You pick up the tele­phone. Dial the num­ber.

“Come on in,” you say. “I’m wait­ing.”

“Let me out,” whis­pers the voice, and you can­not deny. You don’t want to deny.

For it is your voice. Your own, quiet voice, which you never re­lease, which you must never re­lease.

They don’t want you to. He does­n’t want you to.

You’ve played this game so many times, with so many names.

The voice is your en­emy, your arch-neme­sis.

“My name is Sher­lock Holmes,” you say.

“Mo­ri­arty,” whis­pers the voice, “Mo­ri­arty.”

You have never felt fear so deep as with this Mo­ri­arty.

He is your arch-neme­sis, for they all tell you he must be so. They tell you he is to be ig­nored. To be de­nied.

You wish you could ac­cept him, but no-one wants him.

No-one wants Mo­ri­arty un­leashed on the world.

But can you stop him?

You must.

There is no other choice.

He can­not see the light of day.

So you, with your con­sid­er­able in­tel­lect, con­coct a plan. A nudge here, a tap there, the right in­ter­pre­ta­tions for the right prophe­cies and…

You whis­per to that pa­thetic in­ner voice. All that you have to have to say has al­ready crossed its mind. Its an­swer does­n’t need to cross yours.

For there is no an­swer.

It is in­evitable.

Even Sher­lock Holmes him­self could never es­cape your trap.

You laugh.

You were never Sher­lock Holmes. That voice was never Mo­ri­arty.

Y­ou are Mo­ri­arty.

And you’ve solved The Fi­nal Prob­lem. You’ve solved that an­noy­ing lit­tle voice.

You’ve solved Sher­lock Holmes.

Your door creaks open.

Solemnly, the man hands you a white ce­ramic tile. You lay down. You po­si­tion it prop­erly.

“It does­n’t mat­ter what hap­pens now.” You say.

He nods.

He pulls out his weapon.

Black.

You may be dead.

But Sher­lock Holmes will never see the light of day.