"How are you going to wake up, Holmes?"
"The same way I always do, inevitably," he rumbled over the roar of the Falls, taking a single step towards the good doctor. Moriarty's final, gasping scream was lost.
"Holmes?"
Holmes' deerstalker, heavy and black with saturation, flew from his hand and sailed over the dark abyss.
"Every time I come here, to this particular room—"
"Room? But, this is just a story, Holmes. Remember? I said that I know when—"
"A story in a room. I find myself wandering back here. Again and again. But every time, every single time, I never manage to bring myself to do what I come here for.
"I don't understand."
"Yes, you do. Because you are me," Holmes whispered, taking one final step into the space that separated them. As he bent his head forward, dizziness overcame him, his eyes stung, he felt Watson's warm breath on his face, as his hands closed onto air.
His eyes drifted open, the tears spilling over, pierced by the cold glare of overhead cabin lights.
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