Ending A: The Treaty Recovered
The acrid smoke from Holmes’s device cleared slowly, revealing a scene of frantic disarray. The telegraph operator lay slumped over his silent machine, stunned by a precise blow from the butt of my revolver. Across the room, Holmes stood over the Under-Secretary, his foot planted firmly on the man’s wrist, forcing him to release the Count's leather dispatch box.
"The transmission was incomplete, Watson," Holmes panted, his face smudged with soot but his eyes burning with triumph. He reached into the box and withdrew a heavy, cream-colored parchment adorned with the crimson wax seals of three empires. He held it up to the light of the dying gas lamps. "The Treaty of Vienna remains intact. The signatures are here, and more importantly, they haven't been duplicated."
Outside, the heavy rhythmic thud of boots announced the arrival of Mycroft’s hand-picked agents. The Embassy staff stood frozen, caught in the act of a geopolitical theft that would have set the continent ablaze. As the sun began to break through the London fog—no longer a sulfurous yellow, but a pale, hopeful grey—we stepped out onto the balcony.
"You have done it, Sherlock," Mycroft said, appearing from the shadows of the hallway, his face uncharacteristically pale. "By twenty minutes, you have saved the lives of millions. The Kaiser’s ministers will disavow this entire affair by noon, and the Count’s death will be ruled a tragic, natural passing to protect the peace."
Holmes looked out over the waking city, his expression distant. "The peace of a graveyard, Mycroft. The Count is still dead, and the traitor at Whitehall still breathes. But for today, the world is safe from the fire."
We returned to Baker Street as the first milk wagons began their rounds. As I watched Holmes settle back into his armchair to enjoy a well-earned pipe, I knew that while the public would never read of the 'Vanishing Diplomat,' the history books would remain unwritten by the hand of war—at least for now.
THE END