Final Problem – AU

Warnings and disclaimer – this is based on a what if Conan Doyle's characters (obviously not mine) had reacted in a slightly different way to the upcoming destruction of the Moriarty gang. Mostly told from Holmes point of view, this could be considered to be very very very very out of character for him and Watson both (but still not slash). It also doesn't follow cannon at all.

There are probably other people who have had the same idea and done it better – this is my take on the theme.

**Cringe** No Scotsmen were hurt in the making of this fic – but I do murder their accent **Double Cringe**

Holmes – Woes

The fire at Baker Street never had a real chance to get hold – at the most my rooms suffered smoke and water damage. Given a choice over smoke and water damage or the warning that saved the rooms, I would have preferred the entire 200 block of Baker Street razed to the ground. The empty shell of a man that sat beside me on the continental train, gutted as thoroughly as the modest house and practice in Kensington, had paid dearly for my warning.

He was sleeping now, his grip on my arm no less tight for it, his grip on the revolver hidden in his travelling coat just as tense. It was one of his final remaining possessions from before his marriage – for some reason he had forgotten it at Baker Street the week previously and I had yet to return it to his care. His only reminder from his marital home was the familiar black bag, worn with years of use and marked with the occasional spillage from the medicines he handled daily sat on the seat opposite, still bearing some of the sheen that his dearly beloved had polished into it. He had not been there when the fire had first broken out – I had arrived to find him being restrained by four grim faced constables, even as the fire engine battled to put the blaze out and save the neighbouring properties – his bag was the only thing that had survived.

I had taken him to Baker Street once his neighbour Anstruther had sedated him; it was my vigil over his unconsciously weeping form that saved the house. I could not in good conscience abandon the man to Moriarty now. I had planned to send Mrs Watson to safety and take him with me anyway – now we had merely departed twelve hours earlier than I had originally planned. Everything was in place with the Yard – Patterson knew what to do as well as I did; the man had lost his family to Moriarty and would ensure that nothing was left to chance. Revenge was such an excellent motivator. I would have preferred Lestrade at the helm, but the man had a young family and I could not bear to risk them; this was dear Watson's gentling influence at work.

We had taken the boat to France and then moved on rapidly. Watson only slept when we were in transit and did not seem to care where we went or what we saw, his once warm eyes on the constant lookout for foe. He had permitted me to outfit him with a few changes of clothes and whilst we presented every appearance of two gentlemen on a whimsical tour of Europe nothing could have been further from the truth.

He did not blame me – he had made that perfectly clear from the moment he realised that I had sensed the danger earlier than he had and attempted to shield him from it – but he did hold me accountable. It was her name he sobbed at night, her face he unconsciously sought in every woman we passed. His grief was hollowing him out in the cruellest way and there was nothing I could do to ease it save grant him my immediate presence and obedience. He would not allow me to take the slightest risk, the one time I had argued the point had very nearly undone his fragile composure irrevocably. He would stir if I so much as moved out of arms length during the rare occasions he could sleep, reaching for me even as he woke. He could not sleep without gripping my sleeve or wrist – when holding the latter his fingers sought my pulse automatically. This pitiable state in a once proud man had been wrought by my mistakes: the knowledge burned within every fibre of my being.

There was nothing I could do to ease his pain. That was the hardest thing to bear of all. I could stand the loss of Mrs Watson – she who had become, if not a friend, then someone whose company was not entirely unwelcome – I could stand the loss of Baker Street, though the damage was not severe. I could even, if I must, stand the loss of Watson's friendship – after all it was I that had failed to shield him from the danger, I who had failed to inform him to be on his guard, thus contributing to the magnitude of his loss. But to see him in pain, to watch his very soul slowly dwindle and die behind those once warm hazel eyes a little more each day, was a torture that I had not previously contemplated. I would have given anything to ease his grief if only for an instant, but there was nothing I could do.

Tomorrow, or rather this morning, Patterson would send word to me that the business was resolved and I would take Watson home. Perhaps Mrs Hudson would have better luck comforting him than I. Certainly the knowledge that Moriarty would threaten no more families would help. Perhaps with time and rigorous, unstinting support he would recover from what appeared to be a mortal blow to his very fine spirit. Certainly I would help him in any way that he would allow. Perhaps a retirement from our work for a short period would help – there was a small cottage I had inherited in Sussex that was close to the coast. Surely Watson would be able to find some peace there? Mrs Hudson could probably be persuaded to relocate with us; she had always had the better touch at managing Watson on the rare occasions he was truly ill and in need of care.

Thus it was a double blow when we received the telegram that denoted all but two of the gang's arrest. Moriarty and Moran were loose and no doubt headed my way. For the first time in a week I saw signs of life in Watson's spirit when he informed me that he would not be returning to England and the funeral arrangements; instead he would accompany me as I travelled further across Europe in an effort to gain some time so that Moriarty could be properly dealt with. I had no doubt that had I managed to somehow give him the slip and continue on without him he would hunt me down and murder me himself, and so our wretched journey continued. Truthfully, I was glad of his presence. Selfish though the thought was, I truly did not relish being hunted alone across Europe and we had always been stronger together.

Until of course we went to the Reichenbach Falls. Once again I had to choose between his life and his informed decision to risk the danger for himself. With the death of his beloved I had no doubt that he would choose the danger: more, I expected that he would be most careless with his own life to preserve mine. I could not bear the thought that he would choose to take his own life in such a manner – for that was precisely what Watson would do – and so I sent him away to answer the false call for help. I would not see my dearest friend martyr himself to preserve the man who had failed to protect the only family he had.

I had been forgiven for the cruellest of deceptions once; I knew I would not be forgiven again. Nevertheless I could not resist that final plea for his understanding as I tucked my final, wretchedly short, note into my silver cigarette case, asking him to understand my actions one more time.

I did not expect to survive.

Nor did I expect Moran to have brought the air gun.

The man hunted me from the top of the Falls across the mountains for two days: on the third he inexplicably lost my trail as I transversed a valley, avoiding the rough shepherd's hut that nestled in a crease of land. I spent the night lying in a crack on the ridge, listening in horror as Moran, apparently completely insane, murdered the shepherd and his wife, watching as the small form of the hapless couples child ran from the scene towards the nearest town – at least three days on foot for someone so small. The child hid on the ridge opposite mine and it was all I could do to leave him to his own devices as I ensured that the now calmer Moran left the scene of his brutal crime, striking out for civilisation in the opposite direction.

With Moran on the loose and capable of the atrocities he had committed in the hut below – the shepherd entrails had been used to decorate the exterior of the hut in a fashion that was frankly disturbing – I resolved to remain on the run. The Professor had hinted at the Falls that he had a network in place overseas – that would need to be investigated and thwarted if we were to have any peace at all, especially if Moran had a mind to take his former leaders position. I would have lain odds on that Moran would now attempt to recreate Moriarty's empire for his own use – that was not something I could stand by and watch happen. Mycroft would know when the time was right for my return – he would send me needed funds and watch over Watson for me until I could return.

Or at least, that was what I prayed for as I resumed my weary travels, the smoke of a distant blaze hanging over the ill fated valley.

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