From Winter Winks 221: Death


This is a sequel of sorts to the Jack Frost story from last year, if anybody remembers that? ("Day 13: A Soul to Take" of Baker Street Carol.) If not, or if you haven't read it, the gist is that folklore figures like Jack Frost and the Grim Reaper are real, and the Grim Reaper is, in fact, Moriarty's true identity. Now, without further ado...


==Day 3: Greater Love==

As soon as the telegram from Mycroft arrived, Sherlock Holmes knew what he had to do. The summoning had been simple—in the months leading up to the confrontation at Reichenbach, he had studied his enemy as much as he could, and knew now how to call upon him to simply talk.

He was in Budapest, and he was not kept waiting long.

A nebulous pale mist formed in his hotel bedroom and swirled until it formed into a towering figure… then shrank and coalesced into the form of a man. The appearance of a middle-aged, mild-mannered Englishman suddenly seemed to Holmes laughably ridiculous as a vessel for one of the most powerful beings in the universe… or perhaps, more properly, outside of it.

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes," he said. "What do you wish of me? Are you homesick yet? You'll recall that we agreed you would stay out of England for another two years."

"Yes, I do." Holmes was proud of himself for keeping his voice calm and steady, not betraying his discomfort or his fear. "I have received news from home."

"And?"

"Mycroft tells me that Mary Watson is very ill."

"Yes, she is."

"Will she die?"

"I cannot answer that."

"Surely you, of all people, must know!"

"Of course I know—it is my business, after all—but I am not allowed to simply tell you."

"She cannot die." Holmes refused to beg. Not for the sake of his pride, but for the sense that it would do Mary no good. "She must live. She doesn't deserve to have her life cut short in such a fashion. Watson doesn't deserve to lose his wife."

"Of course, they don't." The being before him suddenly seemed far, far older, and even… Dared Holmes think sad? "So many do not deserve that. Too many. But it happens all the time, nevertheless. Your Watson and Mary are not more important than the rest of mankind, Holmes."

"They are to me."

Moriarty sighed. "I cannot change her fate. Not simply because you ask."

"And you won't take me in her place?"

Moriarty studied him closely. "You're serious about that, aren't you? No, Holmes, I'm afraid I'm not allowed to touch your life. I was willing to rebel once but I cannot do so now."

"There must be something I can do! Something that can be done!" Unwillingly, desperation crept into Holmes's voice. Poor Watson had already lost a friend, as far as he knew—and his brother before that, and now his wife! The love of his life, the heart of his heart! And Mary! Mary was the kindest, sweetest person Holmes had ever had the privilege of knowing, a bright light in a dark world, just like her husband. She had to live. They had to have a family, to grow old together, to see their grandchildren…

Moriarty was silent, merely watching Holmes from underneath hooded eyelids. Waiting for him to reach a conclusion.

And then Holmes had it. "Take something from me. It requires sacrifice, does it not? To save a life this way?"

"Some… have accomplished it, yes," Moriarty said quietly.

Holmes knew he couldn't possibly fully understand what he was about to say. He wouldn't know until he had lived it. But Mary's life was more important. "Take my ability to be a detective."

"Absolutely out of the question. Your skills as a detective are needed in the grand scheme of things."

"But how can I make a greater sacrifice than that?"

"Indeed, how can you?"

Holmes's mind raced. The solution crept up on him until it filled his mind with its rightness. And then he had to swallow the rising lump in his throat. But Mary's life is more important. "Take my music," he whispered.

Moriarty studied him again. "You cannot take it back. You don't understand yet what it would mean, to live the rest of your life unable to play your violin or any other instrument."

Holmes's vision blurred, despair seeping into his heart. "Mary's life is more important than any talent of mine by far. For her—" his voice broke, and he had to clear his throat—"for her continued and long life, take my music."

Moriarty stared at him for another long moment, then shook his head slowly. "You humans never cease to amaze me," he murmured. "Very well. For Mary's life, your music."

Holmes did not physically feel any different. But a certain emptiness seemed to have taken up residence in his mind, emptiness where music should be. He fell to his knees, and when he looked up, Moriarty was gone.

He breathed a prayer of thanks that his nemesis was gone. Then he folded in on himself and let the tears come.


A/N: ...I think there will be a sequel to this one. :'( My poor, poor detective… *hugs him*

When I first got this prompt, all I could think was "Mary." She's been on my mind a lot lately, thanks in a big way to the upcoming season of Sherlock, and I've been bitter about her fridging in the canon. So… take this as a defridging. Mary and John did deserve better, and I will shout it from the rooftops until my dying breath.