AN: Holmes reflect upon the one mistake he allows himself to admit he made. The one that ruined everything that once was. Character death.
Revolver
Eyes shut, my back sat against the wall, unable to look at the door any longer. It may swing open, but it will never be him walking into this broken, quiet home. He is gone, due to my own careless mistake. And his memory will be there to haunt me forever. The doctor would never blame me for this, for his death, but I always will. He was a strong man, an extraordinary man, who would never allow me of all people to take blame for this. But he was not here to keep the dragging feeling of doubt out of my heart, out of my soul, out of my memory. John Watson had always warned me to remember my revolver, yet I tuned out the warning, leaving it behind as a confidant. It was my one way to ensure that he would follow me into any situation, and had I know this would have been his last case, I would have brought it. I would have pushed aside my pride and taken my revolver. Regret swells up inside of me. Unable to push it out, it consumes every inch of my being. I allow it, knowing perfectly well as to why emotions are able to control my mind and body for the first time in a while. This, however, does not matter to me anymore. My reputation was ruined in that moment. A part of me was lost forever when the revolver was fired. Moriarty was aiming to make me suffer; I had known his motive very well. Yet, I had failed to deduct that he would aim at me with a more physiological pain to follow rather than physical. His distraught eyes glimpse the unused revolver sitting on his desk, a glaring reminder of what had transpired. The thought brought his mind spiraling downwards into a thickening cloud of pain and anguish as the memory of that night resurfaced and surrounded my mind.
One step closer to solving the mystery, I told myself, as I prepared to leave Baker Street to finish yet another battle of wit against Moriarty. I had called out to Watson, expecting him to follow me as he usually did. I was answered with a long silence, in which I had to remind myself that he was out with Mary for the evening. I would be fine on my own, I thought to myself, walking down the stairs that lead to the main door. Watson had made enough of a fuss about my habit to interrupt things between him and Mary, and for once, I was going to show him that I could exhibit an ounce of self control. I, however, did not realize that the carriage that had stopped only a few feet from the house carried my friend inside of it. He had returned from his dinner, only to find me walking away from the house. I was not dressed in a fashionable manor, which I would have assumed he believed that I was headed down to join in one of the fights I threw myself into. He, however, would walk into the study to find my revolver, sitting on the table; next to the letter Moriarty had address to me. He would not allow me to do this alone, and would follow me with my revolver. Watson was always too good to me. Shamefully, I have only begun to realize that now. My eyes roam from the revolver and back to the door, where I hallucinate the door knob rattling, the voice of the doctor following, determined to pull me out of the study after weeks of being a hermit.
I arrived to the factory of which Moriarty had designated for our meeting. He hid from me, while I continued to walk around the floor. He was somewhere on the floor above, hiding in the shadows to wait for the moment he would strike. I reached for my revolver. I felt nothing. Groaning at my own stupidity, I knew that Moriarty would gain an upper hand. Watson was not present to give me a shake of the head, followed by a smile as he would hand me my gun. I was on my own for this, and I had began to wonder if this would be where I met my doom. I saw Moriarty step out of his shadow, gun drawn. He had heard something that I had not. The smirk he had plastered over his twisted face showed his yellow teeth. A sense of victory gleamed in his eyes, knowing that he was going to have the final movement in the situation. A single gunshot roared in the air. I froze in my place, as the sound of impact followed. A moan of pain filled the air. It was not my own. Moriarty was still standing, his smile never fading. Yet, I had not fallen. Someone, however, had been shot. Not wanting to believe it, my eyes wandered to the left, and I saw a small pool of blood before I saw the body of my comrade. My heart stopped beating in the moment. The world was still. My eyes trailed from the pool of crimson that was quickly growing in amount to the body of my friend. My eyes trailed, looking for the wound. A direct hit to his chest. The adrenaline rushed inside of me, as I turned without a thought away from Moriarty, kneeling next to the pale, trembling body of John Watson. I took his hand, hoping that he would be able to meet my grasp. He was already slipping quickly. I lacked his talents. I knew in my mind what was going to follow. My fist wanted to slam to the ground, not wanting to accept the inevitable. A cruel laugh filled the room as I heard Moriarty move to make his escape. Rage filled me. Without a second thought, without remorse, I grabbed the revolver that Watson had brought to me, turned around for a simple moment, allowed my own bullet to escape. However, revenge would not stop this. I pulled Watson's body into my arms. This wasn't fair. Even though I knew life often wasn't, this was something that I did not want to accept. This was pure torture. I could not live without him. He was a part of me, kept me functioning. John Watson was my brother, even if we would never share blood. He had a life ahead of him. He had a fiancée. Yet here he was, having taken the bullet I would have thought meant for me, claiming his life. A tear falls down my cheek and onto his body. His brown eyes connect with my dark ones one last time, before the breath in his body abandons him, his eyes shutting forever.
My eyes flicker back to the door knob. It is unmoving, as I knew it would remain. I keep in my spot on the floor, refusing to move. Not wanting to move. Not seeing any point in moving. John Watson was dead and buried now, for almost three months. Andin my mind, I knew things were never going to be the same again. I refused every case that came my way. I knew I would be able to complete them without his assistance. Lestrade and the Yard were in charge of keeping things at bay now. I look up to the wall next to the door. His hat sits on top of his folded jacket. The only reminders of the friend who saved me in more ways than one. The friend I wasn't able to save.