Sherlock Holmes was falling.
Certainly, not everything had gone according to plan, what with Watson showing up and all, but at least this part was. The falling part. Moriarty was screaming with all the fright of a dying man, but Holmes remained calm. He had to. It was all part of the plan.
Holmes felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach, and he was overcome with the weightlessness. A part of him found it exhilarating. The rest of him remained at peace.
A thought crept up on the falling man. He began to consider all sorts of ways his plan could go wrong. This distressed Holmes slightly, for if he himself doubted his own plan then the chances of it succeeding became very low. Holmes considered, as Moriarty flailed beside him, that if his plan should go wrong, he would die.
And if he died, why, he just might go on to a place where the dead men go. If he believed in such a thing. It could be that he just fell onto some strategically sharp rocks or something of that nature and simply winked out of existence.
But if there was a place after death, then maybe—just maybe—Holmes would see Irene again.
Holmes pondered this, blocking the screaming Moriarty from his ears and instead hearing her voice. Or he thought it was her voice. It sounded like it. He was not sure.
He did not like this uncertainty, but Irene's visage clouded his thoughts with that cunning smile of painted lips and her eyes that glittered when she bested him. Holmes felt a sharp pain in his chest, one of pure emotion. After all, if one thing was certain, she was dead.
Holmes began to wonder if dying would really be so bad, if it meant seeing her again. The scenario had a lot more ifs than Holmes would have liked, but nonetheless it helped relax him. The idea that either way, living or dying, would result in an acceptable scenario, made him unafraid.
The detective reached in his pocket and grasped his brother's contraption. Irene, my dear, he thought, I won't be joining you today.
Holmes, Irene chided playfully, you know it's rude to keep a lady waiting.
Sherlock Holmes smiled slightly. "You know me," he whispered to the air. "Never late."
Then with a tremendous smack he and Moriarty hit the water and were taken by its icy claws.
*AN: Just my thoughts on what Holmes was thinking when he fell. Meant to be repetitive and uncertain.*