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"A winning strategy sometimes necessitates sacrifice."
Sherlock Holmes had known for some time that it would come to this. The only hand he had left to play was to determine when and where it would happen. He had sealed his own fate the moment he stepped out onto the balcony. His carefully-crafted note had brought Moriarty onto the stage of what Holmes would ensure to be the final act of their deadly game.
As the cool night air stung his cheeks, the rushing water of the falls drowned out the pounding of the thrumming in his ears. His mind raced at its usual frenzied pace, until he closed his eyes briefly and focused on what he wanted to be the last thing to pass through his mind, here at the end.
"Who taught you how to dance?" The sparkle in his companion’s blue eyes, the smile that formed on his moustachioed mouth as a memory surfaced of a time and place far removed from Reichenbach Falls and the eve of civilization's collapse. Of an evening of too much brandy when the two men had become dancing shadows in the firelight. A laugh and a private smile were the souvenirs Holmes wanted to take with him into death.
For that was how this would end. Moriarty would be stopped or Holmes would die trying. Partially incapacitated physically and at a stalemate intellectually, the result would come down to the most basic human qualities: pride. And love. He refocused on the scene in front of him, on the confidence painted on the vengeful face of his foe. Holmes could deduce his plans, see his own demise in the man’s dark eyes. The Napoleon of crime, purveyor of evil, was familiar with sacrifice. Just not his own. And that was his weakness, one that Holmes had perceived during their very first meeting. Blinded by pride, Moriarty could see no other outcome but his own victory. And fuelled by love, Holmes would do anything, including sacrificing himself in order to safeguard his friend.
The world was at stake, yes, but Holmes’ world was the game, and for the last ten years, it had been played in the company of the best and most reliable man he had ever known. With the threat of the end of humanity collapsing at his feet, what better final play could he make but a sacrifice that would right the world and protect the centre of his. For solar system be damned, Watson was the fixed point Holmes’ unstable star orbited around. He would protect it at any cost.
As his clock ticked down its final seconds, the scenarios of his demise playing out in his machine-like mind, another gear kicked into place and the memory of Watson's stag night came to his attention. A conversation, half-spoken in jest about dying alone. It was fitting that here in a singular moment of selflessness, his last act should go unnoticed. A silent, invisible end. But not alone. Not really. Evil would die with him and the world would be saved from the devastation of a world war. Watson would be safe from the maniacal schemes of Professor Moriarty, and he would live a good and fruitful life with his vibrant new bride.
If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.
In one swift movement, Holmes blew the ash of his pipe into the face of his adversary, stunning him for just enough time to wrap his arms around the man and position his feet upon the nearby table for enough leverage to see them both over the edge.
Before he had the chance to relish the look of confusion on Moriarty's face, the door in front of him opened, and Watson rushed out into the frozen night.
Holmes looked at his friend and smiled. He would not die alone after all. He closed his eyes and jumped.
As he plummeted downward, Watson's face imprinted in his mind, Holmes reached into his pocket to return his pipe to its proper place for the last time, and he felt it. Hope. Death would have to wait.