Prologue
He was never entirely certain which pain was worse: the cruelties delivered by those guarding him, or that which was inflicted by his own mind and heart, fueled by soul-searing memory. Not that he had to choose between them – there was an abundance of both as days and nights merged into a single constant blur of agony. But there were times when he was almost grateful to his captors for subjecting him to yet another round of their sadistic entertainment. At least then he could focus on the here and now, a distraction from the nightmares which plagued his every moment, waking and sleeping.
John Watson... my beloved friend, dear God, I cannot bear it... was dead, shot through the heart... that noble heart, it held enough compassion for even such an undeserving wretch as I… by Colonel Moran, Moriarty's aide-de-camp, at Reichenbach Falls. Holmes had no need of his brother's eidetic talents – every detail of that horrific moment was crystal clear, unclouded by any amount of time or drugs. How long had it been? A week, a year, an eternity... it made no matter, time was meaningless to a man who had lost all hope. Had Mycroft or anyone else miraculously come to his rescue, he would not even have made a move to follow. The prison of his own guilt was far stronger than his shackles, more torturous than anything his gaolers could have devised.
It should have been me... the sound of water thundering in his ears... no, not again... the kiss of mist on his brow, scrapes from the climb stinging his palms and knees... let me be... Watson's frantic calls to his friend as he gazed into the abyss in growing despair, the clatter of stone on the cliff face when Holmes' foot dislodged a loose rock... please, God, make it stop... Watson's head jerking upwards in surprise, the joy of seeing Holmes alive and well blossoming in his face... for the love of Heaven, show me no more... the red stain blossoming on the Doctor's breast as Moran's bullet struck true, the fear and understanding growing in his friend's eyes even as their light slowly dimmed... Watson! It should have been me, Watson, I am so sorry! My cursed arrogance… I should never have allowed you to follow me! I failed you one time too many, my dearest friend, a thousand times too many!
He buried his face in his tattered hands, broken frame wracked with sobs. Burning eyes betrayed him yet again, as all tears had long since run dry. He had shed enough of them for a waterfall of his own, but one that was powerless to plunge him into the oblivion he craved. He would never have thought that he could envy James Moriarty, but the man had at least received a death of his own choosing, at the hands of his most respected enemy. For that poor mercy Holmes would have given his very soul, if he could only have reached down and reclaimed it from that seething cauldron where it lay, torn and bloodied, in the heart of the best and wisest man he had ever known.
Forgive me, John... forgive me...