What follows are the remembrances of Dr John Watson, physician, friend and biographer to Sherlock Holmes and the journal of the events surrounding the latter's death as recorded in the year of our Lord 1891.

Dr John Watson ran as if all the hounds of Hell were behind him. I had left my friend and colleague, the great Sherlock Holmes, alone atop the Reichenbach Falls and allowed the fiend Professor Moriarty to lure him from my side! 'So simple a lure, and I so foolish to fall foul of this deception,' I curse myself as I run up the ascent that takes me back along the way I had just come, back up the mountainside towards to the falls.

It was two hours hence when I came across the staff which my learned friend had used as a stock while walking, leant against a rock marking the spot where I had abandoned him hours earlier to come to the aid of some stricken tourist — the ruse Moriarty employed to separate me from my friend's side. The soft mud around the falls clearly showed signs of a struggle — undoubtedly, this was the spot where Moriarty had accosted Holmes. Sets of tangled footprints lead to the precipice — none return.

'Holmes!' I cried into the darkness and noise of the fall's cascade, 'Holmes!'

I sit down dejectedly down on the rock, defeated; the roar of the waterfall behind me blocks out all immediate thoughts of grief. 'I can't believe he's gone,' I hear myself say.

Resting there, my hands of their own accord lay upon an item easily overlooked and yet of tremendous significance: Holmes's cigarette case, gleaming silver, and underneath: a letter. It bore Holmes's writing. Eagerly, I unfold it and read its contents...

—

My dear Watson, I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us. Moriarty's criminal gang in London are in the arms of Lestrade; however, it occurs to me as I stand here and await what fate befalls me, that Moriarty has perhaps bested me and his fanatics have travelled beyond England's borders and further than Switzerland.

If it is to be the case, my dear Watson, trusted friend and biographer, that I never leave this dreadful cauldron, then I entrust to you my career and have it known to you that I have willed all my possessions to my brother Mycroft who awaits your return in London. Pray give my greetings to Mrs Watson and believe me to be, my dear fellow,

Very sincerely yours,


Sherlock Holmes.

—

I could picture the confrontation in my mind's eye — so long had they battled, Holmes and Moriarty, that I am able to imagine every line spoken and every gesture made. I find myself reflecting on the fact that ever since Holmes had uncovered Moriarty's twisted plans to resurrect an ancient Egyptian cult, with himself installed as Patriarch, whose sworn acolytes were comprised chiefly of Moriarty's agents and henchmen, there had been marked activity in the web of influence that was Moriarty's criminal empire. This had culminated in the thefts of several rare artefacts from museums and stately homes. For every setback Holmes ensured Moriarty and the Cult suffered, their numbers continued to swell and their ambition only grew. The theft of perhaps the greatest significance was of a most prized gem, the Turquoise Moon. This was a colossal diamond unmatched in size and of unparalleled splendour and fire. To this, Holmes had himself come into possession, late in the year of 1890 after removing it from the vaults of one of the venerated banking families in the Swiss nation.

It no longer resided in Baker Street, for its safety beyond the reach of the Cult was guaranteed no safer there than in holding in Switzerland. Thus was it moved, in secret, into the gift of Holmes's sedentary older brother Mycroft. Holmes had frequently despaired of his sibling to me, of his unwillingness to put into practice the solutions his intellect put forth. However, in this one instance, Mycroft had proved his worth and had taken the diamond and secured it with all the range of the Empire's securities ranged against those who would dare to steal it.

'All his possessions'? Something about the choice of phrase imparted to me the certainty that Holmes intended. There could be no doubt about it; Holmes's subtlety betrayed no other intent. Moriarty's cult was coming for the Turquoise Moon — it had to be moved.

The sun was already halfway to setting when I set off at a run down the mountain side to Meiringen once more, my task bequeathed to me from the grave of my fallen comrade: to secure the diamond forever beyond the reaches of the Cult.

—

So it was that several weeks since departing the site where my comrade had fallen to his nemesis Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls that I, Dr Watson, came to be sitting in the entrance Hall in Whitehall, in the shadows of the Palace of Westminster, awaiting my appointment with the distinguished ministerial advisor, civil servant and sibling to the late Sherlock: Mycroft Holmes.

'You may enter now, Dr Watson.' A regal gentleman with gold piping was addressing me. I collected my leather bag and followed him through the oak-panelled doors into the inner sanctum of Government administration.

'It is unusual to see a physician in these offices. Take no offence, but may I enquire as to your business here today?

'Certainly,' said I, 'it is my solemn duty to bring news of bereavement in the family.'

He remained silent after that and I bade him a good day as I entered Mycroft's 'clearing house'. Mycroft held several inches above his brother and several inches girth about his middle — a large and avuncular fellow he was indeed — but to Holmes's infinite irritation, a man not predisposed ever to action. Nevertheless, despite the loss of my dearest friend and his brother, our reunion was a happy one.

'John!' he ejaculated with his arms flung wide.

'Mycroft!' I exclaimed, truly joyful.

'Come, come!' he beckoned me into his office.

Sherlock's London flat was patterned on the organised and meticulous mind of the occupier, though many a vast and varied artefact lay in corners or else distributed across mantles about the place; nevertheless, in Baker Street there was a place for everything and nothing was ever out of place thanks to the sterling efforts of Mrs Hudson. Here, however, in Mycroft's domain, the reverse instinct was explored to its fullest. The blinds were half pulled down, casting a wan and pale light into the room, illuminating shafts of dust particles and stacks of books and papers untidily arranged in multiple piles around the office. Mycroft settled himself with a minor grunt into the chair behind his desk and cleared a few piles of paper out of the way to afford himself a clearer line of sight to me.

He cast his eyes down. 'I know why you've come.'

'Then you will have received my letter,' I said. These were difficult territories to navigate.

'Dark days indeed,' he said, his chin burrowing into his chest, scarcely able to look me in the eyes.

I reached into the inner pocket of my coat and removed a dog-eared fold of paper. 'Sherlock's last letter,' I said and pushed it across to him. He took it and sat back in his chair, opening the letter with a dexterous movement of his thumb and forefinger.

He murmured a few times reading back and forth, then mumbled, '... willed all my possessions to my brother Mycroft'. Placing a fingertip to his chin, he gave pause and then said, 'And so indeed he did. Though at the time I confess I hadn't the faintest idea why he should wish to do such a thing.'

'Then you have the Turquoise Moon?' I asked. I hadn't the time to waste on the pleasantries of civil service coquetry.

'You are a fierce friend, aren't you, my dear Doctor?'

'I apologise if my impetuousness surprises you, sir, but this is a matter of the gravest import.'

'I take no offence and share in your concern. If my brother's gallivanting and impetuousness had not led to his demise, I should feel the less inclined; however, at his loss I can see no other conclusion to our dilemma.'

'And what conclusion is that?' I asked of him.

'That Sherlock feared for his own life sufficiently to place all his belongs into my protection, including that rare and prized gem, convinces me of the seriousness of our case and the urgency of any solution.'

'And what do you propose to do?' I asked of him.

'At your request, I have sought representations and it is my sad duty to report that there is no one department which has the resources or the staff to commit to protecting this artefact indefinitely, nor to simultaneously keep a watchful eye of London's streets for Moriarty's henchmen.'

I consented to Mycroft's analysis. 'Sherlock feared Moriarty had moved his operations out of Great Britain, though he did not yet have evidence pointing to a location, nor was he able to deduce it from Moriarty's actions.'

'All the more reason, then, to do as I propose!' Mycroft flared.

'You have not yet proposed anything,' I cautioned him.

Looking momentarily perplexed, he continued, 'Did I not? Oh... well then, I propose to create a new department whose job it will be to oversee this operation: the ongoing investigation into the catspaws criminal conspiracy wherever it festers, whomever they employ, whatever their dark deed.'

'And the diamond?' I pressed.

'Yes. About that. Would you care to join me for lunch? I desire to speak with you in private.'

I looked around the deserted room. 'Is here not private enough?' I exclaimed.

'My dear fellow, this is Whitehall,' he said, smiling. 'There are better places where two fellows can talk in solemnity without fearing their words may pass beyond four walls.'

I rose.

'Come,' he instructed me as he preambled into his coat. 'I suggest we relocate to the Diogenes Club, of which I am a founder member, and where a man of your distinguished profession is more than welcome.'

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