AN: I do not own the characters I have used in this story. But, y'know, I'm not actually making any money off this, so I figure it's all cool with me and Conan Doyle. Also, I haven't gotten to the end of this story yet, but there may be some HolmesWatson in later chapters, but only very mild. Rated for mild language.
I will begin this account with a simple but important fact: I am not mad. This is, as all my collections in the past have been, the most complete and accurate recounting of the facts which I am capable of producing. The larger portion of the case which has been weighing so heavily on my mind of late has been highly publicized by every newspaper in London. As such, I shall endeavor to restrict the scope of my focus to that most singular event of the whole of the adventure, yet that which has received the least light. I wish now to recount the events surrounding the death of Sherlock Holmes.
I will assume that any study of the work of my friend, or indeed any citizen of England, is familiar with the unique adventure of the undead Lord Blackwood, and so I shall skip its early stages and begin my story with the night of the great explosion at Nine Elms. I must admit in this early juncture that the events of that night were, by and large, the fault of one man: me. I don't believe that fact ever made the light of the papers, but it is a very important one, perhaps almost as important as my testament of mental health.
A factory near the river, that was where I had told my companion we would find Blackwood's headquarters. I could actually hear the water's movement in the still night air. We had allowed Blackwood to escape while we endeavored to save the life of…not a colleague, not a friend, in fact an enemy, but I can hardly refer to her in such a manner. I had left Holmes to tend to Adler (see above) while I went out to search for signs of the dead man currently orchestrating the horror and fear of our nation. I saw his boat chugging away from the wharf and up the river, the man himself tipping his hat in my direction, and I made to run after it. Blackwood seemed to have that singular effect on me, that which had me acting before I had any notion of the consequences of those actions.
Holmes was just exiting the building with the Woman when I felt the wire give way against my ankle. Even now, looking back on that moment, I feel the bottom drop out from my stomach. I tried to save him, tried to protect him like I always do. The warning I called out was solely for him, though somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he would find a way to protect her; he will always find some way of protecting her. I saw the comprehension and, subsequently, the horror dawn in his eyes as he realized what was happening.
In spite of my warning, he continued to run toward me in some vain effort to save me. The warm feeling the gesture afforded me internally was matched and quickly surpassed by the heat forced upon me externally. I felt every stick of wood from the crates and barrels which had covered and hidden the explosive device as it entered my body, every degree of the awful heat, but it was all as nothing compared to what I saw. Time seemed to slow as a second explosion tore a hole through the warehouse, catching Holmes and throwing him across the dock. My heart was ripped to pieces as I realized that I had been unable to help him, even as several more explosions rocked the wharf, sending me through the air as well. I hit one of the columns holding up the overhang of the dock, and I was engulfed by the flames until they gave way to black.
When I woke, it was to the unpleasant and painful sensation of someone attempting to enter my windpipe laterally. "Any luck, Inspector?" I was vaguely aware that the voice I heard belonged to a large, no-nonsense man I believed was called Jones.
"Fraid not, Jones," Lestrade confirmed for me as I lay with me eyes shut, trying to quiet the angry buzzing in my head. The fingers had not moved. "I got no pulse. This'll be the good doctor's last case. A real shame, Jones. That dodger Holmes'll answer for this in a higher court than we could send him."
Surely they weren't talking about me. There must be some other poor soul called Watson who'd been caught in the blast. It occurred to me then what the fingers were trying to find. "Left," I rasped, and I could feel knives in my throat as I tried to swallow. Lestrade jumped slightly, then dug his fingers into my throat anew. "Your left," I grunted through gritted teeth. His fingers eased off mercifully as the inspector located my pulse. I risked opening my eyes and regretted it instantly. It had to be the middle of the night, but it was so damned bright.
I was suddenly aware of a horrible, blinding pain in my left shoulder. It blocked all else out, and for a moment I was unaware of what was going on around me. I couldn't see, couldn't hear, couldn't think, but I had to know what was causing this pain, had to get rid of it. It was like a million splinters had been trust into me and set on fire, burning slowly through my muscle tissue and working their way into my bones. The night's memories rushed back to me at once, and I grabbed hold of Lestrade's wrist, the only solid object around me I could focus on. "Holmes?" was all I could manage, but it was enough. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I caught sight of his face. The look of anger and bitter disappointment that I saw there told me more than his words ever could.
I felt a cold seeping out from the core of my body, absorbing and destroying all other sensation. I lost sight of my shoulder wound and screaming head, and even the ever-present stabbing pain in my leg. I felt a grief the likes of which I had never known wash over me in that moment, like I was falling into a pit from which I would never escape, as though, with his life, so too had all the joy and good and light been extinguished from the world. I felt tears falling to either side of my face, doubtless visible as they cut through the soot and ash which caked it. I hadn't felt this pain, this horrible, crushing emptiness, when my father died, or my brother. I hadn't felt it when I watched men I had come to know, and even to like, being torn to shreds on the battlefield. This was different. In one fell swoop, I had lost my best friend, my constant companion, my roommate, my colleague, my associate, my favorite distraction from the pains of everyday life, the man for whom I would have given my life a thousand times over, and, in that moment, I lost my consciousness.