A/N: I read William Stafford's "Fifteen", and I just had to attempt this. It is in the same format, but it tells the story of Reichenbach from Holmes' POV. This is something complete for everyone to read while I finish the first chapter of my fanfic, TheAffairoftheAngelsthatWept. Disclaimer: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost let me borrow Sherlock Holmes and the gang.
Thirty-Seven
High in the mountains of Switzerland,
I lay on the edge of a precipice,
Watching my friend below me, my Boswell
Crying, calling for me, begging God to save me
From the swirling abyss below. I was thirty-seven.
The fight was swift; the culmination of months of
Tracing, tracking, thinking, smoking.
The bird that escaped the net attacked,
And fell screaming into the churning waters below. I was thirty-seven.
I could call out to my grieving friend,
Climb down from the ledge far above his head.
I could return to England
Without fear for my life, return to a hero's welcome.
I could finally be known, remembered, and envied
For the destruction of the Napoleon of Crime! I was thirty-seven.
Keeping my mouth closed, I watch my Boswell below
Slowly, sadly limp away. Above me,
An invisible hand throws rocks at my head
And I, a fugitive of good, scrambled to safety,
Climbing, slipping, falling, falling, not into the abyss, but
Safe, bleeding onto the muddied path.
I lay there, thirty-seven.