"Observe, my dear Watson, the scuff marks upon the heels of the shoes, caused, I do not doubt, by a body dragged along the rotted wood of the warehouse in Peverall Lane. I think you will find that this gentleman is not, in fact, Lord Westerley, the storied recluse, but his childhood friend, Arthur Bethnall!"

"'Pon my soul, Holmes! However could you come to that conclusion?" My constant and indomitable companion, Doctor John Watson appeared incredulous at the deductions I had made, but they were quite logical. "Even Lady Isobel, Westerley's sister, believes this man to be him. I should warrant a lady of her refinement could not have her memories questioned so."

"Indeed. However, were you to take a closer look at this man's shoes, you will see that they are two sizes too small, cramping his toes and forcing him to walk with a limp, hence the use of the cane." I turned to Lady Isobel and observed the perspiration gilding her brow. "Even I would have dismissed the evidence of my own eyes, were it not for two things. The sealed love letters that Lady Isobel unsuccessfully attempted to hide, written in the same hand as the blackmailer's note, the same handwriting found in the book given to Westerley by his old friend from Eton, and that Lord Westerly suffered a profound tobacco habit, taking to placing his pouch and pipe upon the highest shelf in his study in order to assuage his habit. A shelf that this man, three inches too short, could never reach without aid. Aid, that the study did not have."

My own pipe tapped against my lower teeth as I signalled to Lestrade to perform his duty, a task he took to with practical glee, placing his hand upon the shoulder of Bethnall. The Lady Isobel I offered my own hand, ready to escort her to the police wagon that awaited them both. She, as was her want, refused my arm with a snort.

Yet another case had come to a successful conclusion and I did not doubt that Watson would wish to relate the details within his casebook without delay. I would, of course, have to furnish him with all the relevant deductions that led me to my conclusions. Though he had a sound mind, Watson did tend towards the fanciful in his memoirs and I preferred not to accommodate those fancies.

There were those, within the members of Scotland Yard and beyond, within the general populace, that believed Watson to be my greatest friend, but nothing could be further from the truth. I did care for the man, as much as one could care for a pet. He was, after all, my most faithful companion, but the post of my most trusted confidante lay in the mind of another.

After the events that unfolded at the rushing cascade of the Riechenbach Falls, I had taken it upon myself to allow Watson, and the world, to believe that I had suffered the greatest of tragedies. A ruse in order to root out the last elements of Moriarty's organisation. An organisation that I feared, had they known that I had survived, would have shown little compunction to using those closest to me to furnish my true death. I could not have allowed this.

Had I known then, that my efforts to dismantle Moriarty's organisation would bring me, once again, into contact with the man himself, I doubt I would have attempted such a deception. That Moriarty would call a truce, that we would fall into a friendship of sorts, I would not have believed in my wildest of imaginings, but it proved so.

While Watson still held a dear place in my heart, it was in Moriarty that I finally found an equal. A peer without peer, other than myself. We began to correspond, via letters concealed and hidden in secret places that only the most brilliant of minds could decipher the clues left behind in our previous missives. It became both a game and a challenge, a challenge that truly embodied the word, for, I must confess, there were times when even I had difficulty finding the next letter that I sought with increasing excitement.

Moriarty both tested me and fulfilled me.

Many were the times when that most peculiar and singular mind would find ever greater tests for my intellect, proving himself as accomplished at disguise as I. Slipping cryptic messages into my pockets as Watson and I wended our way through the London traffic. Only once, perhaps twice, could I say I caught a glimpse of Moriarty as he brushed against me. A master of his craft as great and as cunning as any man had any right to be. I yearned to hear from him.

After the exertions of our latest case, I persuaded Watson to accompany me to Savile Row. Ostensibly to enquire about a new suit that I had ordered for my companion some weeks prior. In truth, I had other, more underhand reasons for visiting the famous tailoring district. The paper within my pocket felt course against my fingers, folded several times in order to place the letter I had written in a tight place that few would notice were their eyes brought upon the crevice within which I would hide the letter.

While Watson stood upon the podium, remnants of cloth draped upon him, tailor's chalk marking the adjustments required to furnish him with as well-fitted a garment as he would ever wear, I made my excuses, citing the need for air after spending some time within the mould-afflicted warehouse that very morning.

Watson would have his fears, of course. His eyes had taken to watching my every move since rising from the dead those long months prior. He feared he would lose me. Little did he know that he already had. Lost to a greater mind. A mind that Watson could not compete with for my attentions. Though I despised myself for thinking so, Watson bored me, now. It was to this other mind that I addressed this letter. A letter that I left in a place only he could find.

"My dearest Moriarty,

Long do I wait to read your words. The intelligence with which you fill your pages, the genius, leaves me desperate for more ..."

-+-

"... I trust that the problems I have put forth within this missive will stretch your deductive skills. As you teach me the nuances of your criminal mind, I endeavour to teach you the intricacies of deductive reasoning.

You have made these months bearable. I hope that you, in all things, feel the same.

Ever yours,

Sherlock Holmes"

Holmes. A man that had impeded my great works with alarming regularity. A singular mind comparable to my own. Exceeded my intellect in some respects, fell far short in others. We compliment each other in ways that cannot be easily defined. Two of the greatest minds the world had ever seen, forever conflicted due to our respective occupations.

At least, that was how I once viewed him. After our first meeting, I had wondered what great accomplishments we could perform, were we to work together. But, alas, I could never become what he wished me to be, nor could he fall from grace and join me in my endeavours. Yet, we had struck a bond, finding a concordance that neither of us could ever have expected. Respecting one another. Appreciating each other.

Would that we could build a greater understanding, an accommodation in which we could investigate the friendship that we had both come to desire. He had always known, of course, that he had never seen the true face of his enemy. Even as we had fought upon the edge of the Riechenbach Falls, my disguise remained in place and, with that anonymity, we had both survived, only to clash once more.

Except, in the furtherance of our conflict, our combined admiration turned our enmity into grudging respect and then, further, into friendship. I could not say when that occurred, but occur it did. Our correspondence became a tether that would forever hold us entwined in each other's lives. For how long this could continue, I confess I do not know, but, I would hope, that it will last until our twilight years and beyond.

For now, I find great pleasure in our friendship and trust that we will, one day, step out of our respective shadows and trust each other completely. Until that day, I must remain hidden. Though we are beloved of each other, Holmes will always be Holmes and I shall always be Moriarty, his nemesis. His friend. He would never allow my schemes to come to fruition, though it is more of a game than a conflict now and, for that, I am grateful.

If he truly knew the identity of the man he believes is Moriarty, I do not doubt it would bring an end to our friendship. Or, perhaps, two friendships. One day, I hope I will find the perseverance to tell him the truth, but I fear that day may never come.

"Sir!" The man bumbled into my office without knocking. In my life as Moriarty, I would have him killed for such impudence. In this world, however, I must accept it with a tight-lipped smile. "There's been a murder. Off Dorset Way. The strangest of circumstances, if I'm to judge."

"Right enough, Sergeant. Let me get my hat and coat and we'll be off, eh? Send a constable to 221b, will you. I expect Mr Holmes will want a part of this."

"Right away, Inspector Lestrade, sir." With fingers tapping his forehead in salute, the sergeant left the office.

I had a new letter, ready and waiting for Holmes. Little did he know that the half-witted Inspector was his greatest enemy and his greatest friend. One day, he may even forgive me for that.