Coup de Grâce
Any attempt at recovering the bodies was absolutely hopeless.
Coup de Grâce
He told himself it was mercy.
By the time the local authorities called off the search, the afternoon light had begun to settle blue and cold at the bottom of the valley. A pale spring sky still gleamed overhead, but the distant glaciers blushed with alpenglow. A band of damp air hung over the river like a wall. Watson picked his way over the tumbled boulders, unwilling to face the moment he no longer had a duty to perform.
At first he only saw the long, broken body dressed all in black. The clothes were sodden and clinging, the spidery limbs hinged in odd places, but the shoulders still hunched and quivered against the pain of their own shallow rise and fall. Watson nearly broke an ankle in his haste, lurching down the bank of river stones. He fell to his knees. "Holmes," he choked, and laid a hand against the upturned shoulder.
The figure turned its head.
In an instant Watson was on his feet, heart slamming against his ribs, scrambling back as though he had turned over a rock to discover a deadly serpent. Somehow his revolver was in his hand; he covered the pitiful creature on the ground as though it still posed any threat. Ragged breaths scoured his throat.
Though darkened almost to black by the water, at this distance he could see that the man's hair was actually grey. He was too round in the shoulders to be Holmes, too long in the neck. The graceful white hands of an academic were unmarked by acids or recent scuffles. He had a high forehead and papery, sunken cheeks -- not like the hollows where Holmes' skin stretched taut between the sharp prows of nose and jawline, but in the manner of an old, shallow grave. Collapsing atop some inner decay. Watson recalled Holmes' brief description, but he did not need it to tell him that this was Moriarty.
"Where is he?" The whisper shuddered past his teeth, unplanned. Nonsensical. The odds were enormously against discovering even one body. To find two still-living victims was scarcely possible, and even if it were, the man at the end of his revolver surely couldn't help him. Watson was not even certain that the fellow was lucid. But the idea that his proud friend might be dying like this, battered past repair, shivering and fading as night fell and Watson stood with his murderer-- his voice cracked. "Where's Holmes?"
Moriarty sighed and coughed, eyes fluttering shut. His mouth twitched. It might have been an involuntary motion, but to Watson it appeared, for a moment, that his lips twisted in a cruel smile.
A sob broke in his throat. Then, rage. That the finest mind and heart he had ever known should lie buried in that pitiless torrent while this man breathed at his side was cruel beyond imagining. Hardly aware of himself, Watson leveled the revolver. "Where is he?"
Moriarty gave no sign of having heard. Watson's vision blurred. His hands shook wildly.
It may indeed have been mercy. The man was beyond all help, a shattered sack of components dribbling its life away in wretched strings of blood and river foam. But mercy was not what made Watson's finger tighten on the trigger.
Coup de Grâce
He told himself it was mercy.
By the time the local authorities called off the search, the afternoon light had begun to settle blue and cold at the bottom of the valley. A pale spring sky still gleamed overhead, but the distant glaciers blushed with alpenglow. A band of damp air hung over the river like a wall. Watson picked his way over the tumbled boulders, unwilling to face the moment he no longer had a duty to perform.
At first he only saw the long, broken body dressed all in black. The clothes were sodden and clinging, the spidery limbs hinged in odd places, but the shoulders still hunched and quivered against the pain of their own shallow rise and fall. Watson nearly broke an ankle in his haste, lurching down the bank of river stones. He fell to his knees. "Holmes," he choked, and laid a hand against the upturned shoulder.
The figure turned its head.
In an instant Watson was on his feet, heart slamming against his ribs, scrambling back as though he had turned over a rock to discover a deadly serpent. Somehow his revolver was in his hand; he covered the pitiful creature on the ground as though it still posed any threat. Ragged breaths scoured his throat.
Though darkened almost to black by the water, at this distance he could see that the man's hair was actually grey. He was too round in the shoulders to be Holmes, too long in the neck. The graceful white hands of an academic were unmarked by acids or recent scuffles. He had a high forehead and papery, sunken cheeks -- not like the hollows where Holmes' skin stretched taut between the sharp prows of nose and jawline, but in the manner of an old, shallow grave. Collapsing atop some inner decay. Watson recalled Holmes' brief description, but he did not need it to tell him that this was Moriarty.
"Where is he?" The whisper shuddered past his teeth, unplanned. Nonsensical. The odds were enormously against discovering even one body. To find two still-living victims was scarcely possible, and even if it were, the man at the end of his revolver surely couldn't help him. Watson was not even certain that the fellow was lucid. But the idea that his proud friend might be dying like this, battered past repair, shivering and fading as night fell and Watson stood with his murderer-- his voice cracked. "Where's Holmes?"
Moriarty sighed and coughed, eyes fluttering shut. His mouth twitched. It might have been an involuntary motion, but to Watson it appeared, for a moment, that his lips twisted in a cruel smile.
A sob broke in his throat. Then, rage. That the finest mind and heart he had ever known should lie buried in that pitiless torrent while this man breathed at his side was cruel beyond imagining. Hardly aware of himself, Watson leveled the revolver. "Where is he?"
Moriarty gave no sign of having heard. Watson's vision blurred. His hands shook wildly.
It may indeed have been mercy. The man was beyond all help, a shattered sack of components dribbling its life away in wretched strings of blood and river foam. But mercy was not what made Watson's finger tighten on the trigger.