Disclaimer: Sherlock and its plot belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The original plot and character belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
At Journey's End
"No!" I yelled, scrambling on the grass, trying not to watch. "Alex, you can't die!"
I could barely hear the muffled response over the tumble of the River Olorun. He probably said something stinging, curly hair masking mocking eyes. Something like, "I won't die, Naxen! You know me better!"
The spymaster of Tortall grappled with Alex furiously, wrinkled face heaving in anger. His white beard tangled into his opponent's face, trapping them both at the mercy of the wind. Alex slid on the rocks of the spongy bank, slippers scraping to the rhythm of a frog's croak.
"I'll never let you roam the streets of Corus, Myles! If you escape me alive, I will walk away from Heaven's gates in shame!"
I caught Myles' faint but pulsing voice in response: "I notice you aren't wearing your fief colours. Traitor."
I thought I heard Alex laugh, but maybe it was the crows in the distance. "Don't flirt. Focus on the task at hand - the murder of me, I mean."
Tears leaked from my eyes, the paralysis of fear over. My breeches ripped; the sound collided with a light splash. "No…" I whispered, and they had both gone down into the bubbling current below.