Dr John Watson and Miss Irene Adler share a moment at the Reichenbach Falls. Mr Sherlock Holmes, though not present in the flesh, is not far from anyone's thoughts.
A/N: The title comes from the first part of T. S. Eliot's famous poem The Waste Land, which begins
April is the cruellest month
Breeding lilacs from the dead land
Mixing memory and desire...
April is the Cruellest Month
Upon the first anniversary of Holmes's death, I found myself once again standing on the lip of the Reichenbach Falls, staring down into the foaming depths, my ears filled with the voiceless roar of the waters. I was half tempted to scream his name aloud into the depths, as futilely as I had done the year before. Instead, I contented myself with staring down into the foaming depths and whispering his name like a prayer, before I turned away, half-blinded by tears.
Spring had been late that year, coming reluctantly to the Alpine meadows; much later than it had the previous year when Holmes and I had strolled through meadows green with grass and bright with wildflowers. This year, the air had a bite to it and in the shadows, small patches of snow still lay upon the ground. I was glad in a way, not to be reminded of the sparkling days we had spent together then. Besides, the cold seemed a fitting match for the frozen splinter of ice that had lodged in my heart the year before. I had seemed to exist always in a sort of grey half-life since Holmes's death. Eating little, sleeping less, I dragged through endless days and restless nights. Mary tried her best; I laughed dutifully at her jokes, attended concerts with her, and mechanically ate what she put before me, all the while feeling nothing but the emptiness in my chest where my heart had been.
I had left London, left my Mary, understanding as ever, left my practice, left my life - such as it was - behind me to make the journey, even though I dreaded retracing the path, alone this time, that Holmes and I had traversed the previous Spring. It was a kind of pilgrimage, I suppose, though whatever I had hoped to accomplish -some closure, some acceptance, some absolution, would not come. I stood for a long time on the path at the edge of the Falls, listening to their unending thunder, muted now by the enduring snow on the mountains above, and felt as numb and frozen with grief as before. Whatever I sought would not come, whatever ghosts I hoped to summon would not appear; so grief-stricken as ever, I turned to make my way back down the mountain, alone as before, the voice of the falls still echoing in my head and vowed to myself never to visit this place again.
As I turned away, I noticed a straggling bunch of muddy violets that lay upon the path. Some admirer, I thought numbly, come to pay homage as I had.
The second anniversary of Holmes's death found me once again at the village of Meiringen. I had hoped upon my return to London the previous year, to put the whole business behind me, but although I told myself every day to brace up and get on with my life, I could not seem to shake off the feelings of sorrow and general lowness of spirit that continued to plague me. All that I did seemed futile and somehow unreal, as if time had stopped for me on that April morning two years before. I dragged through my days, slept fitfully, and dreamed night after night of falling water and a silver cigarette case tumbling down forever out of my reach.
As Spring approached and my spirits did not lighten; one night as I stared unseeingly into the fire, Mary said to me firmly "I think you should go, John. Perhaps this time you can lay his ghost to rest at last." Perspicacious as always, she had unerringly divined my thoughts. Thus encouraged, I set off again for the continent.
Herr Steiler greeted me upon my arrival, looking more prosperous than ever. It was good I had wired ahead for a room, he said, for the hotel was almost full. Since I had published my story, business had increased. It seemed that a flood of tourists, eager to see where it was the great detective had met his death had sought out his hostel. Here he checked himself, belatedly realising his choice of subject was not the most tactful one, and rang for the maid to show me to my room.
The next day I made my way to the falls early, desperately eager to get the business over with. I did not understand why I had been drawn back here, after promising myself that I would put the whole affair behind me and not come again. Despite the two years that had elapsed since his death, Sherlock Holmes was still an almost tangible presence in my life, reminders of him everywhere I turned.
As I retraced my steps along that fateful path, I saw once again in my mind the image of that black-clad figure climbing up as I hurried down towards Meiringen and the fictitious dying Englishwoman who had summoned me. No such person was on the mountain today; I was alone except for a small figure, a boy, perhaps, far up ahead.
It was a lovely day this time, much like the one two years before when we had climbed the path together...together for the last time. I bit my lip and hurried onward, trying to outpace my own thoughts.
The Falls were swollen with the Spring snowmelt this year and the roar of the waters was thunderous. I stood at the edge and looked over the brink as the torrent cascaded down and down and down, hiding forever the body of my friend. The Professor's broken body had finally been found, but no trace of Holmes had ever been recovered. No matter how horrific the sight, I would have been glad to have had some tangible remains to bury, something that might have brought me a chance of closure, instead of this icy grief which had become a part of me now until it threatened to overwhelm me at times.
As I stood on the brink, listening to the mighty voice of the falls echoing eerily from the chasm, seeing the water falling hypnotically ever downward, I seemed to relive the events of two years ago, when I had shouted myself hoarse, hoping against hope. A sudden sense of utter despair overwhelmed me and for a moment, I was tempted to forsake my responsibilities to Mary, to my life, just to let it all go. One step would be all it would take to make this crushing despair go away forever...
I must have swayed forward unconsciously, for in that moment a voice called out "Sir, oh, sir!" and I jerked sharply, brought back to full awareness of my surroundings. The boy I had seen earlier was standing next to me, his hand on my arm, a small bunch of Alpine violets clutched in his hand.
"Come on, Dr Watson, let's step away from the edge," he said and I allowed him to guide me back a few steps. "You're overwrought and still mourning your friend."
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I asked, passing a hand over my eyes in an attempt to regain my composure. My voice sounded hoarse in my own ears, as if I had been shouting.
"You don't recognise me? he asked. I looked again and shook my head. "You see, but you do not observe," he continued, taking off his cap. I looked again more closely and his features seemed to resolve themselves before my eyes, like one of those puzzle pictures - at first glance a vase, then suddenly two faces looking at each other.
"Irene Norton!" I exclaimed.
"It's Irene Adler again, if you please." she said, replacing her cap. "And good morning to you too, Doctor, although I don't believe we've ever been formally introduced. I didn't intend to disturb you, but you looked a bit unsteady on your feet and I was afraid you might fall." She smiled, letting me know that we both knew the truth behind that particular piece of polite fiction.
"What are you doing here?" I asked, more brusquely than I had meant to.
She bridled at my tone. "I," she began, then she looked away and swallowed hard before continuing softly. "The same as you, I imagine. I'm here to - pay my respects, I suppose."
Her friendly hand on my arm or the sympathy in her tone, I know not which, completely unmanned me. The tenuous hold I had hitherto maintained on my composure broke down completely. It seemed to me at the time that Irene Adler had, in extraordinary measure, that gift of sympathetic understanding peculiar to women; but perhaps I was simply so eager to unburden myself that I only thought it. Be that as it may, I sat heavily back against the rocky wall, covering my eyes with my hand, and broke down completely, trying in vain to stop the litany of grief that repeated itself over and over again in my brain: You left him. You left him alone. You left him alone and he died. It's your fault. If you hadn't left him alone...he died. He died. You left him alone and he died.
When I came back to full awareness, she was crouched in front of me, distress written on her face. "No, Doctor, no." She touched my knee. "You mustn't blame yourself. It wasn't your fault."
"If I hadn't left him, if only I hadn't left him," I choked out.
"Think, Doctor" she hissed, "think. If you hadn't gone back down the mountain , you would be dead too." She continued fiercely, "do you think Professor Moriarty left anything to chance? He never left anything to chance. He was a terrible old man, but he was an old man. He knew full well he could never defeat Sherlock Holmes in hand-to-hand combat. He did not come up here alone - depend upon it. He must have had at least one confederate to ensure that the outcome would be in his favour. I'm sure he had no intention of engaging your friend in a fair fight. His death must have happened only by miscalculation. "
"But," I objected, "there were no other foot prints. I saw that myself."
She shrugged. "A man with a rifle on the cliff above, perhaps? He had many henchmen who would have done anything at his command." Her tone was weary, as though she had gone over these points in her mind many times before.
Her reasoning made sense. I tucked my soggy handkerchief back into my sleeve and attempted to collect myself. "You were acquainted with Professor Moriarty?" I asked.
She shuddered. "Only slightly," she replied, tight-lipped. " I am thankful for that."
Quickly changing the subject, "Holmes's death affects you greatly," she said, taking out her cigarette case and settling herself beside me on the ledge.
"It does," I replied thickly. "He was the best and wisest man I have ever known and he was my dearest friend."
She stopped what she was doing and looked up sharply. Something in my voice must have given me away. "You were in love with him," she said in a matter-of-fact tone. "Dear Lord. You're an invert and you're in love with him. I'm only surprised I didn't realise it sooner. It's right there in your stories, plain as plain for all the world to see, only they don't. To them you're a happily married man, only one who happens to have an uncommon regard for his eccentric Bohemian friend. "
Now it was my turn to swallow hard. "Yes," I admitted. The gush of relief at finally being able to tell someone almost overpowered the rush of fear at having my secret revealed. " I did - do - have a great regard for him." I continued, having caught the flash of her eyes, "If I do, I know someone else who cares for him as well!"
She looked away and toyed with her cigarette with a wry smile on her lips. "I suppose I was half in love with him for a very long time. He was an extraordinary man. However," she continued, her expression hardening, "I'll not break my heart over any man - much less a dead one. You might do well to follow my example, Doctor. Unless, of course, it's already too late for you."
"But how...? I mean, you only met him once."
"That's all you know," she said scornfully. "I met him years ago, long before you did in fact. I was just 16 and in London for the first time, on my way to Milan, where I was going to become a famous opera singer and have the world at my feet. He was play acting at being a cab-driver. His horse ran me down and then he saved me from a rather unpleasant encounter with a band of ruffians, then spent the following night showing me 'his' London. He thought I was a boy until I showed him my hair. I fooled him completely," she said. "Just imagine it. A tall dark stranger appearing out of the fog to rescue me from a fate worse than death!" She chuckled. "The whole thing was the stuff of the purest romance for a young girl who had seen very little of it her life before then. I cherished the memory of my handsome rescuer for years."
"I always hoped that our paths would someday cross again, but as neither of us had mentioned our real names in the course of our brief acquaintance, it hardly seemed likely. It was not until that silly affair with the man you called the King of Bohemia that I realised who he was. After he took off the old clergyman's makeup in the cab, I saw his true face when I bade him good-night and I knew then that my handsome and gallant cab-driver was none other than the famous consulting detective."
"So you see, my acquaintance with Mr Sherlock Holmes goes back much further than your ridiculous story. Not my finest hour, I might add, but you certainly did not flatter me there. An adventuress, and no better than she should be, I'll be bound - I've got quite used to hearing it as a result of your tale."
"Did he recognise you, do you think?" I asked, interested despite myself.
"I'm sure he did," she replied, a little smile playing about her lips. "Afterwards, when I came back to London again, there were always flowers sent to my dressing-room . Believe me, most of my admirers are only too eager that I should know who they are, but these were always anonymous."
"He respected you greatly, I think," I said. "He kept your photograph in his desk drawer."
"Did he really? I saw that you had written that," she replied. "I thought perhaps it was a bit of artistic license on your part."
We were both silent for a minute, each of us lost in our memories, until: "you were at his memorial service also," I said, with a sudden flash of memory of a slim youth in black, who lingered behind, staring down at an empty grave after the speeches were done.
"You knew me, then?" she asked, arching her brows in surprise. "I must take more care. At my headshake, she continued, "Ah, I see, you deduced it. You do not do yourself justice in your stories, either, Doctor. You are nowhere nearly so dim as you make yourself out to be."
She tapped her cigarette absently on the back of the case, before belatedly offering me one. "It's bad for the voice, I know, but I allow myself the occasional indulgence."
We smoked for a few moments in a surprisingly companionable silence. "You don't seem to be greatly shocked by my revelation," I ventured.
"I've been in the theatrical business over half my life. I don't know if there are more of your sort in the business than the ordinary run, or if they are just less inclined to hide their inclinations, but I'm quite accustomed to them, although if you'll pardon me for saying it, you don't seem quite the usual type. In any case, however, your secret is safe with me."
"We seem to have quickly become intimate friends ourselves, Doctor." she observed. Holding my gaze intently, she continued, "friends of a kind who would never betray each others confidence."
There was an awkward pause, then she stood up, wincing a little as her knees cracked. "Well, as much as I have enjoyed our little tete-a-tete, I must be getting on for Rosenlaui. I have a concert at the hotel tonight; and you had best be heading back before the holiday groups arrive. I understand this is a popular after luncheon destination."
I grimaced at the thought. She stubbed our her cigarette and said, "Go back to London, Doctor. Go back to your wife. Go back and live your comfortable life, as he tried to ensure that you could do."
"And you?" I queried, rising also. " What will you do now? Are you all right?"
She shrugged "Yes, I suppose so," she replied, "I always am. After all, I am an adventuress, am I not?" I winced when she said it, but she laughed and continued, "it's all right, Doctor, I forgive you for it."
"And what about you? Shall you return next year? If so, we may meet again," she said, holding out her hand in her frank, boyish fashion for me to shake. "It was...good to make your acquaintance at last. There will be a pair of tickets for you and Mrs Watson at the Box Office the next time I sing in London, should you wish to take them up." She smiled at me again and I saw why Holmes had said she had a face a man might die for.
She stooped to pick up her little bunch of violets from where they lay on the ground. "I'll just leave these before I go," she said and so we parted ways.
With a sigh, but with a strangely lighter heart, I turned my steps once again towards Meiringen. Of course, at that moment, I could not know that my newfound peace would be rudely shattered only a few short months later by a second bereavement; but at the time, I was more at peace than I had been for two long years.
When a turning in the path brought the Falls in view once again, I looked back and saw that only the white flowers remained, a blur against the muddy verge. The woman herself was gone.