Watson.
He passes by, so close, just across the falls. The tension in his shoulders speaks of the worst, his movements jerky in his caution. It doesn't slow him in any way, even as he trips over rocks and roots in fruitless haste.
He will not find him there. Holmes doubts Watson would see him here, with the waterfall and the stones in the way, but by heaven he wants to. Nevermind the danger or the risk, because what more can a man give than his own life? And was not everything well when Watson was around?
Watson's presence usually soothes him, calms his mind, but at this distance all he can feel is the buzzing under his skin.
Watson finds the alpenstock first, almost trips over it, and freezes at the sight. Holmes can read the thoughts running through a mind he knows as well as he knows his—it brings him no satisfaction.
Watson stares for a long time, as if trying to piece an impossible puzzle together, the evidence there but the conclusion unacceptable. He stumbles near the cliff edge and Holmes prays he does not fall in, prays that despair would not make Watson waste his life on an awful lie.
Watson screams his name.
The sound echoes on the cliffs, impossibly loud.
Holmes breaks for a near-fatal second—almost shouts back, almost gives himself away, almost yells condemnation on them both. Watson's name makes it halfway through and collapses back, dying on his lips.
He cannot put Watson in danger. Not when a wife waits for Watson at home, not when he has his practice and his son and a life to go back to that doesn't revolve around Holmes.
The world will survive without the moon, but not the sun.
Watson screams again and again, his voice carrying across the chasm, louder than the roaring of water crashing onto the rocks. Holmes grips stone until his hands are sliced open. Every call cuts deeper and deeper into him, growing weaker and weaker until the water swallows it in deafening silence.
There is no more hearing Watson, only seeing. He sits back on the rock, only now noticing the cigarette case and the letter. His hands move fast, his body stiff, and it is no more than half a minute before he reads it through. He reads it again, then once more, and buries his face in his hands.
It is all Holmes can do to stay silent. Staying here is killing him, but he cannot move, not until he can be sure that Watson would be safe.
Watson remains there, motions looping and blurring into each other; reading, shouting, pacing, looking at the ground, tearing at the grass, retracing his steps.
What are you doing, Watson?
Well, I'm using your methods, Holmes.
People come. Police, perhaps, but they do not stay long—there is only one conclusion that they could accept. They speak to Watson in unheard platitudes and condolences, then leave, one by one, as if nothing had happened.
Watson stays and gazes at the waterfall, letter crumpled in his hand. He takes a hesitant step towards the edge, slips a step, and grips the stone behind him.
A deep, trembling chord strikes in Holmes, quivering in anticipation.
He does not trust himself not to follow if Watson jumps.
Watson halts.
He moves back in slow, staggering steps, stopping only for the cigarette case, and Holmes watches as he retreats into the mist and forest and rock.
One last glance. Watson, please, give me this at least!
Watson disappears over the crest.
Holmes moves, body aching from unshed tears and unspoken words, and screams.
The waterfall swallows his voice and his soul whole.