It had been a strange and beautiful few days.
There was a freedom to be found in knowing the end, in having made a decision and being determined to see it through. It would be poetic and false to say that his eyes were opened to the world, for the detective's eyes had always been open, his glory and curse to catalogue a thousand daily details all others in society missed. But it was accurate to say he had a heightened appreciation for his experiences during those last days, knowing he would never have them again, knowing that was all there was. He had given himself a death sentence, and as both executioner and the condemned he revelled in every second of his slow walk to the scaffold.
Watson noticed and was heartened by his enlivened character, attributed it to getting out of London and a change of scene after sleepless weeks fuelled by coffee, cocaine and inhuman reserves of stamina. It was a romantic notion, this miraculous rest-cure, and Holmes indulged it. He waxed poetic about the lay of the land, the fresh air and the panoramic views. He dropped anecdotes and harmless observations like a worthy scattering pennies for beggars and the doctor gathered up every one, smiling his appreciation as he did so; pleased that Holmes was in such good spirits. There was no deception - not in that. The air had never seared so cleanly in his lungs, the coffee (served sweet and milky) never tasted so fine nor the company been so perfect. It was paradise; and Holmes was both Adam and the Angel at the Gate unfurling forbidding wings and a blazing sword.
The message, when it came, signalled the beginning of the end.
Watson's face clouded. "Damn," he uttered.
"What is it?" Holmes asked lightly.
"It's from Herr Steiler." He huffed, his eyes like the weather, his natural sense of duty and compassion darkening his sunny mood. "There is an English woman..."
Holmes raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth as if to make comment.
"She has Consumption," Watson elaborated, still staring at the sheet of hotel notepaper and wishing it didn't exist. "She's asked for an English doctor."
"Quite right," Holmes muttered flippantly. "Foreigners are the most awful devils."
Watson's mouth skewed. "Holmes," he admonished gently.
He looked up. "Well. Off you go." The amused sting that would normally accompany such a command was absent.
"She's..."
"A lady of distinction."
He glanced at the name. "Yes," he admitted, and didn't bother to ask how Holmes knew. "She's..."
"Travelling with her companion; she refused to make a fuss but her companion is adamant."
He was no longer surprised. "Yes. Although..."
"Her condition is quite advanced and there is little to be done."
"She came..."
"For the air, but the tonic has proved ineffectual."
"I'll..."
"Have to leave immediately, but she'll likely either be reassured, dead or bored by tea time."
"I'll..."
"Not have time to make it back before the light fades, so will remain at the hotel until tomorrow morning." He was smiling, although he knew he ought not.
It was testament to the company he was so used to keeping that the doctor didn't falter in the face of all this apparent omnipotence, simply nodded. "I'll meet..."
"Me at Rosenlaui for a late breakfast tomorrow. Certainly."
"Do..."
"I mind? Not in the least old boy. These things happen."
"I'm..."
"Sorry- no doubt. But the view will still be here tomorrow."
The curl of his lips beneath his moustache was caught between annoyance and amusement. "D'you know..."
"That my perspicacity is utterly infuriating? Yes."
Watson looked at him, seeking the truth beyond the game.
Holmes raised his hand, fingers lightly beneficent. "Really old boy. It's fine – think of it as a necessary delay and nothing more."
The expression was genuine as he nodded his thanks. "I'll see you tomorrow at Rosenlaui."
The hand, still raised, snagged for a moment on nothing at all as if the fingers wished to grasp his sleeve. "Tomorrow," Holmes agreed and smiled in return, hoping the flatness he felt in the gesture wasn't apparent.
And like that Watson was gone, written out of the unfolding drama by Holmes' own duplicity. All his claims of being satisfied should he bag Moriarty were clues he couldn't help dropping, hating himself for doing so all the while. It wasn't a lie; ending the Professor would be the high-point of his career. He just wished it was a victory gained without such subterfuge. So he'd sipped his coffee, told his stories and mentioned what a worthy foe Moriarty was – the coup-de-grace of the great game to which he applied all his skills. Morbid curiosity needed to know if Watson would try to stop him or leave him to it, this final mad venture. He mistrusted his own moral compass and wanted more than anything to lean on Watson's, to gage his reaction, but was ultimately unable to put the question plainly, unwilling to burden anyone else – least of all Watson – with the knowledge. Which, in truth gave him all the answer he needed.
He walked further up the path but couldn't stop himself from turning to catch a final glimpse of the straight-backed and stiff legged tweed-coated figure with a walking cane and sunlight in his hair as he moved briskly back down towards Meiringen. His mouth cramped into a bitter-sweet cant. "Thank you," he said softly. And after a pause, so soft as to be nearly silent, "I am sorry." Normally he would not apologise, not without a healthy dose of sarcasm or a slant to the words that leached much of their sincerity. Would too have added 'dear boy', 'mother hen' 'old chap' or some such similar petty endearment. The fact that he hadn't, would have troubled Watson considerably – had he heard. But some phrases are designed only to be spoken, never received, and such it was in this case. He turned once more to the valley and the majesty of the waterfall, noting how the water churned up the spray to diamonds at the bottom and rainbows halfway up.
It really was very beautiful. There were worse places to die.
He perched upon an outcropping of rock, took out pen and daybook and wrote a letter, the nib scratching hastily across the page as fast as his thoughts could bid it. The missive was signed with a flourish as if he could imbue his name with all it lacked. He was folding it into his silver cigarette case when he heard the scrape of approaching footfalls (a sharp counterpoint to the water's roar) and saw the tall and dark-coated figure ascend the path towards him.
"No entourage?" he enquired, pitching his voice to carry as he placed the case on the rocks behind him.
"I could ask you the same question." The cultured tones teetered on the edge of snide.
"I tired of the company."
A silken smile. "The good doctor will be most hurt when he discovers you sent him on a wild goose chase."
"I find sometimes forgiveness is simpler to procure than permission." He stood, stretched, and gazed once more across the waterfall as if Moriarty posed no greater threat than a pigeon, a stray scrap of London come to dirty the landscape. "I believe congratulations are in order, by the way."
An eyebrow languidly raised itself above that of its twin.
"Your gameplay was exquisite, your gambits refreshing and your strategy pure genius." He turned to face him. "Game, set and match to you."
There was a long span of stillness as the two Englishmen observed one another, one comfortably rumpled, his hair wild beneath his hat, the other impeccable and infinitely less at ease as he calculated, theorised, saw and indeed observed... Pale eyes widened showing a sliver of ire and surprise; one arm was flung out, derringer pistol snapping into his palm in an instant. But by then it was already too late.
Two shots were fired close together, one the crack of a smaller bullet, one the deeper retort of a heavier calibre. Both men spun like nine-pins, fallen shadow puppets against the silver-white water of Reichenbach. One shakily regained his feet moments later, lurched towards the crumpled figure on the path and noted with dispassionate approval the small bloody hole in his chest – no bigger than a shilling – and the look of hate on his features. With an effort the victor laboured to push the corpse off the footpath, almost following it as it bounced against the cliff-face and was swallowed by the churning thunder of the waters below. The gun was consigned to the same fate.
Dizzy, breathing heavily, Sherlock Holmes pressed his hand to his shoulder and the pain and crimson warmth that flowed from it. "For one well versed in trigonometry," he said hoarsely, "I expected you to be a better shot."
As if in answer to his accusation there was a whip-crack of sound and fragments of stone splintered and burst from the rocks further down the path. Moran. Holmes knew better than to stand and have an argument on the calculation of distance versus elevation with the finest game-hunter in India. He fled, a wounded tiger going to ground.