You are a powerful man, Professor.

You have intellect. Will. Strenght of the character.


You are an epitome of a cold, ruthless calculation.

Master Puppeteer.

Master of control.

But you are not perfect.

Looks like you can't control gravity in the first fat sod.

You had a Great Plan.

You were wealthy enough, connected enough, arrogant enough to pull it off. pitiful, sad excuse for a human being.

You even had an army ready and willing to back you up.

Against a neurotic detective and his faithful, albeit slightly unwilling, stiff-legged companion.

Dozens of thughs, murderers and cutthroats at your beck and call.

Quality over quantity, you git. Hah!


So, as we are plunging to our wet, turbulent, and very...VERY...cold death...

Tell me, Professor...

There are many who would kill for you...

But... is there one person in the world, who would die for you?

Take a bullet, or a blade meant for you?

Willingly step between you and the Grim Reaper?

What, too busy screaming?





No? I thought so.

Watson does.

So am I.

But I'll be damned if I ever let things come that far.

So, here we are...

GAAAHHHH! BLOODY HELL! Coldcoldcooooollldddddd!

Mycroft...if there is not enough oxygen in this toy of yours...i will haunt you forever!