Wherever you go…
A tear dripped onto the paper in his hand. The ink started to run, making a black stream down the sheet. A choked sob rang out and reverberated off the cliff face.
Whatever you do…
How could he have let this happen? He had just been with Sherlock. He had just been with him. And he had been fine. John refused to believe Sherlock was dead. He looked back down at the letter and more tears ran down his face.
I will be right here waiting for you…
My dear John,
I am able to write these few short lines by the courtesy of Jim Moriarty, who is waiting for me so we will be able to have a final discussion of those questions that lie between us. He has been giving me a sketch of his methods by which he has avoided the police and kept track of our movements. This only confirms my high opinion of his abilities. I am happy to think that I will be able to free society from the clutches of such a man, but I fear that it will be at a cost that will cause much pain to my friends, and especially, John, to you.
I have already explained to you how I knew that my career had reach its crisis and that no other answer was clearer to me than this.
I must confess that I knew the message from the hotel was a fake. I am glad that you will be safe.
Believe me to be very, sincerely, yours,
Sherlock Holmes
Whatever it takes…
Sherlock was dead and he would never see him again.
Or how my heart breaks…
John took in a deep, shuddering breath and stood from his place on the rocks. He still had the letter, the last thing left of Sherlock, clutched in his hands.
I will be right here waiting for you…
