Work Text:
The Final Wish
In a moment of weakness he had wished for it, to see his friend once more.
Watson represented all that was good in the world and all that was at stake. The vile threats, which had passed the lips of this, the most evil of men, were most certainly not empty ones.
Irene had taught him that.
The stakes in the game had, from the start, been far too high, and Sherlock Holmes was no longer willing to play.
It must end. It must end now.
The verbal sparing had certainly been a source of interest, but in truth it was a mere distraction from the task at hand. A conclusion he now realised was inevitable. His injury had left him drained. He was exhausted. Physically he could no longer match his opponent.
He did however have one last card to play.
When the moment came, a brief lapse in concentration on the part of his overly confident adversary, he seized his chance. In a swift and controlled movement, he pulled the Professor towards him. He planted his feet firmly, twisting sharply and deliberately towards the thundering waters.
As they toppled backwards he took pleasure in the look of surprise upon the face of his foe. He had caught him, the biggest and most dangerous of all fish. He was now within his net. The world would most certainly be a brighter one without the shadows he had cast. With satisfaction Holmes tightened his vice like grip. He would happily pay the price. The momentum pulled them towards the abyss, and despite a final futile struggle their progress could not be stopped. Not now. Not even if he wanted it to.
Holmes could not help but smile to himself. It was over. Relief coursed through him as he willingly embraced the inevitable. For the first time in months he relaxed his mind and with it ceased all conscious thought.
It was then that he made the wish, and to his surprise the wish was granted.
The door burst open and Watson tentatively stepped forward. Watson. His Watson.
One second. Just one second was all he was granted and all that he required. And that was all he needed to read the emotions that swept across his friends face.
Surprise. Horror. Despair. Disbelief. Each one in sequence. The dear man truly was an open book. Relief became tinged with regret. Watson did not deserve to witness this.
I am sorry old friend. I am truly sorry.
He selfishly soaked in that precious moment. That one second. The feeling it blessed him with swelled inside his chest. Then he closed his eyes, and the world turned upside down, and they were falling.
A roar of anger and terror bellowed from the lungs of his adversary, as fearsome and mighty as the rumbling waters below. He paid it not heed. He kept his eyes closed, protecting the vision of his friend, who had stood tall and strong. The image had seared upon his retina, and because of it, he was not afraid.
As they hurtled towards foaming waters and jagged black rocks, he released his companions flailing form into the billowing clouds of white spray. It was done. It was over.
Calmly he reached into his breast pocket and laced his fingers around the small metal device he had acquired from Mycroft. Curling himself inwards, he took a deep breath and then, offering himself to the gods of fate, he tried his luck one last time.
-~oooooOooooo~-
It appeared that luck was on his side. Fate. Luck. Did it really matter? All that mattered was it directed his fall clear of the rocks flanking that fearful chasm and towards the angry waters at its core.
Curled into a ball he hit them like a stone.
Agonising pain tore through him. White light exploded behind his eyes as his shoulder screamed, before the icy waters kindly numbed all physical sensation.
Downwards he was drawn into the dark abyss, further from the real world and further from his friend. His heart began to race, his body thrown over and over by the swirling currents. Within seconds he could not tell up from down, or indeed where the fearsome waters ended and his fragile form began.
Keep calm Sherlock.
They thundered down relentlessly, an endless torrent swollen by the melting glacier. It pushed heavily upon him, freezing his bones and squeezing all air from his lungs. Cold hard water invaded his ears and nose and ripped at his clothing like a demonic thief.
Keep calm.
To protect himself and the device he kept his arms tucked tightly to his chest. If he moved too soon it would be snatched by the storm that raged about him, or his limbs smashed to pieces by the rocks.
He could not risk it. He must be patient. He must wait it out.
So ignoring the increasing tightness in his chest he held his breath and he waited.
Calm.
He stole his mind to blank out the hell about him. It pounded in his head like a mighty drum, threatening to banish every logical thought. Seconds ran to minutes. Then, just as his lungs demanded he could wait no longer, he was granted a reprieve. The waters about him calmed, the world finally stopped spinning and everything began to slow down. He moved to bring the device to his lips.
It was only then that his numbed brain realised. His limbs were no longer his own. His body was frozen. Unresponsive. He simply did not have the strength.
And strangely enough, it no longer seemed to matter.
Bubbles tumbled gently from his lips as he was taken to where the waters were still and dark, full of slick weeds and black silt.
It was silent there. It was peaceful. It was somewhere he could rest.
His tired mind relaxed, limp arms slowly uncurled themselves and floated at his sides.
Holmes?
Watson had always looked handsome in a dinner suit.
He was stood in the doorway. He did not speak. He simply stood there watching, framed by a glowing light. His mouth was open just a fraction, cheeks slightly flushed, blue eyes reflecting the lamplight, the snow and the scene before him.
Holmes felt a warm glow inside his chest. It was good to see his friend. It was truly good to see him.
But something was wrong. Watson’s noble face was damaged, his skin too pale, and there was a look in his eyes.
Why did he look so….
Don’t you dare
For God sake Holmes don’t you dare
His body jerked.
His eyes flew open.
In a split second, together with the cold and the pain, everything came flooding back.
He remembered where he was, he remembered why and he remembered the small device still captured loosely by his fingertips. Summoning every ounce of energy he possessed, he pulled it to his lips and drew a breath.
It worked. Despite the fall, the cold and the pressure that crushed in on them from all sides. It actually worked. Oxygen swelled his starved lungs and travelled through his veins like a drug, waking every muscle and every nerve. Hungrily he filled his lungs again. Then, wasting no time and taking Watson with him, he struck out for the surface.
-~oooooOooooo~-
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 Watson was returned to London and the open the arms of his wife. He would be safe there. He would be fine.
-~oooooOooooo~-
In the centre of the lounge of 221b Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes’s fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. The unsightly yet splendidly effective urban camouflage had been hastily stripped away and lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor. Crisp white cotton now covered the angry scar that would forever mark his shoulder. Braces rested neatly on top to ensure his now baggy trousers remained aloft.
The room was exactly as he had left it. Mrs Hudson had respected Mycroft’s wishes (and financial reimbursement) likely believing the request stemmed from grief-induced sentimentality. The old familiar furniture which surrounded him, the books and files upon the shelves, piles of papers, experimental equipment, pipes and slipper, even his beloved Stradivarius propped in the corner upon its stand, all whispered softly in the afternoon light to welcome him home.
There was of course an essential element missing.
Swaying slightly he gripped the back of his chair. Three days without sleep or a decent meal were beginning to catch up on him. As events had drawn to a close the usual mania had taken hold and he had been unable to rest. More than once he had fought the urge to go to his friend so he could stand beside him for the final act, but for safety sake he knew he must wait. And so, he had not ceased in his efforts until that moment arrived.
The morning paper lay folded upon the settee, its headline emblazoned with news of the capture and arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran. Afghan war veteran, world-class sharp shooter and former right hand man to the late departed Criminal Mastermind Professor James Moriarty. The trap Holmes had laid for him had proven a resounding success. Somewhere in the offices at Scotland Yard, Lestrade now basked yet again in undeserved praise as he pondered how the devil such a lucky event had landed in his lap.
And so concluded the last act of the great detectives undercover operation. With the final threat neutralised it was time to rejoin the living.
Holmes had observed a gentle smile on Watson’s lips when he took the oxygen device from its box and held it in his fingers. As he watched the cogs turn behind those familiar blue eyes he had begun to believe there was a chance after all. When his friend left the room to interrogate his wife Holmes quickly pulled the mask from his face, rose from the chair and crossed to the desk. His eyes scanned the page…
… I shall ever regard as the best and wisest man I have ever known…
…..and he found the heaviness he carried in his chest became just a little lighter. Impulsively he reached forward and depressed a final key. ? . Now there could be no doubt.
With his invitation delivered he opened the window and made his exit, the papers fluttering in the breeze. It must be on Watson’s terms now. If he wanted him then he knew where he would be.
It was as Holmes reached for his waistcoat that he heard a hansom clatter to the kerb, its wheels scraping sharply against the cobblestones. Seconds later a key turned in the lock and his friend’s familiar footsteps crossed the hall and thundered up the stair.
His eyes flicked to the clock upon the mantle. It had been less than twenty minutes. He had not expected his wait to be so brief.
The door burst open and his friend stepped forward. His cheeks flushed, breath hitched, wide blue eyes fixed upon the ghost who stood before him.
Watson had always been easy to read. Holmes had spent many a contented evening studying those handsome features, deducing every thought which lurked behind. Now, for the very first time, he wished that he could not. Looking into those eyes he realised, beyond any doubt, that it was not the bullet or the bayonet that could cause the deepest wounds, but something else entirely.
As tear broke loose and tumbled down Watson’s face he realised his friend had been right all along. He truly was a selfish bastard.
The air drained from the room. He found he could not breathe. He had thought himself prepared for this but he was wrong. At a time when he needed words more than ever, when there was so much he needed to say, so much he needed to explain, he found himself unable to speak.
All of a sudden he felt incredibly small. He felt ashamed. Watson deserved much better than this. He deserved a thousand apologies. He deserved the truth. He deserved to know that to Sherlock Holmes he represented all that was good in the world and all that had been at stake. He wanted him to know that in the moment when he had faced death and all else had fallen away, only the wish to see his friend had remained. The wish had been granted. Watson had not arrived too late, he had arrived just in time.
His lungs would not cooperate. Try as he might he could not form the words. He had failed. He must atone for his sins. Hanging his head he awaited the blow he quite rightly deserved.
It never came.
Instead, the man upon whom he had placed the word friend stepped forward and caught him in a tight embrace. It seemed the depths of Watson’s heart were limitless. For the moment at least, no words were required.
-~oooooOooooo~-
I originally posted this on another site in four separate chapters, but decided to post it here in one hit. I hope you enjoyed it :)