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The Old Campaigner 
28th-Mar-2010 02:42 pm
Oh God What the Fuck

AU Reichenbach. Sebastian Moran, old shikari and best shot in India, does not go to the falls unarmed.

(I sneaked behind the back of Winter in London to write this quickly, but the next installment of that is on its way!)

===
 
The Old Campaigner
 
Two lines of footmarks were clearly marked along the farther end of the path, both leading away from me. There were none returning.

I followed the path curved around a bulge in the rock face, shouting my friend’s name although the sight of the Alpine-stock had left me coldly certain I would never hear any answer, and find nothing but another opening onto that cold inferno of water.

But I was wrong. Something was lying further down the path. A large, dark, crooked shape.

Holmes was stretched on his back, his limbs flung askew, and I could see at a glance that one leg was badly broken. His clothes were sodden with the spray.

It was like some horrible hallucination, and as I ran to him, careless of the narrowness of the path, the dizziness that whirled through me was almost enough to pitch me over the edge. All through that terrible breathless climb from the village I had pictured him always in mid air, always falling, and it was too plain he had fallen, and yet here he was almost where I had left him. It was as if the fall had somehow delivered him back to the place from which he had plunged.

He must, somehow, have mounted the cliff beside us. But to imagine why or how he had done so was beyond me just then.

His pale eyes were open and fixed on the dim sky. They looked empty at first sight, but he was still breathing. In fact, he was humming – reedily and almost tunelessly, but not quite, the notes he wanted just recognisable though barely within the reach of his cracked voice. It was a Tchaikovsky piece. Not a sad tune, a triumphant one.

He blinked as I dropped to my knees beside him and said, sounding unnervingly ordinary, “Watson, you had better get away. He may return to make sure.”

Blood thinned with rainwater was running away from beneath his shoulder, over the lip of rock to join the falls. I glanced around and felt for my revolver. “Moriarty?”

“No,” said Holmes, and he smiled, damn him, wide and bright. “No, I got him, Watson. I won. He’s down there. Down there in the water. ” He gestured feebly towards the falls, as if I would not otherwise have understood. “At first I kept thinking I heard him screaming at me out of the pit, but it doesn’t sound like him any more. Listen!” He tilted his head towards the white column of water, a strange, expectant look as if he were indeed straining to hear some call above the roar.

I was already examining his shoulder. The fall had not caused the wound there - rather the wound had caused the fall. A bullet had ripped straight through him, shattering bone, and ... for a second I could only stare. It was the twin of my own old injury. The one that led me to him.

“Yes,” Holmes murmured, seeing my look. “I would have made a quite appalling soldier, Watson. But there are other battles, other kinds of war...”

“Of course there are,” I said, and swallowed. “Don’t move.”

“I had no intention of trying, I assure you,” he said dryly, and coughed. I looked anxiously for blood on his lips and saw none, but as I felt hastily over him for further punctures or breaks, he a gave a choking cry, and spasmed.

When he could speak he said, “I think I have broken more or less everything, Doctor, can’t we leave it at that?”

“Were you shot more than once?” I asked him. His pulse was sparse and fluttery under my fingers.

He shook his head.

“I’m going to try and stop the bleeding here,” I told him, my hand moving to his shoulder. “And then..." I swallowed down a swell of panic, "I told them at the hotel to send for the police. They can’t be more than half an hour behind me. We will carry you down.”

“Nonsense. You might as well try to carry down a sieveful of water.” Holmes looked, without much interest, at the wash of red coursing over the wet rock beside him. “I would be gone as soon as you lifted me over the first stone.”

“No. “ I stripped to my undershirt and heaped my coat and jacket over him, and began ripping up my shirt for bandaging. “I’ve seen men patched back together who were in far worse shape than you are.”

He ignored this. “Did you find my note?” he asked. “I worried about that.”

“No, Holmes. I don’t need a note now, do I? You can tell me whatever you wanted to say.”

He gave another cry when I began to bind his shoulder. I knew exactly how it felt, of course. “Just a few more seconds...” I said, fixing it as secure and tight as I could, and I tried to hum the Tchaikovsky piece from where he had left off as I worked.

His eyes wandered. “I’m glad I’m not down there in the pool,” he said. “I was ready for it, and... would have been quicker, but... the cold...and churning.” He blinked again and seemed to come back to himself a little. “And I don’t know I’d care to share a resting place with him forever, much as I respect the man’s talents. There’s a ledge up there. I almost made it.”

“Why? Why were you climbing up there?” I whispered. “Who shot you?”

“I thought I could... oh, it doesn’t matter what I thought. That I might get away. Lie low for a while. I’m sorry, Watson.”

“Why?”

“Would have sneaked off without telling you,” he said, “Seemed like the only way. But it was only ever one chance in ten, if so much. I knew Moran was still loose. He will come back... to make sure...” There was a rattle of loose stones somewhere above us. I believe it was only a chance fall – but Holmes flinched and gasped, “Please, Watson, I thought I’d made sure you would be safely away.”

I clenched my teeth. It was no time to be angry with him. But I could never quite forgive him for having let me be duped away. I can never even think very clearly about what would have happened if his plan had succeeded. If I were sitting here now, knowing nothing of Moran, believing Moriarty had carried my friend over the falls, while all the while he...

“Go on, leave me alone. Dying is really rather a private thing, you know. We have said our goodbyes already. And there is nothing you can do for me, is there?” And Holmes raised his head a little and repeated with sudden, scathing fierceness, “Is there?” I could not answer him. I was making a more systematic examination of him now, and my fingers were finding only terrible damage as they travelled over him. But he sighed, and fell relaxed again. “And I am all right as I am. Look. This place is beautiful. Watson, look at the light in the water.”

Of course I wasn’t going to look at the bloody light. “This Moran,” I said, “He is one of Moriarty’s agents, is he?”

“Oh,” Holmes said dreamily, and for a moment he might almost have been lounging on the settee, back at Baker Street; his parted lips might have been about to expel a smoke-ring towards our ceiling, but for the blue tint of those lips against the papery skin. “More than that. He is his friend. Shot me as I was trying to climb up to that ledge, he was – oh, over there. Revenge, you see.”

His pelvis was broken and he flinched again as I touched his belly. It was ominously rigid. Something within was torn, then, and slowly leaking blood. For a moment I had to look away from his face.

“Yes,” I said. “I see.”


“He’ll come back,” said Holmes again.

“Let him,” I said. “I think I should like to meet him. My dear chap, you are not yourself, or you would realise that if an enemy of yours is lurking about waiting to deliver the coup de grace, repeating the fact over and over is not the way to persuade me to leave you.”

He considered that. He made an effort. “Go and get help,” he suggested.

I smiled. “Better. But help is already coming. So you will have to resign yourself to my sitting here and chatting to you for however long we have to wait. Now, don’t doze off. Moran. Tell me everything about him.”

“Why? He is a singularly unpleasant subject.” But he couldn’t quite resist the temptation, even then, to talk of his own cleverness, and so he told me a great deal of what he had learned and how he had learned it. Even then I was struck at how similar Colonel Sebastian Moran’s history was to my own.

But Holmes’s anxiety never quite left him. His eyes nervously scanned the crags above us. “And he... he’s a crack shot, Watson. Best in India.” His voice was beginning to slur.

I had laid a hand on his head and was stroking his wet hair away from his forehead with my thumb. “He’s gone, Holmes,” I said. “Don’t worry, it’s over. He won’t come near you ever again. We’re safe now.” And I bent closer until my face was just above his and promised him, “But he won’t get away. Not forever. Not from me.”

Holmes smiled up at me, fondly, eyebrows a little raised.

“Oh, you don’t think I could,” I said. The tightness in my throat was not laughter, but it was a laugh of sorts I managed to produce. “Well, if it were Moriarty, from all you’ve told me of him, I own I might be rather out of my depth. But you have taken care of him. And against an old campaigner, who will surely be lost without his brilliant friend... well, I think I’m equal to a man like that. And if you...” and suddenly I could not believe that I was talking to him this way. I said as heartily as I could, “If you don’t want me to chase him all the way to blazes you’re going to have to be a good fellow and get better, and then you can do it yourself. Though I daresay you’ll let me run after you and write it all down.”

His smile faded. “Please be careful, Watson,” he murmured. “Whatever you do. You must be careful. There’s Mary. I never wanted to be the death of you. You... ” He shuddered hard and his eyes slid shut.

“Holmes,” I said. “Keep your eyes open. Look at me.”

Holmes’ breath was just a shallow rasping now. But his eyes did open and meet mine again, widening in a bewildered, almost childlike look. He clutched suddenly for my hand and said, “Don’t go, John.

As long as I had any hope, however faint and irrational it was, I had been afraid to move him, but I knew what the icy grip of his hand and the look in his eyes meant, and the wet soil beneath him was so cold. I lifted him into my arms and held him, curling myself around him so that he was as warm as I could make him. And I pressed my lips against his forehead, then, briefly, against his mouth.

Holmes looked up at me again with another little smile and at the same time his forehead puckered, as if he were wistful, or curious.

He was not alone. He was proud of himself. He had the victory he wanted and he had a violin concerto playing in his head. Despite his pain, I think I can even say he was happy. It has comforted me and maddened these last three years to remember that. I would never have been able to bear it – so far as I can say I have borne it – had his been a vain sacrifice. But, oh, Holmes, how dare you have been pleased with yourself. Why, with all your genius, could you not find some other way? Why didn’t you value more what drained away through my fingers on that mountainside?

*  *  *


When I came home, my wife was ... I was about to say “an angel” but that is too glib, and does not do her justice. A lighthouse, I called her once before. That is better. A clear and steady light when sky and sea are blackest. She helped me. Not just with her love and understanding and patience – though with all those things – she hunted Moran almost as tenaciously as I did myself. She held me when I wept for my friend, and she pored over newspapers and timetables and police reports for a trace of his murderer. Once – though perhaps I should not own I let her do it – we even tracked a man who knew Moran across London together, my service revolver gripped in my wife’s small hand.

Without her work I should not be as close to Moran as I am now. I hurt Holmes when I married her, I know that, though I did not understand at first how much. But I loved them both and I know that if they both had lived they must have been good friends in the end.

And both of them bled to death in my arms. Mary’s death was worse, in the end, because though Holmes had died he had fought Moriarty and won, and she fought death to bring our child into the world, and lost.

But I have my own victory to win tonight, and I am not going to leave the world without it.

***

Both Holmes and my wife believed in Heaven. I never did. Or never when they knew me - I suppose I once had a very ordinary, unconsidered, schoolboy’s faith that might as well have been no faith at all, and I left it behind in Afghanistan. I wonder if either of them – or you – knew that about me? Holmes must have, I suppose, for he knew everything else, although we never spoke of it. And while I would not have lied directly to Mary about that or anything else, it was an aspect of myself I feared would give her pain and so I rather hoped I could keep it out of her sight.

But Holmes did believe. Is that not strange? That stern, clinical, empiricist’s mind, relentlessly trained on the world’s evil -– I remember him marvelling like a little child over the goodness he could see in a moss-rose. While I – who am as sentimental and gullible at my worst as you know he was despotic and unfeeling at his – I could have said to him, Holmes, the flowers are not here for us. Nothing is here for us. We are alone and must make our way as best we can.

Have you ever read Blake? A world in a grain of sand and Heaven in a wild flower – who would associate Holmes, of all men, with lines like that? But he could see an ocean in a water drop and God in a rose...

Now, I cannot bear to think both he and Mary are extinguished. And so I do not think it. That is weakness rather than faith, I know. Unless you could consider it near-idolatrous faith in Holmes. He was far wiser than I. He saw so much. Whatever he saw in that flower... Maybe he was right.

If he was, I hope I may still be admitted, even though I cannot be sorry for the things I have done.

* * *


If Mary were here, then for her sake and for my friend's, I would not resort to this even now. But I cannot let such a chance slip again.

This is a confession, if you like. The stabbing on Battersea Bridge two months ago; the poisoning of Godfrey Byatt three weeks after that – they were my work. The two dead men may not have been up there on that clifftop with Moran, but they were confederates of his who certainly helped him afterwards, and they were murderers themselves. And by dawn tomorrow I shall have killed Sebastian Moran or he will have killed me.

If you had listened to me, if you had been faster, we would have had him a year and a half ago, and the hangman would have finished the work for me. This time I must be certain. I know that in law I am not an executioner but a murderer, and that I am about to attempt murder in cold blood again. But I cannot feel it. I was sent to kill terrified boys in Afghanistan, when I was a terrified boy myself. There are other battles and other kinds of war, and I cannot help but feel this is a worthier campaign.

Lestrade, I have been very angry with you for a long time, but I have been remembering better days at Baker Street – I can think of it tonight, quite without the usual pain. And I thought of you, huffing over some maniac escapade of Holmes’s and I realised I was smiling. I find I want your forgiveness, my friend, for what I have come to, so it is only fair to offer you mine. You were kind to me after both their deaths. Mr Mycroft Holmes was kind, too, and he suffers enough himself. Would you send him my regards? Tell him I am sorry I was unable, in the end, to take his advice, or accept his invitations.

If I survive, you need not look for me in London again. I admit I had an idea I might shoot myself but perhaps after all I will not. Perhaps, by tomorrow, I will have shed enough blood. I am not very clear what I shall do, and you are the last person to whom I ought to speculate about it. Though I rather think you won’t come after me, but perhaps I am wrong there.

If nightfall tomorrow finds me alive, I will leave England. I will leave my name behind with everything else. I will come to some place in foreign woods or mountains, where the quiet is as full as the roar of the falls at Reichenbach. And I will begin to walk.
Comments 
13th-Apr-2010 10:02 pm (UTC)
Owwwwww, this made me cry.

Wonderful! *sniffles*
14th-Apr-2010 10:47 pm (UTC)
Aww, I'm sorry! Although I'm not. But I am. But then, I'm not... oh dear! Sometimes you just have to express your fondness for people by wrecking their lives or killing them painfully.

(Fictional people).

In any case, thank you!
6th-Jul-2010 11:13 pm (UTC)
"Sometimes you just have to express your fondness for people by wrecking their lives or killing them painfully."
And that, children, is what we call "Fan Fiction." I don't think I've ever heard a better definition! May I turn it into an icon, please, Waid?
7th-Jul-2010 09:28 pm (UTC)
Hee! Of course!

Actually, I think it works as a definition of fiction in general. The way I tend to write it, anyway...
7th-Jul-2010 10:46 pm (UTC)
Well, all the best fiction involves taking a character you care about and in some way putting them through the wringer, I guess.
Icon coming up!
16th-Apr-2010 01:08 am (UTC)
Oh, this is so insanely beautiful. Sad, but beautiful. I think these were my favourite lines:

He was not alone. He was proud of himself. He had the victory he wanted and he had a violin concerto playing in his head. Despite his pain, I think I can even say he was happy.

<333
16th-Apr-2010 05:57 pm (UTC)
Thank you! I think that was my favourite line in this too, so, you make me happy.
16th-Apr-2010 01:47 pm (UTC)
Beautiful. <3
I read this over on the kinkmeme, as well as your wonderful Winter in London fill. And found this on your journal. Felt like I needed to comment. :) It is beautiful, I love your Watson's voice. Eeek, heartrending.
16th-Apr-2010 06:17 pm (UTC)
Thank you very much for commenting, then! That was lovely to read.
7th-May-2010 12:22 am (UTC)
Gosh, you're very good. I love the whole paragraph about faith; it's very very perceptive and interesting characterisation and it's beautifully written. I love the idea of Mary helping Watson to hunt down Moran, too.
"I think I have broken more or less everything, Doctor, can't we leave it at that?" made me laugh unexpectedly in the middle of all that angst and tragedy. I could absolutely *hear* Holmes saying it.
7th-May-2010 11:56 pm (UTC)
Thank you so much! I'm pleased you like the passage about faith - I actually took it out at one point all God, self, tone it down with the angst, but in the end it just wouldn't stay out. And Mary - Holmes actually thought she was a sad loss to the detectiving business, after all, and Watson specifically says that "folks in grief" always turned to her for help, which suggests to me she must have been really good at helping, and would adapt to what the person grieving actually needed. So I'm glad you liked that part too.
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9th-Jul-2010 03:06 am (UTC)
This is stunning, and marvelous. I love Watson in this, as relentless as he must be. I love it that Mary helps him, understands him, when he's seeking that revenge. And I love it that he's telling Lestrade all about it.

Thank you.
12th-Aug-2010 05:24 am (UTC)
I clicked through expecting some h/c, and instead got exquisitely crafted tragedy. Sucker punched right in the grief bone, but it's so beautiful I don't even care.

And what's this? A Mary actually allowed to do stuff and be proactive? Is that even allowed?

I second the love for the discussion of faith... it's not how I instinctively perceive Holmes's and Watson's beliefs, but you frame it in a way that makes so much sense. Loved it.

For some reason, this is the line that stays with me the most: I was sent to kill terrified boys in Afghanistan, when I was a terrified boy myself. There are other battles and other kinds of war, and I cannot help but feel this is a worthier campaign.

This says so much about how Watson's military past affects how he perceives himself and his work with Holmes. I just. Love this.
7th-Sep-2010 11:03 am (UTC)
Sorry to be replying to this almost a month late, I'm very scatty about the older stories even though I love getting comments on them.

Thank you very much for this. I think I was feeling rather bleak when I wrote it and it was quite cathartic. I'm glad the tragedy didn't upset you in a bad way -- I felt that rewriting what Doyle had, after all, intended to be Holmes' actual death was a bit of a special case, in terms of warnings.

I always feel awful about Mary. She's an endearing, cool character, and she and Watson are really very sweet together ... yet, there's a detective-shaped problem here, and I can't even be sorry that the poor woman dies! So when I do write her I do my best to compensate her somehow.

Again, thank you.
16th-Jan-2011 05:01 pm (UTC)
Anonymous
I am just a passer-by, but I just can't leave here after reading this without leaving my greatest apperciation about this writing. This is the one of all writings about the Falls I have read that gives me the strongest urge to shed tears. Every lines and words are placed and structured that makes me almost read twice for every sentence, and leaves my emotion welling inside my heart. I can truly hear this sincere and heartbreaking voice from Watson.
25th-Jan-2011 07:46 pm (UTC)
Oh, thank you so much, Anon -- and you're not "just" anything!
22nd-Jun-2011 01:17 pm (UTC) - Just a short note
Hi there,
I just "fell" over your stories with a little help from the translations into German on fanfiktion.de. I wondered, I was curious and continued to read your originals. What can I say. I think you are just absolutly talented. Your style really is unique, powerful and metaphoric in the best of ways. I loved every single line of every story I read so far. Please - keep up this marvelous work. Don't stop opening this "story - doors" for me to slip in and forget all around me. Thanks for sharing your writing with the world;)
Best wishes
Joanne
26th-Sep-2012 09:13 pm (UTC)
Wow, that was just heart-wrenching. Poor Holmes. Poor Watson. Poor Mary. *sob*
26th-May-2013 09:36 pm (UTC)
I read this story last night. Actually, let me preface this comment with one of those asides that we pretentious people make who think we're too good for fanfiction. It’s been months since I’ve clicked any links from cox_and_co. But your latest “Masked Ball” post caught my attention, because the summary was unusually well-written, and that seemed like a good sign. I read the first chapter and was, frankly, amazed. One just doesn’t see fanfiction like that. I wish one did. I even have to admit that I was a little disappointed to find in your profile that you’re a professional writer, because it dashed my hopes that maybe there really were good fanfiction authors out there, hiding where I couldn’t find them. Of course there are good professional writers—at least I hope so. But anyway, I’m very, very glad to see someone with your talent and patience for research writing in this fandom.

I’m not much one for reading stories a chapter at a time, though, so I decided to hold off on the rest of “Masked Ball” and have a look at your other work. I wound up reading all the single-chapter pieces linked from your top journal entry (the link for "Gaslight" is broken, by the way), and in fairness I ought to be commenting on them each individually, with thoughtful criticism, but I hope you won’t mind just a general uncritical exclamation of praise. You have the characters down to a T. Your Holmes is exquisitely Holmes, methodical, self-possessed, precise, irritable, angular and sprawling, with his dark and his light moods and his occasional, inexplicable mirth. And your Watson is also right on the mark, intelligent, just verging on philosophical, a man of powerful feeling and stability, affectionate in that old British way, earnest, candid, a little naïve, a little too easily wounded. I think the wonderful thing about good fanfiction in the ACD fandom is that all it really needs to do is follow in Doyle’s footsteps, showing us all the things he already showed us about his characters, but making central what Doyle left at the periphery. And that is, I think, just what your stories do.

“The Old Campaigner” stood out in particular, which is why I’m commenting here. I was taken entirely by surprise by the—brutality of it, I guess is what I want to say. Granted, the cliché is there: our hero dies in the arms of his beloved. But it’s not a bit pretty, with Holmes mangled and Watson almost afraid to touch him. I think the most awful thing is Holmes’ relentless and mostly unaffected cheerfulness. That, too, is so very Doyle—always Watson in a state of panic and Holmes implacably delighting in the adventure. Even the adventure of death appears to be one that holds some academic interest for him, and meanwhile Watson is Watson, fully and feelingly a part of the world.

It’s been a long time since I’ve read a story (fan fiction or otherwise) that had quite the affect that I find this one has. I read it last night, as I said, and found myself still thinking about it this morning, wanting to compare it to something, maybe Gatsby or a tragedy like Oedipus or Lear. But you know—it’s something else still. Pity and fear, yes, for Oedipus, for Lear; we feel an affection for them as human beings. As human beings. But Sherlock Holmes is quite another matter; the feeling becomes personal. Of course most of that depends on Doyle and what he accomplished with the original canon, where Holmes is unraveling mysteries while we—and Watson—are unraveling Holmes, catching at every line, devouring the man. There's something unique in the admiration and attraction and love we feel for Holmes, Doyle’s Holmes, and the magic and the horror of this piece is that it’s precisely Doyle’s Holmes who is lying mangled at Reichenbach, wryly humorous, whistling Tchaikovsky, waxing eloquent on the subject of his own cleverness, and finally gripping Watson’s hand. To kill Doyle’s Holmes, and to manage it with the right blend of poignancy and detachment, takes some doing. It wasn’t something I was expecting.

All of which is a tl;dr way of saying, you really made this piece work. I’m very much looking forward to reading whatever else you post.
27th-May-2013 08:08 pm (UTC)
Wow, what an amazing comment. Thank you so much.

You prompted me to read this fic again myself, which I haven't in a long time. I am still proud of it, yet also a little horrified by it. I was certainly in a... mood I am glad not to be in any more...! when I wrote it. I would never kill either of them now. (I might make them wish I had...) but you express perfectly what I was hoping for with it; thanks so much for that and your compliments on my work in general.

I hope you enjoy Masked Ball when I've finsihed posting it; it should be done by Saturday.
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