Mr Sherlock Holmes, 6th July 1894

It was an oppressively hot day. I woke at eight and on inspecting our rooms, found them to be deserted. In some surprise I went through to the living room. This was all most peculiar – the curtains were drawn back, yet I was alone in the house. There also appeared to be a telegram sitting on my usual chair. I tore it open and read it.

It was from Lestrade, certainly a singular message, calling me to investigate a case on one Willow Farm, Sussex. The urgency and immediacy of the summons was most exaggerated and took priority over the whereabouts of my roommate and landlady. In five minutes, having scribbled an explanatory note I was seated in a cab, hurrying towards the station. I broke my fast with some milk and biscuits while waiting for the train. Soon I was speeding across the countryside. I arrived at around ten O'clock. A man of around fifty in what appeared to be an overcoat made out of sacking greeted me. "Mr Sherlock Holmes I believe?" he said, shaking me by the hand and ushering me to a comfortable carriage.

It took a good two hours in the carriage to get to the farm. I tried to enquire about the case, but the man simply stated repeatedly that he was only a friend who volunteered my collection, and knew nothing of the farm. I tried engaging him in conversation, any conversation, to draw some clues, but he merely grunted in reply to my questions and observations. Eventually I fell silent and gazed around at the flat, sweeping fields and the distant, hazy peaks of the hills. A warm breeze swept us along and the sun rose dazzlingly and inexorably in the sky. I glanced at my silent companion, and it seemed that he was making efforts to keep from laughing. His eyes gleamed and his mouth twitched.

Eventually the carriage pulled up at a medium sized cottage covered in ivy, with various wooden and stone barns dotted around it. The cobalt-blue sea was visible through a valley nearby, and the lowing of cattle and bleating of sheep could be heard from fields nearby. "Just along the path and in," said the man who had brought me, and I made my way to the door, looking at the cracked mud tracks. There were four types of foot mark: Ridged, small-healed, square-toed and pointy. All four marks converged at the door step, suggesting that all four had walked together up the path and into the house.

I knocked on the door, but there was no reply. I rang the bell. I began to grow impatient and presently I tried the door. It was not locked and I went in. The interior was most fetching. The floor was flagstone, the walls were wooden and the ceiling was coated in plaster and supported by wooden beams. Two oil lamps dangled at each end of the room. A giant cooker stood at one end and several comfortable chairs were arranged around a large stone fireplace. An exquisite smell reached my nostrils. Something glinted in the aforementioned fireplace, and I picked it up for a closer look. "What is this?" I repeated, growing suspicious and amused, for marked on the cigarette end were the words "Bradley, Oxford Street". "Oh no…" I murmered, starting to smile.

"Well Sherlock," said an all-too-familiar voice, "It has finally been done – you must admit that you fell for it this year! Many happy belated returns, and a hearty welcome back!" Mycroft emerged from another room, Watson appeared from out of a large cupboard, Lestrade rose up from behind the settee and Mrs Hudson stepped out from behind the door.

I was forced to accept embraces and hand shakes, and yet as I looked around at my friends I brimmed with two unfamilliar and yet, on this occasion, welcome sensations; affection and gratitude. Mrs Hudson took one of my hands and Watson the other, and we all went through to the dining room where a sumptuous birthday meal was laid out. My eyes lit up and I felt my mouth begin to water as I gazed at the banquet. There were several types of vegetable, pies, wines, sauces and even a plump pheasant. I was seated at the head of the table and after grace everyone drank a toast to me. I felt myself flush up and raised my glass back.

Mrs Hudson cleared away the plates after we had picked the pheasant carcass clean and thoroughly emptied the dishes. We talked among ourselves – of cases old and new, of music and violins, of boxing, fencing, absent friends, of horses, dogs and deduction. Suddenly we all fell silent and Mrs Hudson brought a giant trifle filled with strawberries, cream and jam into the room. She placed it in front of me. "You always say trifles are the most important things, so we thought we should make you one," she explained, amid much laughter and applause.

They began to call for a speech and, reluctantly, I stood up. "Very funny, you managed to successfully trick me this time," I began sardonically. "I must admit that even with my powers I was wholly taken in by the telegram. Since you seem determined to make this occasion momentous and memorable for me I have no objection to entering in to the occasion with all my heart." This drew a cheer from all present. "I have only one question before I share this lovely trifle out," I added, "How in the name of all that's wonderful did you keep all this a secret?"

Watson spoke up. "Give us trifle and I'll tell you,"

"Tell me, and then I'll give you trifle," I retorted, beaming, but he would not. I looked at the others who sat, their lips pressed firmly together, looking at me infuriatingly. "Have it your way then," I cried, serving them all a bowlful. Mycroft's bowl was brimful, while Mrs Hudson had a dainty spoonful.

For a few minutes all were silent as we demolished that beautiful trifle. Then finally Watson swallowed and said "I think we owe our friend an explanation now, don't you, everybody?"

"Here here," said Mycroft, hiccupping and wiping his mouth with the napkin he had tucked into his shirt collar.

"Well," said Watson, pouring Mrs Hudson some more wine. "We all had a hand in organising it. We had to make absolutely sure we covered our tracks. That was all coordinated by Mycroft here. And the way it all unfolded…was like this: