The Last Confession of Sherlock Holmes by Kieran Lyne

The drawn out metallic click of the revolver reverberated with murderous intent.
    Ensuring only the smallest fraction of my face was visible through the glass, I tentatively peered down into the street below. It was a rather busy day, and the street was a constant stream of people and carriages, but there was no man who matched the description the book-collector had offered. I remained by the window, desperately trying to devise some of form of escape, when I heard a most shocking sound.
    â€œIt is good to see you have not let your guard down after all these years, my dear Watson,” said a hauntingly familiar voice.
    For a moment I remained in a state of complete paralysis. The tone was unmistakable, yet I knew the owner to have been dead for almost three years. Terrified that I had been led into a trap, I decided immediate action was crucial. I dropped to the ground, and spun around onto one knee, my fully loaded revolver now pointing directly into the temple of my guest.
    â€œMove an inch and I shall shoot,” I warned, rising to my feet. “You knock into me in the street, warn me of a dangerous man who is nowhere to be seen, and now try and imitate the voice of my late friend Sherlock Holmes. Explain yourself man!”
    â€œAs to your first points, Watson, they were rather for my own amusement, and as for the latter, I am rather offended that you believe me to be a mere imitation.”
    â€œI do not have time for this nonsense,” I replied. But as I made to direct this rather disturbing individual toward the door, he began to remove his hair, from both his scalp and whiskers. To my wide-eyed astonishment, the man who stood before me had a long nose, sharp jaw, and piercing eyes. It was none other than Sherlock Holmes.
    â€œGood God, Holmes!” I cried, almost keeling over at the shock. “Is it really you? I can scarcely believe my eyes! You almost gave me an aneurism! For a moment I believed I had fallen prey to some deadly deception.”
    â€œI apologise for my rather imprudent choice of revelation, but you know of my fondness for the theatrical,” said he, amused at my misfortune.
    â€œIndeed I do, Holmes,” I replied, years of mourning mixing with almost contemptuous rage. “If I were not so entirely thrilled by your presence, I would be sorely tempted to thrash you!”
    â€œHa! Good old Watson, I do apologise, and it is duly appreciated that you have refrained from thrashing me.”
    I looked on in amazement, as Holmes shed the rest of his disguise. He now stood, dressed in an elegant suit, pristine in condition, other than the slight unkemptness created by the slumped position that he had forced himself to adopt. His white hair and hump were cast casually amongst the volumes he had placed upon the table. Although still rather gaunt, Holmes looked in much better health and temperament than when we last spoke, upon that fateful eve at Reichenbach. He took time to walk about the room before we shared a most rare, brotherly embrace.
    â€œCome, Holmes,” said I, placing the revolver back into the drawer before taking a seat; a chair I had not brought myself to use in over three years. “How on earth did you survive that perilous fall?”
    â€œWell, Watson,” said he, taking his place and lighting his pipe. “In my experience, I have found a truly remarkable solution to surviving such a fall. It really is one of my more astute ideas, being both simple and effective.”
    â€œDo tell,” I urged, but Holmes seemed more than content to gaze around under the pretence of sentiment, teasing my curiosity.
    â€œYou know I have truly missed some of the comforts of these rooms, Watson. I have lived a life of distinct discomfort these past years.”
    â€œHolmes,” I said impatiently.
    â€œI have found, dear Watson,” said he, turning to face me, “that the best way to survive such a fall, is to rather simply… not