Title: For You, My Dear
Description: Holmes didn't die at Reichenbach. He came mighty close, however. As much as he would have loved to return home, there are other pressing matters at hand. Set after A Game of Shadows; take as you like Holmes/Watson.
Pairing(s): Vaguely implied Holmes/Watson
Word Count: 9,811
Notes: This fic started out as an attempt to combine the ending of Game of Shadows with the events described in The Return of Sherlock Holmes (in the books), but then I realized writing of Holmes alone in Tibet for two years would be terribly uninteresting and would not make for enjoyable reading. So I watered it down some and just pretty much wrote of a completely different journey altogether. It was written a couple of months ago, but I never really got around to posting it until now.
And I'll add a faint hinting at the pairing near the end, whether you take it as anything more than platonic is entirely up to the reader.
One
Holmes was at peace as he and Moriarty flew over the edge of Reichenbach Falls.
He knew neither he nor his adversary would survive the giant drop to the churning waters below, and even if they did, hypothermia would get them before they had a chance to get to safety. In fact, he could already feel it settling now, with the chilling water already soaking his skin and freezing in the subzero temperatures.
He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, his ears blocking out Moriarty's screaming; but all traces vanished when he thought of Watson, his dear friend. He had not thought, pulling Moriarty and himself over the edge right as Watson stepped out. He could have had his friend help him; then perhaps this could have been avoided.
Of course, all of these thoughts went through his head in mere seconds. He let go of his grip on Moriarty, feeling him fall away from him, and the freezing mist of the falls grow thicker.
Cold was too generous a word to describe what he felt next.
He knew he'd hit the water when he felt all the air in his lungs unceremoniously driven out like he had been struck in the sternum. He had hoped for a quicker end—striking his head on a rock, perhaps—than drowning, or god forbid, freezing. The doubts he had forced himself not to think about before plunging from the balcony rose back up in him, swallowing his thoughts like a dark cloud.
He thrashed desperately, trying to breathe, but sucked in a large amount of glacial water instead. His mind wondered where Moriarty was briefly, but he did not have time to elaborate on the thought when suddenly freezing air was on his face as he broke the surface.
The quick breath he forced into his lungs was beyond painful. Sharp splinters incapacitated his throat, and he floundered helplessly in the water. His hand brushed something beside him, and he looked to see the limp body of Moriarty for less than a second before he was pulled under again.
Holmes was growing weak. His injured shoulder screamed with the pain of struggling, but he could not afford to favour it. He was terribly cold, and his limbs began to feel stiff. He couldn't breathe trapped under the water, and he mentally kicked himself for believing that death would ever come quickly to himself in the first place. No, it favoured Moriarty on that one, judging by the lack of movement from the limp body beside him.
His mind was beginning to fog, his thought pattern crumbling. He couldn't even deduce his chance of survival as he was churned in the rough waters.
Body growing steadily number, thoughts unable to form, and lungs unable to draw a breath, Holmes stopped his thrashing and let himself go limp. He didn't have the energy to fight anymore, and merely closed his eyes and awaited his demise.
Just when his lungs were at the point of bursting, he remembered the oxygen supply.
He'd slipped it from Mycroft's residence when he wasn't looking, and had stashed it in his jacket just in case. He knew that something like this might happen, as much as he preferred it did not. Reaching into his jacket to get it, he felt on the edge of his consciousness when he managed to grasp it.
Air rushed to his lungs as he took a hungry breath, reviving him somewhat and giving him more strength to fight. He was careful not to breathe with his nose, and as he was thrown about the current he fought his best to make it to the surface. But even the oxygen wouldn't keep him alive forever, and the cold was already sinking through his skin down to his bones. It wasn't long before he was weak all over again.
He wasn't expecting the blast of cold air on his face and the sudden chill that jolted him back to reality. Opening his eyes and realizing he had been swept up onto the bank, he did a mental check to make sure he still had all of his limbs. He immediately threw himself into the lee of a large rock, feeling the wind bite significantly less at him. It wouldn't be long until he succumbed to frostbite or hypothermia, but he knew he still had a fighting chance.
He quickly stripped off his outermost clothes, feeling the cold beginning to render his limbs useless, and wrung them out beside him. Slipping them back on he felt little warmth return, but it was better than nothing. Surviving, it seemed, was more than difficult. He had less than fifteen minutes before he lost consciousness, and then perhaps fifteen more before his death.
Holmes knew if he simply sat in wait he would be dead in minutes. His hair was now frozen, his fingers had lost feeling, and his legs felt nearly useless. Taking a deep breathe from the oxygen supply he found it made little difference—though any help was appreciated. He pushed himself up regardless, and staggering through the woods to where he thought he had seen a cottage on the way to the Falls, and forced himself onwards. On the way he thought he saw the shadow of a man far off in the forest, but he couldn't be sure if it was real or his mind playing tricks.
At first he did not think he was going the right way, but then the faint smell of a wooden fire touched his nose and he pressed on. What felt like hours passed, but he knew was less than five minutes , and finally he stood before a squat little log cabin with smoke billowing from the chimney.
Holmes all but threw himself at the door, his fingers useless to him now as he elbowed it weakly. He collapsed against the wooden frame, for a few seconds fearing that no one was home.
But then an older woman was at the door, looking around confusedly—Holmes guessed she did not get visitors often, if at all—and finally, looking down, made a choking noise with her throat before stumbling backwards.
Holmes opened his mouth to say something, but ended up thrown into a coughing fit instead. A man, perhaps her husband, came to the door and stared at him in shock before quickly saying something in French. Holmes, his mind already slipping, could not decipher what exactly he said, but made an effort to stand when the man grabbed his shoulder and dragged him in.
He collapsed on the couch the man led him to, feeling exhaustion finally taking him over. The last thing he thought of was Watson's face, and how much more agony he was probably going through than himself at that exact moment.
When Holmes woke again, he felt terribly sore and not perspicacious in the least. He knew not where he was, not what had happened to him. Confusion was all that was on his mind. That, and the fact he was warm.
A lady, maybe sixty or seventy, was watching him and making something over the stove. When she saw him awake, she broke into a large smile and called for her companion.
"Lukas! Lukas, come here! He has awakened!" she yelled in French.
"Where…" Holmes began, before switching his speech to French. "Where am I?" he asked, his voice raspy and painful. He swallowed hard, trying to soothe his throat.
The woman reached over to the table behind her and grabbed a mug. "Here, drink some cider. You must get some fluids into you." Holmes took it in shaking hands, and poured some down his throat. "You're in Switzerland, my dear."
Holmes nearly spit out his drink.
A man appeared behind her, his smile just as big as hers. "How good for you to join the living once more!" he beamed, reaching down to pat his shoulder. "We thought you were a goner for a while there."
Holmes slowly sat up, his shoulder aching, eyeing his surroundings carefully. He was in a small cottage, well insulated and smelling strongly of smoke. Suddenly everything came back to him—the plunge, the freezing water, and the excruciating struggle to reach the cottage. He swallowed back some cider and rubbed his throat.
"I cannot thank you enough," Holmes told them sincerely, his throat burning with the effort of talking. "I did not mean to intrude. I—"
"Think nothing of it," the man, Lukas, interrupted him with a wave of his hand. "We couldn't leave you out there to freeze. What kind of people would we be?"
Holmes dipped his head in thanks once more. "How long have I been here?" he asked, ingesting more cider to sooth his throat.
"Oh, perhaps a week," the lady told him, standing up and walking to the kitchen. "You really must have something to eat. You're probably terribly weak."
Not so much. He could go days without eating—much to Watson's distress.
Watson.
The thought hit him like a brick, knowing they had probably already held his funeral. A funeral to be held with no body. He did not want to think about who would attend, who would be subject to the anguish caused by his death. He could not. But again Watson's face broke through his thoughts, that unknowing look that he knew would soon change to disbelief, and then to horror, finally followed with agony.
He had put the man through so much. He most certainly did not deserve this on top of all of that.
"Ursela, my goodness, the man just regained consciousness. How is he supposed to eat all that?" Lukas's words broke through Holmes's thoughts.
Looking down to see a platter filled with bread and cheese. Though he would not admit it Holmes was famished, and he had soon devoured half the plate. He caught a glimpse of Ursela's face as she smirked at her husband, I told you so stated clearly on her features.
Though his throat still hurt, he carried on more conversation with the couple. They were friendly, and very talkative. To say he did most of the listening was very much an understatement. Not that he minded, for he was in no condition to ramble on like he knew he always did at present.
They would not let Holmes leave until the following day, when Ursela could make sure that he was well enough to go. She insisted that he took another day to rest, and then Lukas would escort him to the train station. When he tried to convince him not to take the energy to do so, Lukas merely waved it off and told him their little vacation on the summit was drawing to a close anyways.
Long after Lukas and Ursela had retired that night, Holmes got up and paced. Partially to test his muscles after so long being unconscious and because of the hypothermia he was sure he caught, and partially to think. He stopped suddenly when he remembered the confederate, Moran, who had been Moriarty's right hand man. He of all people would be beyond upset with Moriarty's death, and Holmes knew at once he was a danger to Watson and Mary, and perhaps Mycroft. To many more people as well if he decided to carry out Moriarty's dirty work.
Holmes would have to wait to embrace London as himself once more. He would rid the world of Moran, and only after would he step forwards as himself again.
He had Lukas stop at the hillside castle Mycroft had taken lodging in to gather some of his things. Mycroft had long since departed for London, but many of his things still remained. A wooden box with a postage stamp yet no address caught Holmes's eye, and upon discovering it was empty he insolently shoved it into his luggage bag. He also dressed in his own clothes again, returning those of Lukas's he had borrowed with another thanks.
By the time they got to the train station it was well in the afternoon, and after parting with the couple Holmes took the soonest train home. He did not have much in the way of currency, but he had just enough to scrape his way back. And enough to send a single parcel back to London, wrapped in a cedar box.
The long trip back to London gave him more than enough time to plan his exact course of action. Now, he just had to set it into motion.