IT IS with a serious heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I hopefully shall ever record about the malicious genius and the wonder of the Napoleon of crime, Professor Moriarty. It was with much diligence, sweat, blood and determination that I overcame a most sinister project that threatened the peace of the world in the opening of our new 20th century. A peace that was regrettably short lived, only given respite for a few years until the horrendous international conflagration now called “The Great War” broke upon mankind. Even so, my prodigious efforts may have prevented an entirely different ending to the war that caused more than nine million soldiers to die on the various battlefields. If I had not incommoded, impeded and finally finished the grandiose Professor once and for all, the Central Powers would have in their bloody hands a horrific weapon that would have dealt a swift and great blow to the Allies war effort. I cannot imagine the state of the world had I not throttled the most evil genius that England ever produced, a traitor to the nation of his birth and willing nefarious agent of our Continental enemies. It was not without some trepidation that I enlisted the aid of my old devoted friend Dr. Watson, since I suspected the extent of the hazards of my investigations. But it was later with inestimable regret because of the costly personal loss that he would pay, a loss I am deeply moved to state that should have been avoidable, but circumstances worked against us. This personal deep wound is the cause I proffer, that the good Doctor had not taken pen to hand and recounted this most pernicious case of our mutual adventures in the annals of high crime. The affair did not have a definite or notable start; it percolated in the background, a nauseous whiff of machinations on the Continent barely registered in my subconscious. Perhaps I knew that something was occurring, but perhaps my conscious mind rebelled at the thought of the implications of the return of my nemesis. I had nothing definite to alarm me, and I do not project unsubstantiated events. I had marked him finished, plunged into that watery grave I had barely avoided. I had not lightly dismissed my archenemy’s demise. I had cautiously, but mistakenly, ascertained that he had indeed perished in our encounter at the Reichenbach falls, by meticulously investigating his former crime network and criminal minions. They had all bemoaned the passing of their commander and protector and determined him deceased. His habitat in England was left bereft and vacant. I had definitively ascertained that there were no contacts with the presumed late Professor and any of his former gang, those being incarcerate by my and Scotland Yards efforts, or those meeting termination during their apprehension or ends of the English judicial process and hangman’s rope. However to my growing chagrin, the vigorous Professor had secretly recuperated from his nearly fatal wounds after a long and veiled recovery. He had evidentially been snagged from death by a protruding tree limb hidden in the mists below. It had severely punctured his body in numerous locations, broken his hip and legs, which caused a considerable amount of pain and extended time of convalescence. But, he had managed to creep to safety, and was found by a local humanitarian who was rewarded with an untimely and quick death when the enraged professor was able to contact one of his Continental colleagues. He had a slow and painful recovery, which caused a stooped and ungainly walk that made the Professor even more sinister in carriage (this we found out afterward from a reluctant confederate of the late Professor who helped recover him). Moriarty then began a lengthy, hidden project that would culminate in the most dangerous scheme and dreadful mortal device since known to man. The Game’s Afoot “Watson, “ I bemoaned sitting comfortably but uneasily in my retirement villa one sunny morning “the game’s afoot once again.” It was the July of the year 1907. Watson had accepted my invitation to visit with me, having left his London abode empty, as his current wife was off visiting her relatives for a fortnight. We were enjoying tea, scones, butter and honey from my own bees. “What problem has arisen that disturbs you so deeply, Holmes,” Watson responded. “Normally the task of criminal apprehension stimulates you, yet I detect a forlorn tone to your announcement!” “ I have been deficient, my old friend. Inexplicably lacking in observing the growing evidence of an obscured threat. Even now that I can cognitively pronounce a series of seemingly unrelated events, but I am just now apprehending their import. I feel an evil growing premonition. My investigations hint at a source that cannot be; yet the track is unmistakable. The organization and maneuverings are reminiscent of a wicked malice that I had long ago reckoned finished.