I limped heavily up the path, more concerned with reaching my friend than the pain spiking through my leg. The message had been a hoax. I had left him for a ploy.
"HOLMES!"
He did not answer, and I rounded the last bend, firmly killing the fear tightening my chest. I had to be in time.
"Holmes! Holmes, answer me!"
The falls provided my only reply. His walking stick and a familiar cigarette case rested on the large rock where I had last seen him, and two sets of prints continued toward the cliff. Neither returned.
"Holmes!" Nothing, and I stopped fighting the terror trying to engulf me. He was hiding somewhere, probably trying to play one of his stranger pranks on me. He would respond when he realized how this appeared. "God, no. Please. Holmes, where are you?!"
Only the sound of the water filled the canyon.
"HOLMES!"
Flickering movement caught my eye, and I found a short note anchored beneath the cigarette case. I barely felt my knees hit the rocks as a trembling hand revealed the first words.
"My dear Watson, I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty…"
Please, no. Not this. Anything but this. I stopped reading, pulling myself off the ground to scan the canyon again. He was here somewhere, whether clinging to a rock or injured below. I just had to find him.
Except he was not. I combed the cliffs from one end to the other, with no sign of my friend. With no sign of anyone. I was too late.
No. I refused to believe that. He had to be alive, and three officers found me searching the cliffs yet again. The innkeeper had called the police when I sprinted back up the path, and they helped me look, each of us hoping we would be able to help.
It was not to be. Even they could find nothing, and one by one, they sadly shook their heads. Holmes was gone, dead because of me.
"Holmes!"
Deafening silence answered me, and the grief I had been denying magnified, taking over to make my knees buckle beneath me once more. I slid down the cliff wall, repeatedly and involuntarily calling my friend's name. He would answer. He would. Holmes always answered me.
Until he did not. My cries received only silence, and an unfamiliar hand rested on my shoulder. I had abandoned him, left him to die.
I was a murderer.
"HOLMES!"
I found myself leaning over the edge, desperately looking for my friend, but I made no protest when a strange hand pulled me back. The officer tried to catch my attention—probably requesting I go back to the inn—but I ignored him. He would leave soon enough, and I would either find Holmes or join him like the murderer I was.
"Holmes, answer me! Please!"
I heard only the roar of the falls. My friend was gone, lost to the crashing water, and I no longer felt even the cliff behind my back as I stared through the rocks opposite the trail. Had it been fast? Had he been injured first? Had they gone over together, or had Holmes clutched a rock for a while, waiting in vain for me to return so I could help? I had no way of knowing, but the possibilities tormented me almost as much as the knowledge that I had killed him.
I was a murderer. I had abandoned my dearest friend, left him to die. This was my fault.
"Are vu Vatson?" the officer asked after several minutes. Something in me faintly heard the accented name in a way I had not heard his other entreaties, and I nodded absently, barely noting the question. What did it matter what my name was? Words had no meaning. I had killed my brother.
"Here." An envelope landed in my hand, and he pressed it into my palm until I finally focused on it. "Vas pehind rock."
Holmes' familiar scrawl announced my name, and I hesitated before carefully breaking the seal. His other note had been written hurriedly on a sheet from his journal, obviously today at the falls, but this was on paper such that he could only have gotten at Baker Street. He had written this before we left London.
"My dear Watson," he opened again. "If you are reading this, then Moriarty has at least partially triumphed at Reichenbach Falls. He determined to kill me for unravelling his web, and while I sincerely hope I have succeeded in ridding the world of him, I fear it is at great sorrow to you, my friend. I pray I can prevent deeper sorrow with this warning.
"Moriarty had a lieutenant. If both I and Moriarty are gone, Colonel Moran may well be on his way to London. You must get there first. Moran's air gun is as silent as it is deadly, and Mary and Mrs. Hudson will never know they are in danger until it is too late. Get them to Mycroft. He will direct all three of you to a safe house, where you can stay until Moran is eliminated.
"Godspeed, Watson, and whatever happens, believe me to be,
"Very sincerely yours,
"Sherlock Holmes"
Fear wrapped its icy grip around my chest, nudging the painful grief aside for later. With Holmes the primary focus, we had left London nearly a fortnight ago, and Mary and Mrs. Hudson barely knew why we had left. They would never expect to be targeted.
I pulled myself to my feet, leaning forcefully on Holmes' Alpine-stock when I stumbled. Holmes' loss was my fault, making me a murderer and traitor both, but if I did not reach my wife and former landlady in time, I would be those thrice over. I put the notes in the case and the case in my pocket, then supported myself on the Alpine-stock instead of my cane. The officer's relief showed clearly on his face when I looked toward him, but he made no comment, leading the way down the path.
He glanced back frequently, always thankful when he found me behind him, but any attempt at conversation I met with silence. I knew German well enough to understand him no matter his language, but my words had died with Holmes. Conversation would do nothing to bring Holmes back or keep Mary or Mrs. Hudson safe.
He should not want to talk to me, anyway. My dearest friend was dead, and now my wife and landlady were in danger. If Moran reached them first, the blame would land solely on me. No one wanted to associate with a murderer, and a traitor dishonors himself and his company. I would see Mary and Mrs. Hudson to the safe house, then I would leave them be. I would not dishonor them, nor would I burden them with my presence. They would be safer without me nearby.
The officer saw me back to the inn, where I gathered Holmes' and my things. He briefly tried to persuade me to stay the night, but he gave up when I grunted something about Mary being in danger, helping instead. Four hours after leaving the falls found me on a train bound for London.
I had fifteen hours to wait, and I spent much of the time restlessly watching the clock, daring to hope I would find them in one house or the other. With both Holmes and I away, Mary and Mrs. Hudson frequently spent the afternoons together, alternating houses. If I had kept track of the days correctly, they should both be at Baker Street when my telegrams arrived, but the travel between offered far too many opportunities for Moran. I could just as easily arrive to find Mrs. Hudson alone and Mary's body surrounded by a crowd of Yarders. Or vice versa.
I was not sure which would be worse, but either one would be my fault. The train ride passed slowly.
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