Hey:) So I actually thought I would never write a fanfiction, but then yesterday I FINALLY saw the second Sherlock Holmes movie (was about to go by myself if my family kept telling me they had no time yet) and besides the fact that I fell in love with the movie, just like I did with the first, there was this scene at the waterfalls, and I thought I HAD to write one. Even if there are probably a lot of them already :)
Ok, well again, since this is my first, please be gentle and don't expect too much. oh and english is not my first language, so sorry for mistakes I most likely made .
One Moment
That one moment. That horrible one moment was what ripped his heart apart.
It wasn't the one where he wrote down Sherlock Holmes last adventure.
It wasn't the one where he spoke the eulogy for his greatest friend, his brother.
It wasn't the one when searchers gave up on finding his friend... his friend's body.
It wasn't even the terrible moment when he saw Holmes push himself and his nemesis over the ledge to plunge into the deathly fist of the Reichenbach fall.
No.
It was seconds before that happening. Just took mere seconds as well, yet it felt like an eternity to Watson.
The Doctor had come barging through the door leading to the balcony, he'd finished his task of preventing an assassination, and now wanted to help Holmes, fighting by his side, against his greatest foe, like he always had.
But when he hurried outside, eyes searching frantically for his friend, their eyes met surprisingly fast, and that was it.
He'd seen a lot, been through war, but still, that moment was the worst moment of his life.
In his friends eyes he saw what was about to happen. He was about to sacrifice himself to free the world of an evil genius, and there wasn't a damn thing John could do about it.
The ex-Soldier practically saw the genius' mind work, probably calculation the change Watson's appearance made in this battle, but whatever Holmes saw it must not have been satisfying, because he never changed his position.
The detective was with his back to the railing, clinging with both arms tightly to Moriarty, rendering him immobile even with his bad shoulder injury, one foot pushed against the back of a chair, body tensed.
Over Moriarty's shoulder Holmes saw Watson enter the picture, their eyes locked, and Watson at once felt an ice cold hand grabbing hold of his heart.
Watson himself was frozen, fear for his friend making him immobile, gaze of said man keeping him away.
Their eyes never left each other and while Watson's radiated desperation, shock, fear, denial, Holmes' showed determination, acceptance and, John could it read clear as day, an apology.
Then Sherlock Holmes, the greatest detective of them all, closed his eyes tight and ripped Watson's world apart.
He pushed his leg trough and send himself and nemesis, James Moriarty, over the railing, down the waterfall.
Watson felt like he was in agony, for a moment he still couldn't move, already feeling a monumental loss, he closed his eyes in resignation.
Then his stupor finally left him and he stumbled unsteadily to the railing, already knowing every help would be to late, that he couldn't save his friend.
But even with that knowledge he tried, had to try, to stop this pain from becoming permanent. He leaned his upper body over the balustrade, praying to catch something of his friend, to pull him back to safety. But the gravity already did it's job, bringing the two masterminds, so alike and yet so very different, down to their watered grave, and he could only watch in horror as Holmes disappeared fro sight, taking a piece from John's soul with him.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that, body straining from the uncomfortable position, sighed fixed down to the water, yet he didn't see anything anymore. He felt suddenly very hollow and old.
Even the pain was overridden by numbness.
Holmes was dead. Sherlock Holmes, his best friend for many years no, often a pain in the ass but still his dearest friend, his brother, was dead. Gone.
After some Mycroft came and got him away from the railing. Being a great thinker himself, the older Holmes had no problem deducing what hat occurred here moments? Hours? before and even though Holmes' were known for not showing their emotions, there was a fleeting moment where John saw the grieve hit the older man.
John felt for the Mycroft, he really did, but his own sorrow was already too much, so he just let him go after he told him hollowly what had occurred.
Sherlock may not be…have been his brother by blood, but they had been brothers truly in bond.
Sometime later, Watson and Mycroft were headed home, the doctor didn't remember much about the travel, selfishly letting the remaining Holmes handle everything. He couldn't even feel bad about that. He didn't feel anything.
Back in London he was greeted by wife, first her joy knew no bounds, then she noticed something was not right.
Mary may not have been that fond of the younger Holmes, but she was understanding with Watson, knowing what he had lost.
She accepted his almost emotionless state, he had not once cried for his friend, was just going through the motions.
The funeral was a blur, he remembered that many people came to pay there respect, because even though Sherlock Holmes was known to not have many friends, there were still many people whom he had helped, or known him otherwise.
The evening after the funeral it finally hit him. He came back to Backer street, why he didn't know himself, his feet had just carried him there. But now, sitting here, surrounded by Holmes stuff, he just couldn't push it away anymore.
He closed his eyes and saw the ones of his friend. The scene from the Reichenbach falls playing in his mind again and again, torturing him, bringing hot tears to his eyes that he let fall unattended.
Bowing his head and burying his face in his hand, he let his emotions lose completely, sobs shook his body, and he cried out the agony of loosing an important person, but knew that pain would now always be a part of him.
It was that one moment, when their eyes met, that he knew he lost his brother.