I sure hope this works. A different take on the events at the end of The Final Problem. Thank you to everyone who reviewed my earlier stories, your kind words mean a lot to me.
It was all over and done with before Holmes fully realised what had happend. He had stood with his back to the edge of the falls, facing Moriarty. For a moment they just stared at each other, and then with a sudden primal yell Moriarty lunged forward and grabbed Holmes by the throat. Holmes was sent sliding backward by the momentum. He felt his left foot slip over the edge and frantically tried to regain his balance and throw Moriary off of him. Somehow, they managed to change positions-Holmes' study of baritsu had become instinctive in his struggle to live, and he moved without thinking. In the next moment he had shoved Moriary away from him and over the edge, dodging the professor's groping hands. Holmes watched, almost mesmorised, as Moriarty's body twisted through space and then smashed into the rocks below, where the current washed him away.
Holmes turned away and eyed the rock face behind him. He could observe that there were hand and foot holds the whole way up, provided the climber moved with extra care. Without really knowing why, he scaled up the wall, almost losing his footing serveral times. He finally came to rest on a small ledge just barely wide enough for him to lie on. Weary from both the recent struggle and the climb he briefly closed his eyes and tried to catch his breath.
He had no idea how long he lay there like that, listening to the pounding of his heart over the roar of the falls. All he knew was that after awhile the roar seemed to form words. It was as if the falls were calling out his name. This, of course was completely illlogical, and the moment the thought entered his head his eyes snapped open once again.
Holmes felt a chill as the temperature fell with the setting of the sun. It would be getting dark soon, he realised, and couldn't stay up here forever. The climb up had been tricky enough in the daylight, in the dark it would be even more dangerous. He still couldn't understand what had possesed him to do such a thing in the first place.
Just then he heard a sound, and strained his ears to listen. For a moment, there was nothing, and then he distinctly heard his own name being called in a shriek of fear and grief. Watson, Holmes relasied. Of course he would have found out the letter was a ruse and come rushing back. It wasn't too long before the doctor actually appeared in view, and judging by his heaving shoulders and gasps of breath he had clearly ran the entire way. Watson stared down at the tracks, two leaving and none returning, and the signs of the struggle at the edge. This time his cry of anguish didn't form any words as he staggared forward. He looked around wildly for a moment and then he turned toward the rock where Holmes' cigarette case glittered in the remaining sunlight.
My note, Holmes thought. The one Moriarty had let him write. His lungs felt as if they were being crushed as he watched Watson read his words. The note fluttered to the ground as Watson burried his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking with grief.
Say something! Holmes ordered himself. You can end this, just call out to him. Indeed, that would be wonderfully dramatic, just the sort of thing Watson would expect of him. Holmes licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak,"Wa-" he started to say, his voice a soft croak that he could barely hear. He swallowed and tried again, but it was as if the name were stuck in his throat. He was reading himself for a third attempt when a sudden loud crack filled the air.
Holmes jerked his head toward the source of the sound. He could make out the figure of a man in silouette leaning over the ledge above his, with what appeared to be an air gun in his hands. A confederate! Of course Moriarty would keep an accomplice in the wings in case things went awry, but if he had been there the whole time, why had it taken so long for him to open fire? Holmes risked a glance back down to Watson to see how he had reacted to the shot.
His blood turned to ice as he saw that Watson was now lying face down on the ground. He attempted to pull himself up using the rock for support. His right arm now hung limply at his side. After struggling for a few moments Watson fell back down in a heap. Holmes could hear the laughter of the assasin above him. Was that why he had waited so long to fire? To avenge the death of his friend by killing Holmes'? Holmes fleetingly wondered what would have happend if he had called out sooner, or if he had simply returned to the inn. But only for a moment. There was no sense wondering what could have happend. Right now he had to draw the man's fire and lead him away from Watson. Holmes knew that Watson would have still had enough presence of mind to summon a search party on the way back. Holmes could only hope that they would arrive in time.
Yelling out a string of curses Holmes made a mad jump off of the ledge. By some insane miracle he managed to land without severe injury and took off running, calling out insults over his shoulder the whole way. His attacker took the bait and followed Holmes from above, raining down bullets as he moved. By now the sun had set almost completely, making a moving target even harder to hit. Holmes ducked into the shelter of the trees, branches snaping beneath him. Every now and then he heard a shot echo into the night, and once or twice he swore he could feel the bullets as they flew past him, missing him by mere inches. His lungs burned as though he were breathing fire, and a cramp appreared in his left leg but he forced himself to keep moving. Then the ground suddenly vanished beneath him.
Holmes was sent tumbling end over end down a steep incline. He eventually came to a stop at the base of a tree. His whole body ached and he didn't have the strength the pull himself up, let alone run, and rustle of branches let him know that his pusuer would arrive at any moment. Thinking quickly, he shut his eyes and kept his body as still as he could, trying to appear as lifeless as possible. It was a desperate tatic and Holmes had no idea how sucessful it would be.
Peeking through his eyelashes, he saw the gunman appear at the top of the hill. The figure looked around for a moment, then his gaze fell on Holmes. Chuckling quietly he raised his weapon and pointed at the detective. Do not move Do not move, Holmes chanted mentally. Time seemed to come to a standstill, and then the man lowered his weapon. "Rest in peace, Mr. Holmes," he said as he turned and walked away.
Holmes remained where he was and did not allow himself to relax until all was quiet once more. He had recognised the voice of the attacker. Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right hand agent. Cold realisation overcame Holmes. His life, and by extension, Watson's, were still in danger. If Moran discovered that he had been tricked he would return to finish the job. As would any of Moriarty's agents. Holmes could not return to London, not yet. He needed to get out of these woods, and as far away from this place as possible. But he felt this pull back toward Watson. He needed to see, with his own eyes, whether or not Watson was all right.
Holmes came to a decison. He would move only at night, under the cover of darkness. He would return to the villiage and see how Watson was doing, then he would leave. He did not know where he would go. It would be a long walk back, he was sure he would be able to think of something by then.
He had managed to return to the falls at the first signs of morning. After some searching for a suitable hiding place he streached himself out on the cold ground and slept until darkness had fallen once more.
With his strength renewed it did not take very long for him to get back to the villiage. He stayed within the shadows and took care not draw any attention to himself. Once at the inn, he began to look for an unlocked window. He finally found one near the back. Through the glass, he could see Watson's sleeping form. He's alive, Holmes thought, almost weak with relief. Waston was sitting upright in bed proped up against the pillows, and his right arm was in a sling. His breathing appeared to be normal and steady.
As silently as he could, Holmes opened the window and crawled inside. He slowly made his way to the side of the bed. He must not have been as quiet as he thought, or perhaps Watson had not truly been sleeping, because the moment Holmes was standing over him Watson's eyes fluttered open. His eyes grew wide with delight and Holmes quickly motioned for him to be quiet. Watson nodded in understanding. "I heard you, back at the Falls. Thought I imagined it." He gestured to his injury. "Is this why you did not answer me?"
Holmes nodded curtly. It was better to let Watson believe what he wanted, and Lord knows, it was certainly a better explamation then the real reason, whatever it had been. "The danger has not passed, Watson," Holmes gave him a short version of his mad dash through the woods, and the decsion he had come to.
A flicker of sadness appeared in Watson's eyes. "Can I not come with you?"
Holmes bit his lip, uncertain if he was trying to hold back a laugh or a sob. "No, my dear Watson, I'm afraid not. I have no idea how long I may be gone, it may take years. You have a wife and a medical practice to look after, you can not abandon them and live as a fugitive." He reached forward and grabbed Watson's good hand. "Listen closely Watson, and heed my words. You must not make any effort to contact me. It is vital to my survial that I remain in constant motion. To stay in one place for too long will run the risk of drawing unwanted attention. As far as the world is concerned you have no knowledge I survived Reichenbach."
"But how will you live?"
"I'll have my brother Mycroft wire me the money. Being a logitician himself, he is much more skilled at doing things discreetly. Besides, I have done enough favors for him in the past; it is time he did something for me."
"What about my readers then? How shall I explain things to them? You told me yourself I'm a terrible liar," Watson pointed out.
"Only at lies of deception, my dear fellow. At lies of omission you are far more skilled. You have your experience of events up until the point Moran fired at you. All you have to do is record those moments and leave out the rest. As for face-to-face encounters, simply recall how you were feeling at that moment in time, and you may just find those feelings returning to you." Holmes started to stand up. "Time is of the essence, Watson. I must be on my way. So if you would be so kind as to release my hand-" he gave a gentle tug, but Watson held fast.
"Only two more questions Holmes. How will I know if you are all right? Will you ever return to London?"
Holmes smiled. "If you wish to know of my whereabouts, simply look up the writings of a Norweigan named Sigerson. As to whether or not I'll return..." he paused for a moment. "I am certain I will someday." He chuckled quietly. "Scotland Yard will surely fall apart without my assistance."
Watson grinned and released Holmes' hand. "I shall miss you dreadfully, Holmes. London won't be the same without you."
Holmes felt his eyes sting and quickly looked away before Watson could notice. "Go to sleep now, Watson. You need your rest."
It wasn't until he had left the room and gone halfway down the road before Holmes glanced over his shoulder one last time at the inn. "I shall miss you too, my dear Watson," and then he made his way into the night.