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-Myelle
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John continued to the Englischer Hof, the hotel they were staying at.
"I trust she's no worse?" he asked upon entering the small lobby. The hotel manager stared at him blankly.
"Who?"
"The sick Englishwoman. Didn't you write this?"
John showed him the note that a little boy had given him at Reichenbach Falls. The man looked it over, commenting on the hotel's stationary.
"It's from her, but I didn't write it. There's no sick Englishwoman. The only other English person who was in here, aside from you or Mr. Holmes, was a tall man who dropped in. He asked for the paper, wrote something down, and then left. He had nice suit on, a bit taller than you, dark hair-"
John wasted no time. He ran as fast as he could out of the Hotel and back to the falls. It took two hours walking from the falls back down to the hotel. Even if John ran to shave another hour off his time, that was at least three hours alone with Moriarty. Three hours that Sherlock could have been lying alone, injured...or, if Moriarty had his way: dead.
Sherlock could be dead.
At this realization, John ran faster despite the pounding ache in his leg. No matter how fast he went, he didn't get to the falls soon enough. The wind seemingly pushed him backwards, slowing him. The trees and mountains moved in his way so he wouldn't get to his friend. Nature was against him, as if it too was tricked by Moriarty.
Tears threatened to fall, but John's pride wouldn't allow it. Besides, there was still a possibility that Sherlock was alive and if he cried, all hope would be lost. Tears would only blind him and he needed every bit of his senses he could keep to get him to Sherlock faster. There is no positive aspect of crying.
He should have never left. He should have stayed, and Sherlock wouldn't have been in danger. The fear John now faced of losing his best, but really his only, friend, was indescribable. It was unimaginable to anyone but him. No one else had ever had to run through mountains, squeezing each last drop of strength out of his physical limits.
When John finally arrived, he desperately began looking for Sherlock, but stayed away from the dreadful chasm which lay below him. One slip of the foot and you would be sucked under into the abyss. He shivered at the thought of his friend falling into it.
Upon a rock at the edge of the falls, he found Sherlock's suit jacket and mobile. He peered over the ledge but saw nothing. Only water...and rocks. Sharp rocks. Rocks that could kill you if you struck one.
"Sherlock!" He cried over the edge. His voice, it seemed, was swallowed by the cries of the waterfall...just like his friend.
There were two sets of footprints going to the edge of the cliff, but none coming back. Both men had evidently fallen off the ledge together. John made the conclusion that Moriarty and Sherlock had met, talked, and then fought, ending in the inevitable: their simultaneous deaths.
John tried to look away from the deathly liquid under the cliff but it drew his gaze towards it. He looked for some sign of Sherlock, but not even so much as a shoe could be seen.
The smell of the trees, the feel of the cold, wet mist that danced around his body, the sight of the emptiness in the chasm, and the sound of the waterfall hitting the rocks...it would be engraved in his memory ever and always.
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NEXT CHAPTER: John's emotions get the best of him as he finds a message form Sherlock.
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