Introduction
January 1st, 1893.
If you are reading these journals, it is highly probable that I have finally met my demise at the hands of one of the many adversaries I spent my life hunting. Or, perhaps, I have simply retired to a quiet life far from the smog of London. The question remains: how did I arrive at this point? What has truly become of Sherlock Holmes?
Though my duties have taken me across continents, there remained one land I had never visited: America. With the great World's Fair approaching in Chicago, Illinois, I found myself enticed. My caseload had dwindled to nothing following the Moriarty affair. By deliberate design, Watson, Mycroft, and Lestrade remained entirely ignorant of my whereabouts. Truthfully, the criminal landscape of London had bored me ever since the Ripper murders of 1888—a horrific business that remains the one case that slipped through my fingers. I still find myself wondering: who was he? Why did he stop? How was he always three steps ahead of me?
(A sudden, sharp knock rattles the cottage door.)
"Telegram for Mr. Sigerson!" a voice calls out.
"Leave it on the doorstep!" I reply.
A telegram? For me? No living soul should know I exist under this guise. I opened the door, letting the frosty winter air into my small cottage, and retrieved the paper. My eyes widened. It was a letter from Watson.
Dear Mr. Sigerson,
Please come at once. We have an extraordinary situation that requires your particular skills. Holmes, I know what you did that fateful day with Moriarty. I remember the breathing device you took from Mycroft. The only question that remains is: how long do you intend to keep up this masquerade?
Sincerely, Dr. John Watson.
So, after all this time, my cover was blown? And to think I always considered myself the smartest man in the room. Leave it to Watson to see right through me. Nonetheless, the time for hiding has reached its end. Sherlock Holmes must return to the world—but to what end?
