In my many travels, I have found my most valuable possession to be a loyal friend at my side, ready to defend me with a revolver or knife. My best and truest friend whose presence I have abruptly left is a loyal, faithful man who has rescued me often from demons, whether of my own invention or the world's. He would willingly die for me, but I have betrayed him and his ever-steady morals, leaving him in a state of grief and tragedy. I shall ever hope he will not lose his faith in the impossible.

- M. Sigerson

"I say Mary; this chap has captured my fancy. He reminds me of Holmes. I doubt that I shall ever forget that man." I said, leaning against the mantle in my dressing gown. It had been nearly a year since Holmes' unfortunate demise at the hands of the "Napoleon of Crime," Professor Moriarty, and the weight of my grief was slowly beginning to slide off of my weary shoulders.

"John, the world will never forget Mr. Holmes. Neither will I and neither will you, but we shouldn't forget our breakfast either. I will look at the article shortly. I doubt Mr. Homes would have you starve yourself in his memory." Mary and I breakfasted, dressed, and I retired to my study to ponder the demise of my singularly gifted friend for the remainder of the morning as a chilling November rain drizzled down the glowing panes.

To My Honorable Readers:

To a worldly man like myself, such emotions of grief and sorrow are a waste. There is so much to see, so many wondrous sights to behold that, to me, emotions of grief, which cause one to mope about wishing for the return of a friend or brother are a waste, preventing normal life as they do. I hope that when I shall die my good friend will not squander his talents on emotions such a waste as these.

- M. Sigerson

"Mary, Sigerson has written another excellent piece. He seems far too wise to be a simple countryman. I should like to meet him someday." I then put the paper down, taking a sip of my tea, letting it burn down my throat, a cut into the mundane Sunday afternoon. The day of rest was always the worst. I had few patients to distract me and nothing to do but sit by the fire and think. I shall ever remember that particular day as the one in which I felt Holmes was truly gone. As I sat by the fire that afternoon, I was suddenly struck by an absence. I found that the lingering scent of his shag tobacco had left the crimson cloth of his favorite chair. To me, the smell of pipe tobacco will always conjure up images of that singular, trim figure ensconced in that chair, pondering some case or another. Now, the scent is gone and with it the man whom I will always associate with that musky aroma.

To my Faithful Readers:

In the course of my wanderings, I have seen many beauties of this world. From beautiful women to beautiful artwork to beautiful scenery, none could compare with the deadly beauty of Reichenbach Falls. The rushing waters give way to swirling mists that have been the demise of many a weary traveler. Its natural power and grace still, to this day, instill fear in my heart. Be it known that even the most dulcet of tones and graceful of lines can cause fear in one who has suffered at the hands of such beauty.

- M. Sigerson

Reichenbach falls. I too felt a sense of dread at the name of those majestic waters. The thought of Holmes disappearing into the mists as Arthur into Avalon was, to me, a betrayal of his memory and legacy. He would not have died so ordinary a death, falling into oblivion as he did. Despite his various flaws, the cocaine, the rude manner in which he addressed clients and the sorrowful melodies of the Stradivarius drifting through the walls at all hours of the night, he was a good man and a good friend. The title of "consulting detective" would never have been quite the same without him.

"John, dear, did that Sigerson fellow have anything to say this week?" Mary asked, lying in our room.

"Not so much Mary. Nothing I didn't already know." Flicking off the lamp, I settled in for another endless night haunted by men in deerstalkers disappearing into thick grey mists.

To my excellent readers:

I feel I have been remiss in my study of mankind in that I have failed to address the fairer sex. In my days, I have met only the most volatile of their ranks. I have, however, met one woman who was a credit to her kind. She is intelligent and ravishing; careful yet bold. The days I have spent with her in recent times can be counted among the best of my life, though I miss my home and friends dearly.

- M. Sigerson

I wondered then what happened to Irene Adler Norton. She was a remarkable woman, showing Holmes that not all women were incompetent. I was grateful for that at least. Every day I was reminded of our adventures together. Though it had become easier to walk past Baker Street and to see number 221B without becoming set in my melancholy ways, I could not help but feel Holmes was not gone. Only the day before that one, I saw a driver of a hansom cab looking at me peculiarly. He reminded me so very much of Holmes. Mary would continually tell me I must move on and return to life before Holmes, but every patient, every ailment brought to mind a case in which I assisted him. As I sat down on Holmes' chair one evening, it struck me that I was defacing the memory of a great man, trespassing as I was. I then got up and sat down on the brown chair beside Holmes' scarlet one and surrendered to the supreme silence of the night.

To my admirable readers:

I feel my time of wandering is coming to a close, my heart feeling a sort of gravity, pulling me home. It is time to come again to the flat that for some time has held my most precious of objects: my dear friend. I hope he will not collapse in shock at my arrival, sturdy man that he is, and I hope can return a better man than when I left.

- M. Sigerson

I read as the cheerful voices of playing children drifted through the foggy morning. Many months had passed since I first began reading faithfully the column of Mr. Sigerson. Reading the logical yet heartfelt writings of the Norwegian acted as a form of therapy for my grieving heart. Saddened as it made me, often days would pass in which I entertained not a single thought of Holmes. In all fairness, I must confess, I was no longer saddened by Holmes' absence. Instead, the grieving that had consumed my heart for so long turned into a rather grotesque form of hatred towards Moriarty. The mere thought of that man threw me into an angry fit, raging that such an extraordinarily devious man was allowed to walk free through the streets of London. I would curse him as the devil and rage until I wore myself out. I reluctantly came to the conclusion that Holmes died well, ridding the world of that singular form of criminal genius. Once I had accepted this, my life began to return to a normal sort, doting on my wife and sitting comfortably in front of the fire in the evenings and cheerily attending the concerns of my practice as a doctor.

"Mary, is this today's paper? Sigerson's column is gone."

"John, writers change, columns end. You know that." It did not strike me as odd after I spoke with Mary, so I dismissed the absence of my favorite column as a sign of the changing times. Had I paid more attention to that seemingly mundane event, I would have found a rather extraordinary clue to the events which were to come.

"Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard is here to speak with you, John." Mary said one morning.

"What the blazes does he want with me?" I returned, opening the door to my study. Inside, I found a rather haggard-looking version of the inspector with whom Holmes and I worked closely. "Hello Lestrade. What can I do for you?"

"Ronald Adair, the son of the Earl of Maynooth, has died under rather unusual circumstances. I should appreciate your assistance in examining the remains." He spoke, his tired eyes belying his lack of enthusiasm for the case.

"I should be glad to assist in any way I can, Inspector." It was with these words that I engaged myself in one of the most shocking cases in which I have ever been involved.

I accompanied the good inspector with some degree of reluctance to 427 Park Lane, the young man's apartment. The room and body were inspected in a rather lackluster fashion, knowing as I did that the minutest of details, without Holmes' eyes accompanying mine, would be utterly invisible. I walked out into the sunshine as a mole facing the sunlight, tripping over an old bookseller. Apologizing for my clumsiness, I helped him collect his effects and continued on my way. Upon my return to Kensington, I found myself called upon by the curious man upon whom I had trod earlier. He offered me some rather weighty tomes, pointing as he did to my "untidy shelf." When I turned to offer a polite refusal, I was faced with a ghost, none other than my dear deceased friend, Sherlock Holmes! I am rather ashamed to say I succumbed to the excitement of the moment and fainted then. When I was revived and saw Holmes, smelling salts in hand, I was never happier to see those steely eyes than I have ever been in my life.

"My dear Watson," he said, "I owe you a thousand apologies. I had no idea that you would be so affected."

'Affected indeed,' I thought. And he proceeded to tell of the travels of a humble Norwegian named Sigerson.