infamous vigilante, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, known in every corner of our empire as the murderer of Professor James Moriarty.
ARTHUR BRADSTREET