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Cold splashes of water hit Sherlock’s face, as he looked up at James holding him to a gun point—so distant, as if not seeing him as a person at all, but as a game to win. All these years chasing each other, and this is how it ends? At Reichenbach Falls?
They were standing on a narrow edge clung to the cliffside, overlooking the violent white torrent crashing below. One wrong step on this slippery ground, and the person to fall wouldn’t need a coffin, because his body would never be found. Sherlock dismissed the threat of the gun and took a step forward; James seemed so different, yet so similar to a guy he used to know. All those times they enjoyed each other’s company, all those times they saved each other’s lives, and this is where they were now?
How the hell did things go so wrong?
‘I know you won’t shoot me, James.’
The last time they saw each other was a year ago, and it didn’t end well; so many things changed since their time in Oxford. Their paths had divided, turning them into enemies, but nevertheless, Sherlock still trusted James with his life, even though his senses told him—yelled at him—that he shouldn’t.
‘Would you like to take a bet?’ The click of a gun was drowned out by the sound of waterfall. There was something soulless about James now, and it almost hurt Sherlock to witness.
‘Always.’
There was a brief moment of silence, as they looked at other’s eyes, and then James laughed, spun the gun in his hand and tucked it away. There was a time when his laugh used to make Sherlock smile—it was long before it turned to cold. Now James’s laugh was sharp and ready to cut; it was bizarre to look at the features Sherlock once knew and see a completely different person. Was there anything left of the James he used to spend so much time with?
Not if one was to look to his actions.
There was no more James. Now, there was Moriarty—criminal mastermind, responsible for the death of tens, if not hundreds of people. Some of the things he did… Sherlock could still not digest it. Did James feel any remorse? Could he sleep well at night? Sherlock hoped that he couldn’t.
It would mean that there's still hope.
That there was still a way to make things go back to the way they were before everything had changed. Sherlock knew it was not possible a year ago, when James killed a man right in front of his eyes—that scene still haunted him, and he couldn’t forget how Moriarty looked at the man, falling down on his knees, blood coming out of his neck. There was nothing in his eyes. A complete emptiness. For a second, Sherlock even had thought that James was actually enjoying it, and it did not sit right with him, not just one bit.
If there had been no going back then, there was no going back now, was it?
‘So, here we are,’ said James, as he shortened the distance between them. They now stood a few steps away from each other, wind ruffling their hair. It was bone-chilling. ‘One wrong step, Sherlock, and one of us is dead. It reminds me of the way your father died.’
Oh, he had to bring it up. They never discussed it, ever, and this was the moment James decided to remind him about it? How bloody typical of him, punching below the belt, hitting where it hurts. Sherlock became so used to it, he didn’t even flinch.
‘A low blow, James.’
‘You know me. I can’t help myself when I am being cornered.’
And James was, in fact, cornered. He had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide—not even once since the start of their game did they come to this point. James always had a second plan, a cunning trick, a card up his sleeve. But now? Now it was Sherlock’s turn.
‘So, you have me, Sherlock,’ a smirk curved on James’s lips, as he took another step forward. ‘What will you do now?’
And that was the question.
All these years, tracking breadcrumbs and chasing him, Sherlock not once stopped to think: what would he do when he finally caught him?
‘You won’t take me to the police, you know I’ve got them by their necks. They work for me now,’ another small step, and there was no distance between them anymore. James was standing close to him—so close, in fact, that Sherlock could feel his breathing against his skin, and it took him back; far, far back to the times in Oxford, the first year of their friendship. To warm summer nights, and to the adrenaline pumping in their blood after just being chased by some criminals; to the dark alley where they hid, and to their first kiss. ‘I used to have you too.’
Fuck.
Sherlock could swear that the sound of his blood rushing through his veins echoed in the roar of the waterfall.
James was standing in front of him, still awakening all the senses he used to years ago. There was something about him that Sherlock always had difficulties to describe; something so alluring, it was impossible to resist. The way the wind was ruffling his hair, the way his eyes looked almost dark in this dim light, the way he knew that no matter what, he still had power over Sherlock.
He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to kiss him so much, it almost physically hurt him not to.
‘And I used to think you would never lie to me but here we are.’
‘But here we are.’
James raised his hand slowly, as if testing his limits, knowing that he had none, and gently touched Sherlock’s cheek. In freezing cold night, his touch felt like fire, and for a brief moment Sherlock allowed himself to close his eyes.
It was nice to be touched by James.
How fair was that the hand of a ruthless man felt so tender? Sherlock could swear that he was the only one whom James would never hurt.
And it was killing him.
‘You could pretend I was never here,’ James whispered in his ear and left a little kiss behind it, sending shivers down his spine. ‘You could let me go, and we would play our game a little longer.’
‘Our game always involves another people hurt.’
‘You can’t make omelette without breaking eggs, Sherlock. You should have known it by now.’
F u c k.
The temptation was so strong that Sherlock almost took a step back. He could allow them a few more months, maybe even a year. What if he didn’t catch him now, anyway? What if he just… failed?
He took a breath before looking in James’s dark eyes again He seemed so calm. So trustworthy. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
When Sherlock finally spoke, every word punched him like a blow to his chest.
‘You know I can’t.’
‘And you know I can’t allow you not to.’
A slight change in James’s voice signified a big difference. Sherlock immediately locked in.
‘Step aside, Sherlock.’
‘I can’t.’
A slight smile occurred on James’s lips, as he witnessed Sherlock’s stubbornness—yet again. He always was like this, Sherlock, too focused on ethics, not being able to see that morals brought him no good. A boredom, broken only when there was a good crime to solve. And James was never bored.
In a way, Sherlock hadn’t changed at all.
If it had been anyone else being able to get so close to him, James would have had him killed. If it had been anyone else in front of him now, he would have thrown him into the water without second guessing. But it was Sherlock.
He loved him, in a way. They saw each other. They knew each other. They were the same.
James pushed him lightly with his shoulder, about to pass by, but felt Sherlock’s strong grip on his elbow.
‘Don’t be stupid, Sherlock,’ James said, a slight threat in his voice.
‘I can't let you go.’
James shook his hand, trying to pry Sherlock away, but he didn’t let go. James started to feel a spark of annoyance building up in him, as he tried to push Sherlock away and failed. He showed against him, bumping his shoulder in Sherlock’s chest.
‘Stop it, James!’ Sherlock yelled.
But James’s frustration already took over.
He twisted, elbowing gently, attempting to break free, but Sherlock anticipated his every move. A shove turned into a brief grapple, each one straining against the other. The anger that this situation awakened in James was almost inhuman.
Suddenly, James stumbled backward, losing his balance, as his feet slipped on a wet stone.
The next few seconds would be engraved in Sherlock’s memory forever.
One moment, James released his grip.
Another, James let out a sharp grasp.
Third, Sherlock instinctively reached out to catch him, but it was too late.
The last time Sherlock saw James was as he was falling into the dark water, his hands trying to grab something in a vain attempt to save himself.
His eyes never left Sherlock’s.