The Chronicles of Sherlock Holmes by Paul Gilbert Page A

visualize his intentions, Moriarty raised the pistol to his own head and fired a single shot, the deadly, bloody results of which you were witness to when you entered the room but a moment later.’
    ‘Good heavens, Sherlock! You came within a deuce of losing your life!’ Mycroft suddenly exclaimed.
    ‘Not for the first time, brother, not for the first time,’ Holmes wanly repeated.
    ‘Well, I do not know. I may be dealing with matters of international espionage, but I shall feel far safer within the confines of my office than I ever will in your place. Moreover, if I am to avoid the Prime Minister’s wrath I must repair to that institution without delay! Please thank your Scottish woman for her somewhat limited hospitality. I shall send my man for my belongings later on. Good day to you!’
    A moment or two later Lestrade followed Mycroft through the door and Holmes and I were left to our own devices.
    ‘Holmes?’ I ventured, once we had enjoyed a prolonged moment of reflective silence. ‘I could not help but notice that, despite your best efforts at disguising it, there is still something within you that regrets Moriarty’s passing.’
    Holmes slowly shook his head while relighting his cherrywood.
    ‘No Watson, no one in their right mind could possibly lament the elimination of pure evil, which Moriarty, for all his cleverness, surely was. As a perfectionist in my chosen profession, however, it is indeed hard to see how a challenge as stimulating as battling with Moriarty, will ever arise again.’
    ‘I can understand that,’ I responded, ‘but did you not say earlier that the weaknesses of man, which you have so astutely observed over the years, ensure that there will always be someone prepared to prey upon them. Surely it is gratifying to know that you will be there to prevent that from happening?’
    Holmes turned to me suddenly and smiled. ‘As ever youare quite right, Watson. Yet it is equally gratifying to know that you will be there, fighting by my side.’

T HE R EMARKABLE D ISAPPEARANCE OF J AMES P HILLIMORE
    ‘Among those unfinished tales is that of Mr James Phillimore who, stepping back into his own house to get his umbrella, was never more seen in this world …’
    (The Problem of Thor Bridge by A. Conan Doyle)
    T here was a certain period of time whilst the new century was still in its infancy, when the capital was gripped by an atmosphere of stunned melancholy. Nation, Empire and populace tried to adapt to a world deprived of its revered monarch, now no longer looking down upon and protecting it. We all felt as if we had suffered a parental bereavement and only that long and bloody conflict in Southern Africa diverted us from our sense of loss and confusion.
    When I say all were affected, I do so while making one qualified exception, that of my friend and colleague, Sherlock Holmes. Had our new head of state been announced as Attila the Hun, as opposed to King Edward VII, Holmes would have suffered the succession with similar indifference, for as long as he was continually fed ona diet of new and intriguing cases, these were his sole driving force and motivation. Without these he felt as if his intricately engineered mind would surely stagnate and destroy itself.
    The fact that the past few months had seen Holmes plagued by the longest dearth of work he had experienced throughout our entire association, made his customary melancholy all the deeper and darker.
    Deprived of the solace that his now conquered addiction to cocaine had once provided him with, Holmes’s frustrations became all the more obvious and disturbing. He had even added to the bullet holes already adorning our drawing room wall, a use I had never expected my old army revolver to be put to, and was causing both Mrs Hudson and myself great concern.
    With a view to alleviating my friend’s condition, when not in attendance at my surgery, I tirelessly scanned all the morning and evening newspapers in the hope of catching