I don't own Sherlock Holmes.

Use blind spot to get left arm behind head. Turn adversary around, get into headlock. Back up against guardrail. Flip over barrier, plummeting to the depths. In summary, stomach in throat, adversary disposed of, chance of survival… unlikely.

This time, Holmes couldn't think his way out of his situation.

This time, there was no solution, at least, no solution that ended with him on top.

This time, he and his adversary were going down.

And above all, this time, survival was highly unlikely.

To top it all of, Watson had to watch.

Holmes had his enemy in a head lock, and his back was against the rail, of course, as planned. He was taking three measured breaths, like he always did when he was about to do something incredibly stupid. No one was out on the porch with them, so no one could stop him from committing homicide and suicide at the same time.

"Holmes?"

Holmes froze. He knew that voice all too well. It was the voice of his best friend, his brother in bond, the voice of the only existing family that he had left. Watson had been looking for him, and now he had to see this.

Holmes looked into Watson's eyes, and he saw realization flit across the latter's eyes. Watson began to raise a hand to stop him, but Holmes closed his eyes. He had planned on just going, not say goodbye to anyone, for it's difficult to say long farewells when you're hanging, literally, on the edge of death. Holmes suddenly felt viciously envious of those who chose suicide voluntarily, for they knew when they were going to die, and they could savor the moments that they had left with their family. They could also make sure that their family didn't see, that they didn't have to watch, hopelessly, on the sidelines.

Holmes didn't have any of those luxuries.

With a forceful jump, Holmes flew over backwards to the crushing abyss.

"HOLMES!"

Watson ran to the rail, searching for Holmes. It was all dark, black, and he could hear the waves beating up against the rocks.

Watson couldn't process it. It made no sense, it wouldn't compute. Holmes couldn't die, it wasn't possible, he had always come back, always managed to see another day. And now… now he had killed himself? No. Not possible.

Not possible…

Watson staggered backwards, back into the loud party. He took off his hat. He self-assessed, the old habit of a doctor, and he saw that he was experiencing symptoms of shock.

"No… No!"

Watson yelled out in sheer despair. Several heads turned, and Watson sank to the ground.

Watson felt tears begin to race down his cheeks, and he couldn't stop them. He buried his head in his hands, rocking backwards and forwards. He felt hands try to pry him up, but he swatted them away.

"Watson? What is it?"

"Holmes… He's… He's gone! Dead! I watched him fall… I don't even have a body to bury…"

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"I hope that your excellencies are grateful," Watson spat. "He died for you."

Watson looked out on the porch where Holmes had stood just a moment before, and he went into a rage. Things crashed to the ground, tapestries were torn, doors unhinged: the next thing he knew he woke up in a hospital, bandages on his arms and face, the stale taste of wine on his breath.

It all came to him in a cold, cruel rush.

Visions of the look on Holmes's face before he jumped filled Watson's mind. Holmes's face had been full of regret, his eyes closed, like he had already succumbed to death. Watson couldn't bear it. It was a horrible hole in his chest, a hole that Watson had a feeling he would never be able to fill.

Watson began to sob again, his teeth ground together.

"Holmes… Holmes…"