Congenial Conclusion

Congenial Conclusion

         He smiled. 
         Smiled reassurance and regard to the concerned anxiety in his friend’s hazel eyes.
         “You must of course return, Watson.  But there is no need to postpone the journey—this lad can guide me over the mountain to Rosenlau.  You can follow and meet me there when you are able.”
         Relief washed his friend’s countenance like the Alpine springs cleansed the harsh granite walls behind him.
         “Yes, yes of course.  I will meet you at Rosenlau by supper tonight, or if I am unable to make the trip before dark, I will wire you there.”
         “A sound plan.”
         Suddenly his friend’s features pleaded with him once again.
         “You will be careful, Holmes.”
         There was no question in the hazel eyes.
         He found himself looking down at his friend’s warm hand, pressed tightly against his own.          
         “Certainly, Watson.”
         The pressure on his hand increased slightly, then disappeared completely.
         “I plan to see you tonight, then.”
         “I shall be expecting you.”  He looked once more into those affectionate eyes that could not lie.
         “Take care, my friend.”
         Watson nodded, then with typically deliberate movements gathered his stick and began to stride with purpose down the mountain path towards the village.  He was limping slightly, favoring his left leg, although he appeared not to notice any discomfort.  No doubt it is second nature to you now to protect your injuries, my friend.  That familiar yet unsettling pang of guilt kneaded at his heart as he watched his friend forced to compensate for pain that he had himself, at least in part, caused.  He allowed the feeling, for a few moments choosing to savor it rather than bury it away.  He wanted to watch his friend, to observe his every movement, and remember for as long as he was able. 
         Finally the towering peaks hid Watson’s retreating form, and he realized belatedly that he had been holding his breath.  Quickly he took in a lungful of fragrant atmosphere, which at once startled him with its cool moisture and cleared his blurring vision.  He turned to look for the youth who had brought his friend the message, but could not see him.  Rather, a distinct pair of footprints marking the young man’s retreat were all too clear.  He was not surprised.
         For the moment, at least, he was alone.  Alone with the fierce beauty of the waterfall, the roaring of its music, the sparkling of the veil that hid its core of raw grandeur from view. 
         He looked until he could look no more.  Then, with eyes closed, head resting back against the moist rock, he felt its naked power.  He began to concentrate, to focus on each component part of the whole.  It was an exercise, a game that he had played since childhood.  The process had shown him the world about him, taught him how to move in it, to perceive and observe it.  Even now, he was aware of all around him—the squirrel that rustled the leaves about three yards away, the bird that sang less than twenty feet above him, the whistling of the breeze that carried cooling mist to bathe his face even as the sun emerged from behind the clouds to dry it.  He entered into his surroundings unreservedly, savoring the order, the symmetry, the peace of knowing one’s place and abiding in it.
         The moment passed.  In its place came overwhelming weariness.  It suddenly occurred to him that he had not slept for more than 5 hours at a time in—how long?  His momentary inability to remember shook him, and he inwardly chastised himself.  It had been 79 days—79 days since he had finally lain hold of the slenderest of evidential threads and carefully, oh so carefully probed along its length.  The flood of memories rushed over him; he resisted.  No need to waste this time in contemplating the past.  He knew now that there would be no 80th day, and he must guard his strength for what would surely come.
         He opened his eyes, knowing what he would see.
         “Good afternoon, Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”
         “Good afternoon, Professor James Moriarty.”