"But fate ordains that even the dearest of friends must part." ~Edward Young
Watson emerged from putting Mary down for a nap, only to find Holmes had vanished. "Holmes?"
"In here," his friend's voice came from behind the closet door. With a sigh, Watson crossed the room and was about to open the door when he heard, "Don't."
He was afraid to ask, but did so against his better judgement. "Why ever not?"
"I have nearly cured myself of my affliction. Five minutes more and I shall emerge a changed man."
Watson rolled his eyes. "One can only hope," he muttered under his breath as he went to sit down in his chair and wait, amusing himself with a new medical journal Mrs. Hudson had been kind enough to purchase for him.
Five minutes later exactly, the door opened and out came Holmes. He brushed off his pants and straightened his shirt, as though he actually cared about his appearance, and sat down in the chair next to Watson's. "So," Watson said without even looking up from his book, "are you going to tell me now?"
Holmes sniffed and took a sip of tea that was now cold. "I haven't the slightest clue what you are referring to, Watson."
"You know exactly what I'm referring to," Watson said, closing journal to give Holmes his full attention. "I don't mean to rush you, but I think it would be good for the both of us to have it out."
Holmes studied him for a moment. "You really want to know?"
"Yes. For my own piece of mind and, I believe, yours."
"Alright," Holmes agreed with a heavy sigh. "Where would you like me to start this tale?"
"At the beginning would be nice."
"Well, it all started with a package that Irene was told to deliver..."
Watson glared. "Holmes."
"Very well, then. I suppose perhaps the first thing I should tell you, is that I did not intend to survive the fall."
"What?" Watson choked, leaning forward in his chair. Holmes always had a plan. There was never anything that he did not account for. "You intended to die? It was just by some stroke of luck that you managed to survive?"
"I thought you wanted to hear this story, Watson, or is it your intention to rudely interrupt me the entire way through?"
Watson huffed but pursed his lips together and forced himself to lean back in his chair once again.
"Thank you. Now, where was I? Oh yes, I had not counted on living long once Moriarty and I began our brawl. I knew that one of us was going to die that night, and I had intended on it being him. But he took advantage of my injured shoulder and got the upper hand. I considered just letting him kill me. It would be easy; a sweet release from the terrors of this world but..." he paused his tale and swallowed thickly, dropping his head before he said softly, "then you came out onto the balcony."
Watson tensed at the memory of the look of grief that had been on Holmes' face that night. He tried not to think of it, but he could still see it so clearly in his mind's eye. He feared he always would.
"When you looked at me, I knew I could not let Moriarty survive. I could not leave him alive to terrorize the world... to then come after you with the intent to kill... no. I could not allow it. I made the decision to jump in that split second it took for us to lock eyes, Watson. I saw the confusion on your face and the horror as I fell to the death that most assuredly awaited me. After the initial shock though, I found myself able to enjoy the fall... quite exhilarating, really..."
"Holmes," Watson prodded to keep his friend focused.
"Right," the detective shook himself and continued on with his tale. "Yes, well, just before I plunged into the freezing water, I fortunately remembered the breathing device I had, uh... borrowed from Mycroft. It was because of this that I did not drown due to the shock caused when exposed to such freezing temperatures. Though I assume a skilled doctor like yourself is aware of such a phenomenon."
Watson nodded solemnly. "The body begins to gasp for air, typically leading to hyperventilation, and most cases result in the victim... drowning."
"Most cases, perhaps," Holmes said with a smirk, quite pleased he did not fall into such a category.
"The rocks, Holmes," Watson urged, his heart constricting as he remembered searching the base of the mighty waterfall for his friend's mangled body. "How did you avoid hitting the rocks?"
"Ah, that was quite simple, old boy. I simply used the momentum of the fall and my own body weight to propel myself away from those nasty little things, yet remain close enough to the base of the falls to land in water that had been quite nicely aerated, and thus avoid the unpleasantness of plunging into the still waters."
Watson raised his brow and leaned back in his chair once again, a small smile hidden beneath his mustache. "For a man who did not intend to survive, you certainly seemed to have thought this through."
"I told you I had Mycroft's oxygen device. Once I discovered that, it seemed rather foolish to simply accept death when there was a way to escape it. Heavens, Watson! Have you not been listening at all?"
Rolling his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that day, the good doctor shook his head. "My apologies. Continue."
Holmes eyed him for a moment, making absolutely certain his heroic tale would not be interrupted again. When he was satisfied with Watson's silence and convinced he had his friend's unyielding attention, he continued, "Well, Moriarty was no where to be found when I resurfaced. I assume he was not as fortunate as I and landed on the rocks that were a few feet from me, and then the frigid water was enough to finish him off. As it happened though, I discovered there was a cave behind the waterfall with a canal that leads to a river somewhere outside the city. Using Mycroft's breathing device, I was able to swim along the current through the canal, and I eventually made my way to the river. You can imagine, I'm sure, how thoroughly exhausted I was by the time I dragged my wretched body onto the shore. Shivering and quite out of breath, I made my way toward some lights in the distance where I heard people conversing and some sort of a jig playing. I approached their campfire and though my vision was fading, I was still able to detect Madame Simza's familiar face."
"Simza?" Watson echoed in disbelief, for despite all that had happened recently, he had not forgotten their traveler friend.
Holmes nodded. "I had quite literally stumbled upon her gypsy encampment. She had only just returned from the peace summit, for even in my state I noticed she was till wearing her burgundy dress, though her hair was down, and the makeup had been wiped from her face, and she..."
"Holmes." Watson rubbed a hand over his forehead, for though he wanted to know how Holmes had survived, reliving the weeks of hell he'd been through while believing his dearest friend dead was incredibly taxing.
"Of course, yes. Well, hardly able to stay upright on my own a moment more, Simza helped me to her wagon where she promptly put me to bed. I developed a raging fever..."
"I knew it," Watson softly groaned, heaving a sigh as he stood from his chair and walked over to the window. Then back to the chair. Then back to the window again. Holmes watched him with mounting curiosity, wondering what he could possibly be doing. To be completely honest, Watson didn't even know, but he was too frustrated to stay still. "I wish I could have been there," he said at last.
"I've already told you, Watson, there was nothing you could have done," Holmes tried to explain, but his reasoning fell on deaf ears.
"Damn it, Holmes, I'm a doctor!" Watson very nearly shouted, a lump forming in his throat. "You were ill... You were dying! Of what use am I if I can't even..." he sighed heavily, and when he spoke again, his voice was suddenly much softer. "I lost Mary due to my incompetence. The fact that I may have lost you as well..."
They were silent for a moment, both reflecting on the horrors that might have been, until Holmes smirked and said, "My dear Watson, there are things that even the best medical mind in all of London cannot prevent."
Watson turned to stare out the window. Yes, he knew that. As a doctor, he had lost more patients than he wished to dwell on, even when he had done everything in his power to save them. If he truly thought about that dreadful and blessed day, he knew there was nothing more he could have done. There was nothing he would have done differently. In truth, nothing he could have done differently. Some things, much as one might wish otherwise, could not be changed.
"Even still, dear boy, do you think you could rid yourself of me that easily?"
A short, harsh laugh passed through John Watson's lips. "No. No, I suppose not. So," he said, wearily sinking back down into his chair, "what happened then?"
"When a few days had passed and I'd not improved, she sent for Mycroft. I then endured the rest of my illness at his residence, and was able to recover under his and Simza's care in spite of your absence. Surprising, I know."
"But Holmes," Watson said, brow knitting together as he tried to fit the pieces together in his mind, "the letter. You delivered it, I know you did. And the note at the bottom of my manuscript... How did you manage it if you were so ill?"
"When has something such as a simple illness ever stopped me, old boy?" Holmes shrugged, lighting a match and holding it to his pipe. He then did the same for Watson and handed it to him, who accepted it gratefully. "I had to somehow let you know I was indeed alive, but I could not trust a postman to deliver the message. So, as soon as I was able to at least stand on my own, I made my way to London when Mycroft had left on business and Simza had gone to the market. Granted, they were not at all pleased when I returned the following day..."
"No, I imagine not."
Holmes leaned back in his chair and leisurely blew a stream of smoke through his lips. He looked at Watson and smiled. "I'm afraid that is the conclusion of my heroic tale, dearest Watson. However, there are still many cases to be solved and adventures to be had, so I never want to see the words 'The End' typed at the bottom of your manuscript ever again."
"Never."
With a dignified air, Holmes sniffed, "I will tell you myself when it is indeed, 'The End'."
Watson smiled fondly. "It will never truly be 'The End' of the great Sherlock Holmes."