A/N- This is my first attempt at Sherlockian fanfiction…actually at writing any kind of fanfiction whatsoever. I realize this a horribly cliché topic to write about….but you have to start somewhere right? Any criticism/advice would be appreciated.

Obivously, I am not Arthur Conan Doyle, and do not own anything.

I had been perched above those infernal falls, for quite some time. There was still no sign of Watson and I was becoming impatient. Really, how much longer could it possibly take him to realize the letter was a fake and return?

I tried to imagine what Watson would say if he was here. Undoubtedly something along the lines of, "Holmes, you sound like a sulky child." or "Holmes, you are rather lucky even to be alive." And even though he was only a voice in my head at the moment, my dear Boswell was quite right. I could have just as easily have been lying at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls. Had it not been for my knowledge of baritsu, I surely would have perished in the same manner as Professor Moriarty. Considering my late foe's determination and desire to see my life ended, this was something to be grateful for indeed.

I did wish they would hurry it up though. Not that I was looking forward to Watson's return by any means. No matter how necessary the measures I had taken to deceive him were, it still grieved me to think of the pain they would most probably cause him. I am not normally a fearful man, but I must admit, I feared seeing how he would react. But if I was to deceive him, and if I was to witness any grief he might possibly display, then let it be done. Let the matter be over and done with, as quickly as possible, while I still remained firm in my decision to fake my death. My resolve would undoubtedly diminish the longer I was fated to rest on this miserable ledge and it had already been nearly two hours, hence my impatience.

It was almost as if Watson had heard my thoughts, for he was now approaching the path below my hiding place. Perhaps his devotion was so unwavering that it extended itself even to my subconscious whims.

My dear Watson would have of course realized by now that the letter was a mere hoax. He must have known what he would find at journey's end, yet there he was. I could perceive that he had endeavored to reach the falls with all possible speed for he was limping rather heavily. It must have been his old war wound acting up again, as it was liable to do under the strain of physical activity. Loyal to the end, as always, was my dear Watson. Here he was, hurrying back in the hope that he might not be too late, hoping in vain that he might be of some assistance to me, just as he had been so-

"HOLMES!"

What was that? Could that anguished shout which interrupted my musings really belong to Watson?

I found myself at a loss for words.

"Holmes!" the voice yelled over and over again, "Holmes!"

My God, it really was Watson. If it weren't for the fact that I had heard that terrible, nearly animalistic cry with my own ears, I never would have believed a sound like that could have come from anyone, let alone him. No, not from my Watson, who had always been so eager to rush bravely into a case, never once thinking of the possible dangers to himself. I had never heard him sound so afraid, so helpless.

I saw him beginning to pace frantically below me. No doubt he was wishing to find some other solution, any possible way that I could have survived. He apparently found none, for he was now still and silent. My poor Watson had drawn the exact conclusion I knew he would. I could almost sense the inner turmoil he was undoubtedly facing, trying to find some loophole he had forgotten. And again, just as I knew he would, he had failed.

Now I saw him lying flat on his face, peering over the edge of the falls as though hoping he might see me below, struggling to keep afloat perhaps, but still alive. And once again, he was sorely disappointed.

"Holmes…," he pleaded desperately, "Oh please God, not Holmes!"

It was no longer the terrified shout of a man who was merely afraid. No, this was a sound that chilled me to the very core. I may have been called a brain without a heart, but no human being could hear him now and not hear the pain in his voice. I confessed myself thoroughly shaken. This cry was more than fearful, it was empty and lost and broken. Yes, that was precisely it. It was the cry of a broken man. And I was the one who had broken him.

This was harder than I ever could have expected. I knew that my poor Watson would not have taken the news of my death well but I could not even have begun to imagine a grief of this magnitude, even with my formidable deductive powers.

By this time, Watson had become silent. He must have found the letter I had left for him by now and was presumably reading it. However, I no longer had the heart to make certain. I could not peer down at him again, only to see my friend, the bravest man I had ever known, reduced to this.

And what right did I have to look at him when I was the cause of his pain? I could have ended his misery there; I was the only person who could have done so. I wanted to reach out to him then and there and show him that all was not lost. I wanted to, but I did not. The very miracle he had searched for in vain was so close, and yet, I did not allow him to know it.

It pained me to know I could not end his grief, for to do so would be to lead my plan astray. Watson must not be told. He had to write a convincing account of my death for the Strand or all would be lost. This was the only way I could bring the remaining members of Moriarty's gang to justice. But at what terrible cost! My only defense was that without Moran and the others, London, and indeed, the world, would be a safer place to live. My death may hurt my poor Boswell greatly but perhaps my selfish act would one day benefit him and help to keep him safe from harm. Surely if he knew of my continued existence, some terrible misfortune could befall him. I could not risk that happening. I could not let him be harmed because of his association with me. His knowledge of the truth would have only served to hurt him in the end. He may never understand why I had done this to him, he may hate and despise me for it, but he would be safe. For now, it was the best I could do.

I then began to hear an odd sort of sobbing, audible even over the roar of the falls. Watson had undoubtedly finished the letter and was in tears because of it. I must admit that there were tears in my eyes, the eyes of the heartless brain, just from watching him suffer. With one last hopeful look towards the falls he finally began to walk away, still making those dreadful sobbing noises, crying for me.

My dear Watson, please do not cry. For when I return (and yes, I will return, whether I must wait several weeks or several years) I will remember every tear you shed today. I will remember them and I will do everything in my power to be sure that nothing occurs to you to lead you to such distress ever again. It would be the very least I could do for you, who always followed me so faithfully and whom I have treated so poorly. I will remember those tears and pray that you will forgive me for them.

But that day has not come, and until it does, there is nothing else I can say to you but to express my deepest apologies. I know it is not enough, that it will never be enough, but I am so sorry. More than you could ever realize, my dear Watson, I am so very sorry.