for paitend, who requested the plot bunny
"…decide from there, of course. Someone at the inn mentioned Rosenlaui has an excellent restaurant despite its size and relative obscurity."
Huffed amusement escaped as I detoured around a rock. "I heard that as well, though I seem to remember that guest raving about the desserts."
His ears flushed in a sure sign that my memory proved accurate, and amusement became true laughter. Only Holmes would decide that avoiding a murderer could include indulging his sweet tooth.
"Is that your only reason for going to Rosenlaui?"
A glance over his shoulder tried to scowl at me. "Of course not. I told you we needed to leave Meiringen."
"Just before admitting that your sweet tooth chose our destination." I made no effort to hide my smirk. "Did that factor into your desire to see the falls as well?"
Feigned irritation became a low scoff. He hopped a hole in the path as a flick of his hand brushed the jesting question aside.
"What restaurant would you expect to find at a waterfall?"
A wet one, certainly, but while he had first suggested the detour as if Mr. Steiler had simply offered a few hours' amusing diversion, more lay beneath that reply than I had expected to find. Why did Holmes lead us—and therefore the professor he claimed to be trying to avoid—to the tallest waterfall in the country?
I had no idea, nor would he tell me. Several long seconds sought another topic.
"Where are we going after Rosenlaui?"
"Too far ahead." The words nearly disappeared beneath the bouncing clatter of a rock joining several others in the valley. "We can decide that in Rosenlaui. You know why I refuse to plan more than a day or two out."
Yes, I did. Holmes had mentioned days ago that while only Moriarty had evaded the Yard's raids, the professor had proven himself incredibly skilled at recruiting mercenaries on the fly. Any of the locals in any possible town could appear on Moriarty's payroll and become a threat in the bargain. Until we or the officials caught the professor, minimal discussion of future plans would prevent those plans from reaching the man trying to kill Holmes.
I did wish he would discuss other things with me, though—like something more than the barest details of this case. Despite ample opportunity in the form of train rides, mountain trails, and echoing motel rooms, I still knew little more than he had provided in my consulting room. My only cautious attempt to open the topic had received such blunt rebuttal as to make me leave the questions for another time. After blatantly avoiding me for over a year, I would not risk the distraction of an argument on a trip meant to keep Holmes safe.
That also cut out many of the questions I could have used to restart the conversation, however, and Holmes appeared content to walk in silence. Only the crunch of rocks and twigs beneath our feet passed the time until the crashing roar of a substantial waterfall carried from the path ahead. We rounded a jagged corner straight into the unendingly cold spray of Reichenbach Falls.
I could not help but stare. While nowhere near as tall as a few I had seen traveling with the Army, this particular waterfall managed to find an incredible balance of height, amount of water, and sheer volume. Hundreds of gallons per second poured over rocks and plant life alike to dig an abyss much deeper than I could see. Dark rocks glistened in the day's sun. A slight breeze whirled the mist into a facsimile of shapes. Bright sunlight caught the spray to form a decent rainbow. Holmes and I followed the three-foot-wide shelf path through and around immense boulders, towering walls, and varying amounts of plant life to stand slightly to one side of the cascade. Even Holmes seemed to enjoy the majestic view before us.
"Watson."
Though not for long. I had just decided to give the chilly spray a bit more distance when rushing carelessness sent rocks bouncing to the abyss behind us. A young boy, perhaps twelve years of age, skidded around corners and hopped the path's occasional hole. The constant wet combined with the heat of exertion to plaster slightly darkened hair to his head when he finally halted in front of me.
"Doctor Watson?" I nodded sharply. "From the innkeeper, sir," he continued, offering me a letter retrieved from his pocket. "Said I needed to hurry."
Naturally. Any attempt by Mr. Steiler to contact me this late bore the suggestion of a medical emergency at the inn, but all thoughts of a patient died at the letter's first words.
"I am very sorry for imposing on your trip, Doctor," read the paper bearing the hotel's letterhead, "but I have here an English lady in the final stages of consumption. She wintered at Davos Platz and intended to continue through to where her friends wait at Lucerne, but a hemorrhage overtook her within minutes of her arrival. I offered her a local doctor, of course, but she insists she can only see an English doctor. Something about the language barrier making the situation 'decidedly unsafe.' Whatever her reasoning, your return would undoubtedly prove a great consolation in her last few hours. I do apologize for interrupting your day, but I am at a loss. I would compensate you handsomely, of course.
"Peter Steiler the elder, innkeeper
"P.S. Even with the compensation, I would see your return as a very great favor. I feel I am incurring a difficult responsibility, having her here without a suitable doctor to offer."
"I am to accompany you back, sir," the lad informed me as soon as I looked up. "He seemed real worrit, Mr. Steiler did. You'll come, right?"
"I—" The word cut off. I glanced at the note, the boy, then up at where Holmes had been reading over my shoulder. Surely he would not do this.
Right?
"I know better than to get between you and a patient." Holmes' mouth turned in a faint smirk as he casually leaned one shoulder against the rock face. "Go on. I will be fine."
He would. Years-old hurt flared painfully, though I strove to hide it. Perhaps he would let me convince him otherwise.
"I think I had better let her deal with the local physician, Holmes. You are hunted, and we know he is not far behind us. What if this is a trap?"
He easily heard the question layered beneath my refusal, but rather than address what we both knew, calm assurance pointed to several letters on the paper I still clutched.
"Note the curve of the s. Every 'i' carries the same loop, and the a's all have the dark spot that matches what we saw in his ledger yesterday. Moriarty's handwriting is much closer to blocky. The professor did not write this."
No, he had not, but neither had Mr. Steiler. I tried once more.
"I don't want to leave you out here alone. Anything could happen, and you would have no back-up."
"I will hardly be alone." A gesture brushed the worry away—and confirmed my first, painful deduction. One hand landed on the boy's shoulder as his tone changed, just slightly. "I can keep this strong, young man with me as guide and companion, if it will ease your mind. See to your patient, Watson. I shall meet you in Rosenlaui this evening."
Or never, if my conclusions proved accurate, but I knew better to voice as much. I barely prevented my expression from announcing my thoughts as I finally—grudgingly—nodded. While I would not contest an order to leave any more than I would try to take over his detective agency, I still rushed down the path with an urgency meant only to hide the resulting wave of pain. After ignoring me for over a year, he had decided to sever ties completely, painfully, and irrevocably instead of simply disappearing into London's dense population. I should have known this trip seemed too good to be true. He had planned this.
Planned this for a while, probably. Years of cases had never made me more than an assistant—the lackey, according to London's rumor-mills. I hardly cared what everyone else thought, but if he had decided to push me further away than months of unanswered notes, unsuccessful visits, and various other failed attempts to reestablish contact already had, then years of considering Holmes a brother had just received a firm snub in the form of a tersely worded note and an indirect order to leave. I doubted I would see him again.
A desire to sever our friendship did not negate the oath I had sworn and intended to keep for as long as I could, however. If he thought I would leave him out here alone with a murderer on our trail, he was sorely mistaken. Holmes had written that letter, not the innkeeper, though whether Holmes knew that I knew hardly mattered. Holmes had brought me out here for one last holiday before he cut ties entirely. He would use himself as bait, deal with Moriarty, and undoubtedly disappear into the mountains before I returned. Whether I assumed him dead or simply on the run made no difference when I had no way to catch up and no chance of tracking him. He could accomplish two goals with one plan.
Unless I stayed nearby. My rapid pace carried me to the canyon's mouth in the space of a few minutes, where I allowed myself a single glance back, one last chance for him to rescind his order and finish our pseudo-holiday—and his case—before he faded into the bustle of London.
A silhouette leaned against the wall not far from where we had parted, gaze on the water below. He never noticed my attention. Burdensome nuisance that I was, he had already put me out of his mind. He never saw me hurry around the corner.
And off the path. Up into the underbrush. Through the trees. Silent caution picked my way back to where I could hear the falls, then I followed the sound of the water to reach where the canyon walls began to close beneath the rapids above the cliff. Rushing water flung itself over the edge not twenty feet away from where I finally concealed myself in the underbrush to wait. And watch. If he truly used himself as bait, we would have company shortly.
First, though, he had to send company away—and prove his promise a lie. A small figure dodged out of sight as I found my place, probably on his way back to wherever he called home. The boy would take some wandering path only a local knew, to avoid both me and whomever had tracked Holmes to a death trap, and Holmes would enter this battle secure in the knowledge that he had broken his word to keep a child out of danger. Guilt would not visit him.
Nor would it approach me for drawing my weapon a moment later. A tall, thin man rounded the final bend not thirty seconds after the boy disappeared. Sunlight glistened off the curved dome of his bare head, and he moved with the easy gait of relative fitness despite the posture born of many hours hunched over a desk. Smooth movements reminded me strongly of a snake slithering in for the kill. This must be Moriarty, and he appeared surprised, though I could not begin to guess why. Several minutes' inaudible conversation sent him back down the path several yards while Holmes scribbled something in his journal.
A note, I realized a moment later. Holmes wrote a note, probably something superficially apologetic for me to find when I returned from town in a panic. Anger and sarcastic amusement warred to finally release a wry smirk. For all his indirect complaints over the years, Holmes had apparently started seeing me as the gullible foil my stories portrayed. He could not copy handwriting as well as he thought he could.
Several pages folded to a small square, which Holmes anchored with his cigarette case before leaning his Alpine-stock against a rock and following Moriarty toward the falls. They faced each other on a slightly wider patch of dirt much closer to me. Three long seconds stretched in perfect stillness, then the professor lunged.
Only for Holmes to dodge. An outstretched foot tried to trip his opponent. Holmes ducked Moriarty's fist and swung his own. Moriarty slipped away and tried to throw Holmes over the edge, but Holmes evaded the hit and sent an elbow in reply. They traded blows, each clearly trying to send the other to the rocks below. In the absence of a "lackey" to get in Holmes' way, they had apparently decided to settle this in a physical test of wills.
Unfortunately for Moriarty, Holmes' lackey did not care what—if any—terms they had set for this fight. Neither could expect unknown assistance to honor a duel's terms, and I carefully lined up on Moriarty's middle.
My first bullet still zinged away into the abyss.
I resisted the urge to curse and aimed again. The roar of the falls plus their intense focus would hide my weapon's report for a few shots, but revolvers were not made to shoot more than a hundred and fifty feet or so. While the steep downward angle helped somewhat in keeping my bullet's velocity, it did nothing to help me aim at a moving target while also avoid hitting my fri—avoid hitting Holmes. The second bullet hit a rock where Moriarty's boot had been a moment before. I aimed a third time.
Only for Moriarty to stumble. The rock had shattered, sending fragments in every direction and apparently hitting the professor, if not Holmes as well. The professor staggered, then tripped. His reflexive reach found only air when Holmes stepped out of range, and a refusal to beg quickly became the long, protracted scream of impending death. I did not hear him reach the bottom.
Nor did I want to. Substantial relief counted the deep inhales fighting to catch the breath stolen by the altercation. Cast aside or not, I would at least go knowing Holmes was perfectly fine and able to return to the cases he so enjoyed.
"Jim!"
Unless Moriarty had sent a lackey away as well. Holmes abruptly straightened, then he lunged for a more uneven portion of cliff. Scrambling against rock scaled to a ledge far faster than I would have expected him capable of accomplishing after such a fight, and he disappeared just before a much older man crashed through the underbrush across the falls from me.
"Jim!"
Only the roaring spray answered him, of course. He called once more— to no effect—before a moment's rummaging pulled a telescope from the bag slung over his shoulders. That small scope scanned the path and the rocks below as repeated screams dropped more and more grief onto the man's shoulders. He stood nearly hunchbacked before the metal finally lowered.
Though he did not leave. Sorrow magnified the joint ache of increasing age as he stiffly knelt, then pulled pieces from both his coat and his bag to slowly form a strange rifle—probably the air-gun Holmes had mentioned in London so many days ago. The newcomer's prompt decision to turn his weapon on the path and the rocks above—including where Holmes now hid—only confirmed that deduction. This man not only knew Moriarty, but he also clearly cared enough to want revenge on Moriarty's killer. I refused to chance his better vantage point spotting Holmes. A third shot echoed beneath the falls and made another body join Moriarty's in the abyss. Holmes would probably gripe about the loss of such a unique weapon.
Not that I would regret my actions. A moment quickly replaced the spent cartridges with fresh bullets, but I never moved from my post. If Holmes had neglected to mention anyone else escaping the Yard's raids, my position above and next to the falls would spy them well before they approached far enough to attack my—to attack Holmes. Who else did he lure here?
No one, apparently. I had barely resumed my aim when a miniature rockslide revealed Holmes' hiding place, and Holmes himself dove out a moment later. Hasty descent nearly took the fast route to the path, but he did not hurry down the canyon as I had more than half expected. A wide stance in the middle of the path ensured his balance as he sought the one that had derailed his denouement.
Whether grateful for the assistance or irritated at the interference I did not know, nor did I particularly care. I lingered only long enough to confirm him unhurt before pushing away from the edge. Meiringen would be safe enough until Mary wired me enough money to catch the next London-bound train.
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