My dear Watson. It is twelve-thirty now and the depression you had predicted is upon me in full force. But even here in the depth of hopelessness I feel an obligation to making certain Colonel Moran no longer poses a threat to my life. Or, more importantly, to yours. So I am going to confront him now, and quite frankly do not expect to return. Since this may be our last communication, I feel I should explain the very simple matter which I have allowed to become so complicated. I said before that in the last three years I have been around the globe. What I did not say is that in those travels I met countless thousands of people—men and women of every caste and creed, and in general I found the inhabitants of our world to be a seething mass of cowards, bullies, hypocrites, and warmongers. After three years of this it finally occurred to me that the problem with the world is not that there are too many unsolved crimes. The problem is that there are too few people like John Watson. Courageous. Honest. Considerate. Trustworthy. Once I realized this, it seemed logical that I should return to the company of the only person I…the only person who is like you. And to hope and pray that you would welcome me back as your friend.
(A beat, then)
Whatever happens to me now I hope you will remember me as…your greatest admirer, Sherlock Holmes.