Flying's Just Like Falling

So, TWO CHAPTERS IN ONE DAY! Basically an unheard of thing with me. But I did have it pre-written, so I guess I might as well post it.

March 8th, 2012

I forgot to mention before, in this journal I may ramble a bit... Well, a lot... Mostly about memories. Recollections of sights, sounds, moments, smells even... Things that take me back to before these dark times, back to what he - we - used to be before. Because I've changed too, since the fall, since Moriarty was born. It helps - it doesn't help me cope, exactly, it's more that it helps me to remember. Because I have to remember. If I forget before, if I forget the times of love and light and happiness and the bond we had, then I'll be truly lost to this world, and so will the memories. I can't let them go, because if I do then nobody will ever know the truth, nobody will ever know the man behind the monster...

I suppose I should mention the beginning of this quest of mine. It was mid-January when I got the news. That Jim Moriarty was dead and gone, a single bullet put to a dark purpose had sealed the grim fate laid out for him long ago, when he first bore his name. Even back then I knew what it meant... Rich Brook - Reichenbach. I saw the signs. But I was ignorant of how names carry meaning - I'd heard the stories, tales of two men, one of the angels and one of the demons, facing fate at the falls. I said it was all nonsense, that such tales were the talk of late-night whisperings and scaremongers - that even if the tales were real, my brother couldn't possibly be a part of them. Now I think it's funny, really - my brother wasn't a part of them. Moriarty was. And also - Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, said something odd before his fall - according to those few snipers who witnessed the event fromt ehir hiding places.

"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for even a second that I am one of them."

That got me thinking. The tales were wrong. There were indeed two men facing fate at the fall that day. But there wasn't an angel and there wasn't a demon. Going back to Mr. Holmes' words, he was on the angels' side, but he wasn't one of them. Well, my brother may have strayed to the side of the demons - but he certainly wasn't one of them any more than Sherlock was an angel. I still have a hard time accepting that Sherlock is dead. Somehow, things just don't seem as... Final as they should.

I have one hope. Moriarty did die, at the fall. But maybe now that he lies in his grave, Richard Brook can live again. If not physically... Then through my evidence, through his legacy, through my memories and tales. And maybe, one day, it could turn out that I was mistaken. That Moriarty made a mistake that will bring my brother back physically too, and he'll see what I've been doing for him, he'll see just how much I really do love him. Because I still wonder if I really said it enough. If I gave him enough cause to believe it when I did say it.

I've seen pictures of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland - where the tales of old say the first battle took place. We always said we'd visit it them day, that there we could discover our fate for ourselves, maybe even defy it. We'd stand at the very edge, stare down into what some say is the gateway to Hell. Hell - one place I knew my brother could never go. Not without me, at least. If he did go, I'd follow him in a heartbeat.

We wanted to defy what people said about us, too - because my name too carries meaning, although not as obvious, and not cast in iron as Richard's seemed to be. The Reichenbach boy and the girl born of fire - because that's what Kenneth means, in Gaelic. My brother always told me that it meant I had a heart of fire - a fierce spirit that refused to give up, whose loyalty would never falter. Inside, I worried about what my name had in store for me, too - because everybody knows that when you play with fire, you get burnt. Because Moriarty swore that he would burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes, and I feared my fire might very well be the one he used as his tool.

It would seem that Moriarty did succeed in destroying the great detective - he jumped not too long after Moriarty took his own life for the sake of the game. But I remember before, and I think there really was still some good - several of the feathers of an angel - in him. I contradict those who thought and still do think that he was a fraud, a madman, nothing more than a murderous psychopath...

I am about to depart from my home in Penzance, but where I am to go I am not sure exactly. I mean to collect evidence of my brother's hidden good side and hopefully accept things as they are now. Maybe, just maybe... I can try to fix his mistake by trying to fix John Watson, if not entirely then at least slightly. He grieves for Sherlock Holmes as I grieve for Richard, if not even more. (If such a thing is possible.) I have no idea how long my journey will take - as long as it needs to, I imagine.

I have gathered my things and savings - including the portion of money of my brother's that was given to me that he kept in a locatable bank account. As far as I know he had far more, but he took the secret of its hiding okace to the grave, whether this was intentional or not I don't know. I have arranged the renting of my house as a holiday cottage while I am gone, in case I need an income - I certainly may, given that my money won't last forever, and I will need to pay for multiple lodgings as I journey. I may die poor yet, but at least I may also die knowing my brother was a good man - maybe even a great one. All things reminiscent of him and our time together I am bringing with me. I need them to remember, I need them to keep myself going.

I depart at first light to catch a train.