"What am I to do? God help me. It is most definitely going to be a sleepless night."
The last words from the journal entry for April 26,1891, still rang in my ears with the silent desperation Holmes must have felt as he penned them. I slowly turned the page to the next entry. All else forgotten, I continued to read this horrific tale.
April 27, 1891
10:00 pm.
It has been over 24 hours since Professor Moriarty left my sitting room, and I am no closer to knowing what to do than I was after he departed yesterday. Why am I so unable to retain enough control to formulate a plan of action?
In desperate frustration I have turned back to this journal as an outlet for my feelings – Watson's advice to tell someone still rings in my head. How I wish I could just go to him and tell him the danger I have placed him in! But how can I?
How can I tell my best, indeed my only, friend, that his life has become no more than a pawn in this giant chess game? Moriarty's opening gambit is deadly, and my queen has never been in such jeopardy. How can I tell Watson he is no more than a pawn to the Professor? To me, yes, his value goes beyond any piece I have with which to bargain – but to the Napoleon of Crime, he is no more than a worthless pawn, valuable only for his association with the key chessman.
The thought of it makes my blood boil, and I am still finding it hard to concentrate like the ideal reasoner Watson is so fond of depicting me as. I wonder if he ever realizes that I am very definitely not omnipotent, as this sordid drama has clearly shown to me. I realize now more than ever just how fallible I am. What am I to do?
I can hear the Doctor telling me to take a deep breath and calm down. Strange, how much Watson pervades even my subconscious thoughts. I cannot bear the thought of what would happen if that influence were to be stripped away from me as Moriarty intends to do.
No! I will not allow it! Rather would I burn every shred of evidence I have against Moriarty and his entire gang than see that happen. I would never be able to live with the guilt of knowing my worst nightmare had come true – that harm had come to Watson because of his association with me. I cannot, and will not, allow it. I will go and see Inspector Patterson at once and demand, cajole, or steal the evidence he has – whatever it takes, I shall get it back.
Perhaps Watson is right – releasing emotions can help the mind become clearer. I wonder on how many other points is he right and I am wrong?
SH
I smiled, a little sadly, as I read the last lines of that entry. Many different emotions were swirling around in my own consciousness. I was touched by the things that Holmes had said about me, things that I already knew he felt but would die before he would tell me. I was angry at Moriarty, dead though he was at that point, for putting my friend through such turmoil; I felt some sense of guilt at being, as Holmes put it, a mere pawn in that game.
But the questions I had still remained unanswered. And what of this evidence that the police had? Obviously, since we had to flee the country, Holmes was not able to get the evidence back from the police. I turned to the next page, dated the following day. This was the page that had at first grabbed my attention earlier in the evening.
April 28, 1891
11:00 am.
It is with great frustration I continue this entry – why I continue to vent on paper is a mystery to me, but it does seem to help; if for no other reason than to allow me to remain in an outwardly calm state.
I went early this morning, after yet another sleepless night, to the Yard to see Inspector Patterson. I had no difficulty perceiving the man who was following me – Moriarty really should choose his underlings with more care. However, I wanted the Professor to know that I was trying to obey his ultimatum, and so I made no effort to shake my pursuer off my trail.
I met Patterson in his office less than an hour ago. I will not dwell on the exchange, for it will only stir up emotions yet again that I am loathe to let even a journal see. Suffice it to say I was unable to obtain the evidence, and received a stern dressing-down from the Inspector for suggesting that I was wrong in the case and it should be dropped.
The imbecile! Does he not understand the ramifications of it not getting dropped? He is delirious with the possibility of being in charge of the most sensational arrest and trial of the century, and nothing will change his mind on the matter. What am I to do? Even if I were to step out now, the damage has been done, and Moriarty will still be finished even if I refrain from involvement from now on.
He will never accept that as an excuse, I know. I can see that snake-like head oscillating side to side even as I sit here writing, and as I do so my imagination conjures up the most horrible things that will happen if I do not find a way to stop this – but I cannot. I, Sherlock Holmes, the world's foremost consulting detective, am helpless. My great brain cannot even conceive a way to save the life of my dearest friend.
Forgive me, Watson.
I stopped reading. Tears stung the back of my eyes as the hopeless desperation of Holmes's tone was evident to me through his writing. That last line, evidence of my friend's distraught emotional state, nearly broke my heart. I continued reading, the final lines of that entry being those I already knew.
It has been two long, harrowing days since Moriarty gave me his ultimatum – drop the case, or Watson dies. I would care naught for his words if it were my life he were threatening – I fear few things, and death is not one of them. But the Professor has discovered my one weakness, Watson's safety, and I am at a loss what to do. Pray God I can find a way to extricate us both from the clutches of this monster.
7:00 pm.
I believe I have now worn a permanent hole in the carpet between my bedroom and the fireplace. I dare not walk in front of the windows; I suspect one of Moriarty's minions stands ready with VonHerder's fantastic air-gun trained on my sitting room.
Or perhaps he waits with the sights trained on the windows of a certain consulting-room in Kensington. I tremble at the thought, and shake the disturbing mental pictures out of my head.
I simply must find a way out of this predicament. I have given up even caring about my own worthless life – it would mean naught to me if something were to happen to Watson through my own incompetence. I will devote all my energies and my life to preventing the worst from happening to him.
Of course! Two can play at Moriarty's game, and I am every whit the Professor's equal in intellect. Watson shall be safe, or I shall die in the attempt. He should be finished in his consulting room now – I will put a plan into action at once.
I can see why Watson enjoys his scribbling – it really does clear the mind. Please God, before the sun sets this time tomorrow, Watson will be out of danger, at least for the present.
SH
I stopped reading and realized after some quick calculating that April 28 of '91 was the very night Holmes had come into my consulting room and told me for the first time of Moriarty, his gang, upcoming arrest, and his attempts on Holmes's life. I wondered briefly how much of what my companion had told me that night was the truth. The rest of the journal would tell me, I knew, and so I kept reading, oblivious to the fact that the fire had gone out and the room was growing chilly.
To Be Continued...