A/N: You know, in all the years I've been on here, I have never posted a story for my favorite set of stories of all time. I think I was (and, actually, still am) afraid that I would ruin my favorite characters by putting them in a story that was less-than-stellar. But, sometime after The Fall, I started rereading all the originals again and felt compelled to write about ACD's originals and everyone loves "The Final Problem," so... Besides, I'm still annoyed that the only reference we got to the original in Sherlock was a painting, so therefore I am ignoring it. But I digress.
Anyway, two different Sherlocks' perspectives on the "before." It all started with a "selfish, stupid man" and a postcard rack...
Enjoy!
Old
He stands at the window outside, stamping his feet as his fingers fiddle with a match and a cigarette. John had insisted on stopping in the store and buying frivolous souvenirs for his wife, and he had opted to stand outside instead.
His breath fogs the glass as he finally takes a drag from the cigarette and grinds the spent match into the snow. He absently peers inside, studies the rack of postcards by the door his friend has stopped by. He observes that John's already carrying a small parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm as his eyes flick over the cards.
He almost smiles. How peaceful a moment. How utterly domestic. Nearly… normal. It's almost like they really are on vacation, travelling the Continent without a care in the world. No morbid thoughts of death or his surely impending destruction. No crime here, in peaceful Merinigen. Just shops and houses and shimmering mountain peaks far off in the distance. Time enough to stop in the shops and buy postcards and perfumes. He almost smiles.
But he is suddenly reminded, as he peers through the glass, that he is doing his friend—his dearest, only friend—no good by allowing him to tag along. John has always been eager to take risks, to follow him into the fray, but he never should have let him. It is one thing to risk one's own life, but it is entirely another to risk someone else's. He has always been a selfish, stupid man, but his vanity has put his friend in danger…
"Holmes?" John says as he walks out of the shop, tucking the parcel and slight paper bag in his overcoat. "Are you all right?"
Sherlock Holmes smiles and drops the cigarette end in the snow piled on the curb. "Perfectly," he replies. "And you? Find enough little presents to please your wife?"
John pats his coat in answer before adjusting the buttons. "Are you ready then? I know you wished to tour the falls while we're here." He nods, and John smiles. "To Reichenbach, then."
Holmes shoves his hands in his pockets and slowly follows his friend. "To Reichenbach, indeed."
New
He opts to wait outside while John goes inside to shop. He's never liked souvenir shops; claustrophobic little stores with exorbitant prices and the worst examples of foreigners tramping about, touching everything with their grimy little fingers and speaking too loudly in harsh accents.
His fingers itch and he longs to light a cigarette, but John's too close to the window and he'd see. He settles for scratching the molecular structure of palytoxin in the snow with the toe of his boot while he waits, his mind whirring along on a hundred different topics.
Suddenly bored with the exercise, he glances up. John's wandering about the stocky aisles with his hands idly tracing along the shelves, ghosting over snow globes and shot glasses and key chains. He stops at a postcard rack and spins it, fingering the gleaming cards as it turns, a small smile on his lips.
For a brief instant, his brain is quiet as he stops and simply stares inside, watching his friend. He exhales and his breath fogs the glass. As he irritably swipes at the window with his sleeve, his chest aches with guilt and, although he tries to squash the unwelcome feelings, they well up anyway.
John is a good man. A decent man. An innocent one. He doesn't deserve this.
He tries to shake the unwanted thoughts from his head but they seem to stick harder, scream louder. He has always been a selfish, stupid man—no point lying to himself—but he should have drawn the line with John. His lifestyle is not compatible with two people, certainly not after the deadly turn it's taken now that he is being stalked across the Continent with a target on his back. He shouldn't have allowed John to tag along just so he could bask in his warm, honest admiration. He shouldn't allow himself to constantly place his friend—his only friend, he reminds himself—in harm's way just for the sake of a thrill. He refuses to imagine what he would do should any harm actually come to John. He knows for certain he would blame himself.
"Sherlock?" A burst of hot air escapes behind John as he comes out of the shop, cradling a handful of postcards and other useless trinkets. "You all right? You look a bit peaky." He reaches out to feel his forehead. "You're not getting sick, are you?"
Sherlock bats away his hand. "I never get sick." John rolls his eyes. He ignores it and nods at the bag of 'souvenirs.' "Have you satisfied your absurd need to document our flight from a psychopathic criminal with useless knickknacks?"
John just smiles. "Don't be jealous, I bought you something too. Give me your keys." Grudgingly, he digs out his housekey and tosses it to him. Turning his back, John fiddles with the keys for a few minutes before handing them back. Hanging from the simple ring is a cheap plastic magnifying glass emblazoned with the Swiss flag and, of all things, a deerstalker. John is nearly beaming. "Apparently there was another detective who came through here about a hundred years ago," he explains. "Made quite the splash. He wore a deerstalker, too."
"I do not wear a deerstalker," he argues halfheartedly, turning the ridiculous keychain over in his hands. The guilt is beginning to well up again.
"Well, you're welcome." John digs through the bag. "The lady gave me a map too. She says there's this enormous waterfall we ought to visit, about an hour's hike from here. It's called the—"
"Reichenbach Falls," he says quietly.
John looks up. "Yeah. How'd you…?"
He reminds himself to shrug. "Lucky guess."
John stares suspiciously at him a moment before finally shrugging back. "Anyway, wanna go? I mean, now that Moriarty's in jail, we've got all the time in the world, right?"
The ominous text flashes in his mind: Better luck next time, Sherlock. See you soon :)
John tilts his head. "Right, Sherlock?"
He nods, forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course."
We've got all the time in the world, right? All the time in the world…