To the lovely readers who put this story on alert, sorry for the delay. Here are two more chapters to make up for it :)

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In an isolated chalet on the outskirts of Meiringen, Sherlock Holmes sat beneath a mountain of blankets patiently enduring a severe verbal reprimand from his unusually animated elder sibling. As Mycroft's voice rose again with accusations of reckless lunacy, Holmes made the decision to tune him out completely. This was a little more than he could handle at present. He had, after all, just escaped from the jaws of death itself.

The nausea was yet to pass. His ruined shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat and every breath aggravated broken ribs. His fingers and toes were numb. His hearing was yet to fully return. Dizziness washed over him in waves, and if he was foolish enough to close his eyes he found himself underwater again, in the darkness, being pushed forever downwards.

And yet, he had survived. This fact was only just beginning to sink in.

It was true that the odds had not been in his favour. In most cases such a fall would be fatal. He had been aware of this. He had known what was at risk. The situation had become personal and direct threats had been made. It was simply unacceptable. So he had called the end to the game, and he had taken his nemesis with him.

Having finally vented his frustrations Mycroft ceased pacing and settled his considerable bulk next to his brother. His deep voice acquired the soothing quality Holmes recalled from childhood and he allowed himself to tune back in. Almost immediately he wished he had not.

Apparently, somewhere high above them in the buildings at Reichenbach, Watson was recounting to the authorities what he had just witnessed. The death of Professor James Moriarty, and the death of the man he called his best friend.

Holmes felt his stomach lurch. His ragged breath quickened and his grip tightened upon the blankets that cocooned him. Aware of his sibling's unease Mycroft changed the subject to that of his own movements.

Discovering his younger brother had just plunged to a watery grave had led him to reach for his remedial oxygen. In its place he had found a small fold of paper and scribbled hastily upon it, in his siblings distinctive hand, were the words:

Brother mine.

It appears the Professor and I have reached an impasse.

If things go well, I may require your assistance. If they do not, my sincere apologies.

Sherlock

It had not taken Mycroft's supreme intellect to comprehend the implications of this discovery. He had swiftly dispatched his most loyal and trustworthy aid to conduct a search. Then he had taken a few moments to gather himself and summon his acting abilities before leaving the room as though the last five minutes had never occurred.

Holmes slowly let out a shaky breath. He could not dislodge the uncomfortable feeling that had settled deep within his chest. Shoulders hunched, he grasped his head in his hands and focused his gaze upon the fire that cracked in the grate at the corner of the room.

Until this moment his main attentions had been focussed upon the elimination of Moriarty, who had sat at the centre of this tangled web. Doubt had plagued him more than usual of late, but he was certain of one thing. His adversary had fallen towards the unforgiving rocks, a course from which there could be no return. He had done what he set out to do. His account with the most dangerous criminal of his generation had been closed.

However, this was not the end.

Moriarty had not acted alone. He had associates. Henchmen. Agents. Together they comprised the most powerful criminal syndicate in Europe. Moriarty's death would shake them, but Holmes was not foolish enough to believe it would make them fall. Smaller fish had escaped the net, darting out in all directions. Moran had slipped from the crowds amidst the confusion that evening and Mycroft had already received word from London that several key players had eluded the authorities.

Holmes had seen their plans. Until they were undone the threat to society remained.

Mycroft sat patiently at his side as his brother's clarity of thought began to return. Currently it was only they, and the aid who had dragged him half drowned and frozen from the icy riverbank, who knew the truth. To the rest of the world Sherlock Holmes was a dead man. If they believed him dead then they would not expect him. He could slip beneath the cloak and finish the job he started. How could he ignore the lucky chance which fate had placed before him?

Again he felt his stomach lurch and nausea swept through him. The first signs of fever already crawling through his skin.

The truth would bring Watson to his side in an instant. His loyalty and kindness of heart would demand it. Would he then be able to maintain such a convincing account? Any reaction could lead to their exposure. If Moran knew he had survived he would hunt him down and seek revenge. Watson would become a target once more. The risks were far too great.

Besides, this was to be their last case together. He had promised. Watson had a family now. He had responsibilities. Mycroft would ensure he was returned to London and the open arms of his wife. He would be safe there. He would be fine…

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