Reichenbach Falls:
It is a place I am loath to return to and yet I find it as inescapable as the roaring waters themselves. I don't know how many times I've see that void of mist before my eyes, imagining the calls which resonate off the walls. To this day I continue to find people asking me about it. I smile at them kindly enough and inform them that any and all questions regarding the events of that day could be found in my account of it. I am then met by surprise and scrutiny as most probably think it is my way of increasing purchases or profiteering off my dear friend's death. But they could not be more wrong.
Whenever someone asked, I offered to give them one of my very own copies.
But like an angry ghost which haunts my every thought, I find myself once again sitting in an empty room putting pen to paper and returning to that wretched memory. Apparently, those events to which I poured my heart were not enough.
Doctor Watson squeezed the pen between his fingers. "I can't do this."
"Oh, but you must." said a quiet voice.
"I... please, there is nothing more to add!"
"There is always something more to add. You left many a day unaccounted for during your little frolic through the continent. Why not tell us what happened?"
"Nothing of importance, I can assure you-"
"I thought you cared for your detective. Am I wrong? Were those last days with him really so... unimportant?"
"Of course they were important!" The doctor shouted. "They're all I can think about anymore."
"That won't due. That really won't due."
Footsteps move behind him, pacing, stopping, foot tapping, back to pacing.
Watson lost his patience. "What do you want to hear? Do you want to know what we had for breakfast each morning of every day? Do you want me to recount the flowers? I remember the soil round the falls fairly well. In fact, I can give you a sample off the trousers I wore that day." And quietly, "I've never been able to wear them since..."
The man moved beyond Watson's vision and began rummaging through his medical papers. He picked up a diagram showing the correct way to reset a broken femur. "Did you draw this yourself?"
Watson blinked, confused, before turning his head. Unable to make out his captor's face, he could clearly see the paperwork in his hands. "I like to draw up my own diagrams from time to time. It helps ground my knowledge as well as pass the time."
"You have a lot of time for such things now, I suppose." He laughed, soft and even warming, if only he wasn't holding a gun to Watson's head.
"The small and precise lines required for an accurate depiction of bone-structure is both relaxing and forwarding."
The man spat. "I'm not here to discuss your professional life, Doctor. I'm only here to oversee your private installment of what actually happened that day."
Watson sunk in his chair.
"Please, sir, I have nothing, nothing to add to this horrible event."
"I just want to know what transpired between yourself and Mr. Holmes on those final nights. Won't you indulge these scenes with a truly devoted reader?"
"I don't like what you're implying,"
"I imply nothing! What do you- oh! My word, Dr. Watson, I can assure you it's nothing like that! I only meant that night is the time when nothing becomes something. I have known of your friend Holmes for quite a while now. He's a fascinating character, one who I imagine has fascinating conversations when the defenses are down and the emotions are high. I mean clearly, he had no intentions of returning from the trip."
Watson wanted to tackle this strange man whose name he didn't even know. He wanted to pick the revolver from his drawer and shoot the man in the eyes; surely Lestrade would understand. But maybe not. Still, he would do anything, if only he weren't bound by waist and ankle to his chair.
"I see you're in neither a writing nor talking mood tonight. Shame, you seem like such a tongue in your stories."
An arm reached over his shoulder, picking up the pen and placing it between Watson's fingers.
"Write."
"I can't."
"You can't? You mean to say that you're done exploiting your friend's work?"
So true had it felt that the statement made Watson's chest deflate.
"An interesting man doesn't always make a pleasant man. Seeing as how you are neither, it's only natural that you should cling to someone like Sherlock Holmes. Hoping to catch some of his attention, perhaps. How is that going, by the way? Still silent? Doctor, I only want to know what happened. I'm not asking you for much."
He'd been held captive for nearly an hour now. The stranger had surprised him, devil knows how, and kept a keen eye and sharp tongue without a moment's falter. Not knowing what to do, only sure that he had no choice but to concede, Watson looked down at the paper beneath his pen. Ink dripped black splotches over the words, sweat from his fingertips swelling the parchment. The man was watching him silently. All he had hoped to do this evening was slunk before his fire and drink himself into oblivion. He could do that now that Mary was visiting family outside of London. In the well known face of ineludible circumstances, the doctor's mind sunk back to the night before the incident. He recalled eating a plate of chicken and various vegetables while Holmes barely touched his lamb. Moriarty was heavy on his mind, Watson knew.
Still, they retired to their room after dinner finding no excuse to stay out. The beds were small but comfortable for the chill weather, thick blankets promising a warm and restful sleep. But the night was young yet, as they sat up on Watson's bed discussing the mountains which had so captivated them earlier in the day. One never realizes how beautiful mountains are until one is away from them for so long, Watson mused. Holmes had told him about how mountain soil differed from the soil found in London; it was not something Watson needed to know, but it was still interesting to hear. In turn, he conversed with Holmes about what he should do in a situation where certain parts of the body were equally damaged at the same time as another, and which he should attend to first. Holmes answered that he couldn't possibly say, as the incident itself would determine the right course of action. Watson accepted this, and the conversation went on in a similar fashion. By the time midnight struck, the two men were laughing and reminiscing over life at Baker Street. As their laughter quieted, the smiles subsiding, Holmes had pressed Watson's hand affectionately before slipping off to his own bed.
Now there was something. Small and completely forgotten about, it would seem; lost amongst the chaos of everything else that happened that day.
Watson looked at the dripped and feathering ink on his paper. His thumb, up until now spotlessly clean, pressed into the ink and gently smeared it over the surface. The stranger smiled, having got his victim in the right state of mind at last.
But there is nothing more I can tell the public, he wrote, which would satisfy further curiosity. My tale has been told as best it could ever be.
When it was first demanded of Watson to compose a new handwritten account, the pen had been reluctantly scratched across the paper. But the new lines which were to follow began flowing lovingly and carefully like it used to; like it should.
My friendship with Mr. Sherlock Holmes was as big a part of my life as is my marriage to the woman I love. Though he left me in such an unforgivable manor, I find that nothing could ever diminish the friendship I hold so sacredly to he who was my greatest companion.
I have nothing new to tell Holmes' readers of this event. You will not put this paper down with the satisfaction of new understanding. But for the sake of those who care to listen, who care not only for the magnificent mind but also the magnificent heart, I will offer this small readmittance into what I've come to call The Final Problem.
He penned out their evening, the delectable food which was never eaten, the comfortable beds which were never slept in. He put a few choice segments of their conversation into words which were, perhaps, a little altered for the sake of word-flow.
The man had looked on patiently, anticipation swelling within his gut. He'd have to remember to ask the good doctor for his autograph when he was through.
By the time Watson finished writing, his intruder had made his way around the study and pocketed some undoubtedly important papers and artifacts. To the market they'll go. Watson knew he was going to have to find what was missing and replace it as best he could, but it wasn't enough to dim the new light he felt in his heart. Never thinking a smile could come of this mess, Watson was surprised to find that he was indeed holding back a delighted chuckle. It was hard to admit that Holmes was gone from his life, but one need not dwell in such dark places; his life with Holmes was filled with memories, their every conversation a true treasure of the heart which Watson would carry with him until the day he died. Things hadn't ended badly between the two. In fact, the night before the incident was probably one of the best they've had in a long while.
Watson had his books and memories to turn to whenever his spirits were down. Mary, bless her, was always the warming comfort when times got difficult. Imagining her smile and affection had helped Watson finish off the final words of his account with pride instead of dispair. However, before Watson could replace his pen in the inkwell or skim over what he wrote, his captor had snatched the papers away and immediately read over them himself.
The figure tensed, paper crumpling beneath his grip.
"Is this it? Do you expect me to believe that this is all there is?" he ground out in a snarl.
Watson, still facing forward, shrugged his shoulders. "It is what I have to tell."
"But surely-"
"Sherlock Holmes was a great man. The greatest I've ever met. People everywhere were devastated at his death, and I believed none had suffered more than I."
"This account is rubbish."
"But it's not really true, is it?" he asked, more to himself then to his companion. "I miss him terribly... why, I'd even go so far as to say I felt completely disoriented at times. Though thinking back on it, I suppose I never really considered just how lucky I was to call him my friend at all." His finger twitched as his eyes slid dreamily towards the Alpine-stock leant across his desk. He smiled to himself. "Not many can say that, but I can. And because of that, I think... I think that makes things alright."
The stranger huffed, snatching up Watson's pen and driving it into the wooden desk. "You're worse then you are in the bloody books, man!" he shouted furiously. "Sherlock Holmes knew he was going to die, and I want to know what he lamented during his final days; I want to see him in fear, in completely unknowing and impossible fear!"
Watson cringed as the words were spat at the back of his head. Pulling his shoulders forward, he whispered, "Holmes had nothing to fear. I don't believe he ever did. Why must you pry for such things?"
"He's dead now, he won't mind. I'm still waiting to read what I came here to read."
"Holmes told me that if he were to die over this affair, he would be satisfied knowing he accomplished what he had to to secure London from evil. He assured me of this to impose Moriarty's true threat, but I believe he also meant that I need not grieve whatever happened."
The room quieted, but not for too long. "I fear life enjoys watching me suffer." The voice was worn with impatience now. "I've wasted my time here, Doctor. You told me absolutely nothing."
Watson nodded, not turning to face the man who had, inadvertently, brought him to terms with Holmes' death.
"I'm sorry, but I told you from the beginning that I had nothing to write. I suppose you're going to kill me now?"
The stranger laughed, deep and throaty as it was, showing his amusement. "Killing isn't my first option, Dr. Watson. You think I'm done with you, you're wrong. But don't keep up waiting for me. When I want you, I'll find you."
The man kneeled behind Watson's chair as he spoke, sliding a knife from his boot and examining it in the gaslight. His face was semi-visible now, what little wasn't obscured by scarf and glasses, as an obvious show of indecisiveness flashed between his eyes and the glinting blade. Finally, the stranger folded Watson's account and placed it in his pocket. Not bothering the grace of another look, he left the knife within reach on the desk and headed for the door.
"If you're thinking about sticking that in my back, don't. You'll never forgive yourself."
"A man of honor, I see. I know a bit about that."
"I'm sure you do."
And with that, the stranger was gone. Watson was left alone with nothing more then the ticking clock on his mantlepiece. He took the knife, simple in appearance yet efficient in purpose, and severed the rope around his waist, then the ones binding his feet. He looked at the weapon held in his hands and decided to keep it in his old trunk as a reminder of this spectacular night. The pen, which was stabbed into the wood, still bled a slick of dark ink which dripped over the edge and onto the floor. Watson decided to clean it up later.
He looked to the door, wondering if what he wrote would ever reach public eye, but realized that it didn't matter. The muscles in his legs protested as he stood up and stretched. His eyes watched the minute hand moving slowly in tandem with the hour, and yet he took no notice of what time it was. Instead, his gaze was centered on the glinting silver cigarette case leant beneath it.
"To pleasant dreams, Holmes. Good night."
The door to Cavendish Place gently closed shut as a rush of London air blew across the stranger's face. Dr. Watson was no doubt cutting himself loose; most likely heading off to bed with not a care in the world.
The man pressed his hand over the concealed papers and frowned. His head fell back against the wooden door, the scarf falling from his face and the glasses slipping from his eyes. Instead of reliving the death and sorrow like expected, Watson had instead written what could be made up as a breezy farewell to the stranger. Thank you for dropping by, but I shall not be obliging you this evening because I am too busy being happy. He laughed at such a thing, replaying the words in his head with the semblance of Dr. Watson. It was only by interruption of the actual man's voice which halted the stranger's thoughts, causing him to drop his hands.
A quiet, muffled bid of parting between two friends, followed by a peaceful silence.
A slight wind beat around his figure as the last echoes of evening faded away. He removed the pilfered Alpine-stock from his other pocket and carefully lit what remaining tobacco filled the bowl. A deep careful breath brought warmth to his chest as a light breeze caressed his face; random lines from the parchment flying before his eyes in the careful, loving manner in which they were writ.
Taking one last look at the closed door, Sherlock Holmes smiled and blew out a plume of blue smoke.
"Good night, Watson," he answered back quietly, stepping into the street.
And well done.
Is it ironic if what I consider one of my best stories was done in spite of one of my least favorite tropes? -;