Prologue

Holmes wearily perched himself under a supported, angled slab of rock. The climb was an exhausting one, and for a few moments, he was sure that Moriarty's voice had called at him from the wet abyss below. There were times when he thought that he was gone then and there, but he continuously regained his footing somehow, through all the pain striking through every muscle of his body, and blood coating his shaking, stinging hands.

However, the wear and tear upon his body didn't even strike his mind once again during his position under the rock. He was afraid to think about it, but before this day, he was uneasy at the thought of the possible outcomes. When he escaped the area, he knew that he left Sherlock Holmes behind. As of then, he was no longer a person to the rest of the world.

There was a scuttling noise below that caught his attention.

Dear God. He had forgotten, just for a moment, he forgot...

"Holmes!" cried Doctor Watson. "Holmes!"

The echoes of his anguishing calls filled Holmes' ear. In instinct, he began to shout back.

"Wa-" he choked out, before resigning back, desolately watching his friend frantically search for him.

He had found the note. He had written it genuinely, with little doubt of his demise, but in the near-end of its path, fate had altered its course. And now Watson was reading his solemn farewell.

When he lowered the note, his hand covered his tearful face, and he was shaking in despair. The heart that Sherlock Holmes was accused of never having had sunk down to his gut.

He watched Watson disperse, then return with Lestrade and a few other familiar, woeful faces. They investigated in the most inefficient and sympathetic matter his death, causing Holmes to merely smile at their usual efforts. When they had departed, two shots was fired in his direction. He didn't need time to think; one of Moriarty's cronies had witnessed their leader's end, and was set on avenging him. Holmes made haste and ran ten miles over the mountains in the darkness, and reached Florence a week later, knowing with all certainty that the world thought him dead.

Sigerson. Hum.