Title: Haunted By You
Summary: Hidden just off the path to Reichenbach, near the top, there is a small, nameless memorial. Every so often, Holmes makes a solitary trip to the Continent and pays his respects.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes & Co. are the original creations of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Warnings/Rating: PG-13 for psychological/supernatural drama and sensitive material
Author's Note: This is a fill for a prompt on the shkinkmeme over at Livejournal. It turned out differently, I think, than what the OP was wanting. I'm not entirely happy with it; it feels a bit repetitive to me, kind of clichéd, a little gimmicky. :/ But I suppose it works well enough…
1894
He is returning home. His nemesis will not be.
He had certainly been brilliant, that much was unmistakable, undismissable. He had long lain outside the public notice, until the end when his reputation came crashing down with his criminal empire. While he may have once been thought respectable, Moriarty was a villain nonetheless, and would be remembered as the master criminal who had killed (or tried to kill) Sherlock Holmes. The public would laugh at his death, would spit and curse and say "Good riddance to him!"
Holmes wonders, sometimes, if there was someone, perhaps long since dead, who would have missed the man who died at Reichenbach. Surely as a child at the least, Moriarty had someone.
Holmes takes a brief detour in Switzerland.
As he heads up the path, he picks up the odd rock here and there, stones that have broken loose from the walls. Most of them are fairly small, not much bigger than his fist, but there is one that is long and slender and shaped like a dagger. He takes this one up too.
He pauses briefly by the boulder where he and Watson had separated, the last time he walked this path. He thinks about arranging the small pile of rocks on the ground here, with the longer, thinner stone propped up in the midst of it's fellows, reaching up to the sky.
But somehow, that doesn't seem quite right. This is not meant to commemorate his faithful Watson and their long separation. He keeps heading up the trail.
Then he finds a crevice in the rocky wall next to the path. Holmes stares at it for a long moment before smiling. He wedges the long stone there, point down, and piles the smaller rocks on top, inversed to what he'd first intended.
He steps back and tilts his head, examining the set of the stones and making sure they are fitted tightly. The longer rock stands out amongst the others, moving down into the darker lower regions of this small segment of cliff, it's top surrounded and hidden by the smaller less worthy stones. Holmes is satisfied.
He stands there a moment longer, staring at the rocks and listening to the roar of the falls. A cold draft of air raises the hairs on the back of his neck, and he turns around to gaze into the abyss at his feet. The powerful torrent of water is mere feet away, and threatening once again to sweep him down with his old foe. He hears what sounds like a whisper, and a wave of vertigo makes him sway and steady himself on the rocks behind him. His skin still prickling, he turns and heads back down the path.
1897
He doesn't make the next trip until several years have passed. It's not out of forgetfulness, or the thought that he was not worth the trouble, it just wasn't time yet. It's time now.
It is spring, just as it was when he'd first seen the falls. They are still beautiful, still powerful and awe-inspiring, the river swollen with early snowmelt. The rocky path is just as steep and demanding, but Holmes is just as spry as he was six years ago, and makes his way up with little difficulty. And, just as it was six years ago when he had first come here, and three years ago when he'd returned, he makes the hike alone.
He finds the carefully arranged rock pile exactly where he'd left it. For a moment he just stares, breath harsh from the climb. The mist from the falls is cold on his face, clinging and beading on his woolen coat. He stands there, gazing silently at the stones, and listening to the whispering memories of Reichenbach.
When he realizes he is hearing actual whispers, he stiffens and whirls around, seeking out the culprit. But he is alone.
"You should have just stayed out of my business, Holmes."
Holmes scowls. He likes having privacy during his visits and is not pleased at being interrupted, least of all by some vengeful villain. "Who is there?" he calls out, and the whispers fall silent.
He looks further down the path, and back down the hill. In either direction the trail is empty of people. There is no one on the rocks over his head, and no one down the sheer cliff side either. He is alone. A shiver runs up his spine.
And then the whispers start up again.
Holmes ignores the hairs raising on the back of his neck, and focuses on the facts, trying to find his unseen observer. It is a single voice, male, older than he. Focusing on it, he can tell that it does not sound so much like a whisper as it does an echo (he looks further away, higher up the rocks, but still sees nobody). Tone is tired, resigned, reproachful. Subject matter…
"It should never have come to this… it wouldn't have, if you'd left well enough alone. Now all has ended in death and darkness, and it's all your own fault."
"And what exactly is my own fault?" he says, eyes scanning for the other speaker.
But the whispering/echoing voice does not answer. It dies down, and fades away. And Holmes is left alone again.
Shrugging it off, Holmes turns back to the memorial. The stones have gathered some moss over the years since his last visit, sparkling slightly with captured water droplets. He thinks about scraping it off, but decides to leave it. He does reach out with one gloved hand to clear away a cobweb from a gap in between a few of the stones, and a spot of mud from the dagger-shaped rock.
With a final, respectful nod, he leaves the little monument and starts back down to the village.
1898
His fourth trip to Reichenbach is less than a year later, on the anniversary of his "return to life", in fact. Despite his three years spent wandering the world, upon his return to London, things had gone on much as they always had. It felt wrong, sometimes, that he had taken up life as per usual. One man falls, but the other does not rise. He has simply…continued.
Once again, Holmes finds himself standing in the cold, by a waterfall that had nearly claimed him, at a memorial for a man that had nearly killed him, trying to make sense of everything.
He shivers and feels a phantom touch brush along his neck, just above his collar. Startled, he twists away from nothing and a violent shiver racks his thin frame. It is always cold when he comes here, particularly right up by the falls, or he would have said that it felt colder than usual. Holmes scowls and swipes a hand over the tickling skin.
He runs a critical eye over the little shrine. Suddenly, he doesn't want to be here, at this little peaceful spot that makes his mind whisper hateful, reproachful things to him. He wants to see the battlefield.
He follows the trail onwards with determination, up the winding path, up the cliff side. Strangely, he feels so intent on his goal that it feels almost physical, almost like there is someone with him, literally pushing him forwards, until he reaches the high ledge from which the mighty had finally fallen.
The gravel here is mixed with mud, the spray of the falls dampening the ground and making it all the more precarious. It has been too many years past; even though people rarely climb this high, there are no signs left of their struggle, even for one so observant as him.
Holmes stiffens when he realizes he can no longer recall the exact spot upon the precipice from which he had fallen. He had been certain he could locate it, could picture the scene in his mind like it had happened yesterday, but now, standing here, in the very place it had happened, he could not locate the specific part of the ledge. He finds himself turning, eyes chasing the reflections of light off the water as they dance across the rocks.
Was it at that little outcropping there, dangerously close to the rushing water? Or closer to the middle, where the ground was particularly muddy? Or had the weather and river perhaps changed the face of the rock enough that the specific point was gone altogether?
Holmes could not recall.
For the life of him, all he could bring to mind was the fact that for two men who prided themselves on their superior intellects, he and Moriarty had a violently tangible ending to their rivalry.
Feeling mildly distressed, he turned on his heel and swept back down the path to the relative safety of the rock arrangement. He stopped next to it, still facing down the path to the village, breathing heavily and eyes distant.
Another slight glimmer playing at the corner of his eye catches his attention, and he turns his head. Sunlight glinting off the water, he deems, like the dancing patterns from the ledge up above. The sun is setting already.
Holmes gives the topmost rocks a last, gentle pat with one leather-gloved hand before he leaves.
1902
He visits Reichenbach off and on over the next few years, trying to work through his resentfulness of the world shifting around him. The death of the Queen sobers him some, bringing forth thoughts about the end of the era - the end of his era.
Cocaine gives far less solace than it used to.
Watson is understanding and sympathetic, but far more hopeful than he, looking forward to the new century and the progressive changes. Holmes finds himself seeking solitude as he struggles to manage his inner demons and adjust. When he falls into particularly morose reminiscences, like this one, he takes a trip.
He stops suddenly on the path cut into the cliff side, staring in shock.
The memorial is gone, the rocks shifted and scattered across the ground.
Holmes says nothing, but one can see it in his eyes, the moment of absolute shock that strikes him like a hammer, washing cold through his bones. The momentary pang of resentful grief comes next, and Holmes just wants to spit and swear. He can tell it was not erosion that caused the rocks to collapse; someone purposefully demolished the careful arrangement. The dagger-stone is gone altogether, likely thrown over the edge into the roiling pool at the foot of the falls
Slow and resigned, he walks up to the crevice where the rocks had once been wedged in place, running a hand over the sharp stone edges. He frowns bitterly and turns on his heel, leaning against the wall. He looks down at the few rocks left scattered across the ground in front of the space, his outrage stirring itself until it boils over. With a moody growl, he swings his foot out and kicks one of the stones, sending it flying over the edge into the falls.
Immediately he feels guilty, and he scoops up the other two rocks where they sit nestled against the wall, cradling them protectively to his chest.
Cool air from no existing breeze prickles his neck. He looks up.
Holmes stares at the image of the professor in front of him. The professor - the vision - stares back, sour, accusing.
Holmes heaves a sigh and turns away, sitting down cross-legged against the wall. He toys with the stones in his lap, wondering what he should do with them now. He can't very well put them back in the same place; the blackguard who'd demolished the memorial may return.
"Bloody ruffians," the Professor sniffs moodily. The curse sounds odd on his cultured voice, and Holmes twitches and ignores the urge to look at the figure. "They thought it amusing, no doubt. How long are you going to ignore me, Holmes? I am here, you know."
"I am going mad," Holmes says very matter-of-factly and avoids looking at him. "My regular usage of certain chemicals has spoiled my mind, and now, even without it in my system, I could swear that you are here."
Moriarty glowers back. "And what," he says testily, "is your explanation for me seeing you?"
Holmes shrugs and finally meets his gaze. "You are a hallucination of my own mind. Why wouldn't you see me?"
After a long silent moment, he adds on, "Or, perhaps, you are a ghost."
The other snorts derisively. "And why can you not be the ghost, out of the two of us?"
They stare at each other for another long silent moment, then Holmes' lips twitch, and Moriarty smirks sardonically, and suddenly the two of them are laughing, and laughing. The falls roar louder than ever.
Eventually, Holmes' mirth dies away and he is left looking down at the two stones in his lap, listening to Moriarty chuckle. A slow smile creeps over his face, and he sets the two stones side-by-side on the very brink of the ledge. The slightest touch will send them tumbling down into the pounding water.
He looks back to where Moriarty stood - but the shade is gone. Undisturbed, he tips his hat jauntily to the empty space where he had last seen him before leaving once more.
1915
He makes his final trip to Reichenbach, and the previous location of the little unmarked memorial there.
He is getting too old to make the trip; getting to Switzerland is exhausting, let alone making the climb up to the top of the falls. As always, he has a devil of a time making it there unnoticed and alone, but happily, he does succeed. He likes having privacy during his visits.
He is quiet throughout, and calmly lets the presence of his fallen foe wash over him.
Things are always quiet now, and sometimes he feels like he ought to scream just to fill the silence. He has quietly retired by now, and lives quietly in Sussex, tending (quietly) to his bees. He no longer takes the cocaine, Watson's pleading and coaxing finally paying off.
It makes Watson happy, to see him so at peace.
And for the most part, he is at peace… except not. He is content, but not really happy. He lives quietly, in a constant, subtle disquiet.
The shade's suggestion - "why can you not be the ghost, out of the two of us?" - runs eerily at the back of his mind when he thinks about it.
He has not seen the apparition of the professor since that one time. Whether it was a hallucination brought on by the drugs, or a freak figment of his imagination, or if it had been an actual spirit, Holmes had never been able to determine.
He tries not to think about it.
He has no quarrel with a dead man. Now that his enemy is gone, he can admire the man's tragic genius in peace, without it being tainted by concern for his own wellbeing. Moriarty was the only man to match his own intellect.
He doesn't need to say anything. He doesn't even need the stones now. He simply stands on the edge of the cliff, soaking up the spray of the water and feeling the Swiss spring wind drive a chill down to his bones. The Reichenbach Falls - the location of their final battle, of Moriarty's demise - serve as its own memorial and burial site all in one.
He stands there and pointedly does not think about these things. That's not why he's here. He just wanted to pay his respects.
End
I have more Sherlock Holmes one-shots coming, so I am setting this up as another oneshot anthology, like I did with my story collections 'Chalk Dust' (for FMA) A Series of Angsty Events (for HP) and 'Everybody Who Hates Harry Here, Raise Their Hand' (for KKBB). I had posted this to the crossovers section, for Canon and Ritchieverse, but, since nothings really crossing over, I've relocated it to just the SH books section. The stories will have a vague Victorian setting, so they can probably work in any variation (with the obvious exception of BBCverse) of the story.
I also have a multichapter SH mythology!AU coming out in a week or two which will be posted seperately, and a KKBB/SH crossover coming out soonish that I HIGHLY reccommend you read even if you aren't familiar with KKBB. You can find out more about that one in my profile.
Also, make suggestions, my dear readers! I am accepting prompts for SH short stories, though I don't promise I'll write all of them. But if you have a plot bunny, throw it at my and if it strikes a chord I might write it up!