He studied the timeline in front of him, confirming the pattern he had noted over the last several months. An unfathomable concept, but apparently true: someone was trying to copy Moriarty's crime web. It was not quite a recreation, as certain components were different—and besides, he and Mycroft had both confirmed the breakup of that web—but the layout was the same. He would have to move quickly, to catch it in its still infant stages if he wanted to prevent another Reichenbach. He could not do that to Watson again.

He flipped through his notes, trying to be quiet. Watson still slept upstairs, and Holmes had no wish to wake him. His friend had been showing signs of nightmares recently, and their few wounds were still healing from that cab accident. While their own injuries had been relatively minor when those cabs had collided, there had been others involved, and he knew Watson saw their faces each night. He needed the sleep.

He focused his thoughts back on the pages in front of him, searching, checking, confirming the patterns he knew were there. He would have to get this information to Mycroft. His brother had the resources to nip this quickly, while it was still small. That would be better than Holmes taking the more thorough route he had used last time.

A gasp sounded from the room above, and he heard Watson sit bolt upright in bed. Holmes looked up from his notes, counting silently. Usually, Watson either went back to sleep or got up within twenty-five seconds.

Thirty seconds passed, however, then thirty-five, and still silence reigned in Watson's bedroom. Holmes frowned and set his notes aside. Was Watson having trouble breaking the nightmare?

Purposely creaking the loose board in the fourth stair and making the bedroom door squeak, he strained to spy his friend in the low light. He would need to be careful if the dream had sent Watson into a memory.

Watson's gaze shot up at the noise, however, and he quickly threw his legs over the side of the bed. Holmes smothered a sigh of relief despite his friend's defensive instinct. Watson would not have looked at him at all if he were not in the present.

"Alright, Watson?"

His friend made no answer, staring at him as a wary horror flickered across his face in the darkness, and Holmes' worry returned.

"Watson?"

Again, there was no answer, and he moved forward, Watson's gaze following as if trying to decipher an unfamiliar shadow. A convenient candle supplemented the faint sunlight drifting through the drapes, and unfiltered grief flooded Watson's face as he stared at Holmes.

"Watson, are you with me?"

Watson made no answer, tearing his gaze from Holmes to look around the room. Confusion joined the intense grief.

"Come to the sitting room, Watson."

His friend pulled himself upright, limping slightly as he followed Holmes out the door, but he stepped away when Holmes offered his arm on the stairs. Holmes did not try again, merely staying in front of his friend in case of a problem.

He tried to lead Watson to the settee, but Watson ignored the gesture, refusing to go past where he leaned against the doorframe. That grief-filled gaze scanned the room, noting every detail but ignoring Holmes completely.

"Watson? What is wrong?"

There was no response. Watson continued scanning the room, grief and confusion mixing freely in his expression in a way Holmes had never thought to see, especially after Watson had changed so much in the previous three years.

"Watson, look at me."

Watson ignored him, studying—no memorizing—the room for another long moment before heaving a sigh. He pushed himself off the doorframe and turned away, and Holmes lunged forward to grab Watson's arm. Watson evaded him, nearly skittering away in a motion so utterly foreign to his friend that Holmes did not follow immediately.

"Watson?"

Watson did not answer, racing toward the stairs, and Holmes rushed after him. Something was horribly wrong. Had his injuries not been minor after all? Watson had said he was fine last night.

He pushed the thought aside. What was going on did not matter nearly as much as catching his friend.

Watson sprinted down the stairs, Holmes barely a step behind as Watson moved much faster than his limping gait should have allowed, and Mrs. Hudson hurried out as Watson made it to the front door.

"Is something wrong, Mr. Holmes?"

He dodged around her without answering, nearly slamming the front door as Watson climbed into a cab.

"Watson!"

Watson made no reply, did not even look back as the cab lurched into motion, and Holmes ran after them, trying to push aside the questions and worry in his quest to keep up with his friend.

What was going on?

The crowded streets that prevented the cab from moving very fast also kept Holmes from catching up completely, but he was only a block behind when the cab finally stopped in front of Watson's old practice. Watson never got out, however, staring in confusion at Verner's name on the door and apparently not seeing Holmes hurrying closer. Holmes stayed quiet, unwilling to make Watson run from him again. He needed to get within reach.

Watson called out another address just before Holmes could lunge, however, and Holmes wondered if he had been spotted after all, for while the next address rang loud enough for him to hear clearly over the general noise, the cabbie picked up his pace.

"Watson, wait!"

There was no reaction, and Holmes quickly lost the cab in the crowd. He hurried toward the address instead.

Had Watson hidden a head injury? He could think of little else that could cause such a rapid change.

Using a shortcut the cabbie could not, he reached the address Watson had called only a minute or so behind the cab. The cab clip-clopped away from a small, squat building next to a bridge, but the door was locked.

"Hand it over!"

He spun toward the voice. A burly young man held a familiar figure against a pole on the nearby walking bridge, and Watson's faint voice carried as Holmes hurried forward.

"I told you," Watson answered tiredly. "I have no money. I do not even have my wallet."

The ruffian held him tighter, pinning him roughly against the pole. "I don't believe you!" he snarled. "Everyone carries a wallet, especially a toff like you. Unless you let that nosey detective handle all the money?"

Watson's chuckle was more sad than amused. "I have yet to know of anyone who cares about money after death." The man eyed the edge of the bridge, and Watson made no protest. "Do it. I have nothing to give you, and I will see them that much sooner."

Understanding slammed into Holmes as he sprinted closer. Amnesia. A concussion had stolen Watson's last several months of memories. That was why he had left the flat as he had and why he was not fighting back. He thought Holmes was dead.

The blackguard pinning him to a pole was about to get a rude awakening.

"Get away from him!"

The man started violently, shoving Watson to the side just before Holmes barreled into him. They hit the ground hard, and the attacker did not get up. Holmes turned to check on Watson.

His friend had vanished.

"Watson!"

Movement caught his eye, and he nearly leaped to the railing, looking over to find Watson dangling over the river. The movement had been Watson losing his grip with his left hand, and his right was beginning to slip.

"Watson, hold on!"

Watson did not look up at him, did not even react to his words. His friend's gaze flicked between the bridge and the river, and Holmes struggled to reach a position to help.

He was too late. What was supposed to be a safety rail hampered his ability to reach Watson, and his friend lost his grip on the lower rail. He never said word, did not even scream before he splashed into the river below, but Holmes did not try to check the grief and loss that forced its way out when his friend did not resurface.

"WATSON!"

Holmes lunged upright, still screaming the name as he landed on the floor with a thump.


Well there's an evil ending. Uh, sorry?

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