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I pushed open a window and leaned out, my hair was whipped into frenzy by the breeze. I felt an emptiness inside me and suddenly very alone.

I sat on the carriage floor, exhausted and starving, and eventually fell into a fitful sleep. I awoke to find Holmes’ jacket around my shoulders, back in our compartment after he had carried me the length of the train.

Watson was asleep but Holmes was alert. I lit a cigarette and looked at his face, his bright eyes staring straight ahead as his mind tried to come to terms with Moriarty’s escape.

I struggled not to think of Jude. I couldn’t allow myself such indulgence.

We spent two days in Brussels but hurriedly moved on when it became clear that Moriarty was on our trail and fled to Strasbourg.

Holmes found it difficult talking to me about my grief and I in turn felt unable to confide in him how fragile I was feeling. I needed to show him that I was strong and generally maintained an excellent pretence.

We travelled together as man and wife, always at each other’s side as we had been now for some time.

We continued to talk little of Jude but I often felt a reassuring hand slide into my own just at those moments when sadness was starting to overwhelm. Holmes was not without compassion, a physical gesture from him spoke a thousand words.

A passionate affair was slowly growing into something deeper, an infatuation becoming a bond which I could not bear to have broken. I feared losing Holmes more than I had feared anything in my life before. He was all I had.

Holmes and I sat in a Strasburg salle-a-manger for half an hour arguing about whether I should return to London but I remained determined to stay at his side regardless of the dangers and we resumed our journey that night towards Geneva.

For a week we wandered up the valley of the Rhone. Then, branching off at Leuk, we made our way over the Gemmi pass, indescribably beautiful and covered in a sparkling blanket of snow. Finally, we headed via Interlaken, to Meiringen.

I could not help but enjoy the experience, savouring the education such a journey offered. However, in the pretty Alpine villages or the deserted mountain passes, danger remained a close companion.

Holmes was fascinating company, infinitely knowledgeable. He was constantly pointing out astute observations and discussing everything from local landmarks to the merits of a Stradivarius violin or an opera by Verdi. Such things would never even occur to a more commonplace mind.

I softened a little to Watson; he seemed genuinely touched by Jude’s death and I was grateful that he understood how important it was that my friend did not die alone.

As we admired one particulary colourful sunset together, I spoke of my gratitude:

“Thank you for not letting Jude die alone. It gives me great comfort.”

I dropped my cigarette to the ground and extinguished it with my foot. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. It should have been me, not him. Everything was my fault. I should have just left him in the workhouse all those years ago. Perhaps he could have lived a nice life, would still be alive now, married to a good girl, lots of children at his knee. He was the good person. I’m the one who should be dead.”

Watson turned to me thoughtfully.

“He told me you had saved him and I think perhaps he was right. He may have died in the workhouse without you, having never known love or any other life. Instead he died as a young man knowing he had a friend who adored him and a head full of adventures.”

I was surprised by his response, exactly what I needed to hear. I swallowed hard to suppress the lump rising in my throat and blinked to clear the tears.

“Thank you again,” I whispered.

On the third day of May we reached the little village of Meiringen and took rooms at the Englischer Hof, where we were heartily welcomed by the English landlord.

On the afternoon of the fourth of May, we three set off with the intension of crossing the hills and spending the night at the hamlet of Rosenlaui. We had instructions from the landlord that on no account should we pass the Reichenbach falls without a detour to see them.

As promised, the falls were indeed spectacular but also fearful, a deafening cascade of water, swirling mists, sprays and jagged black rocks. At the bottom the waters fell into a deep churning pit, throwing up haunting, thunderous sounds which reverberated off the rocks.

We peered into the torrent below, standing on a path cut into the rock to allow the best possible view. The path ended quite abruptly and after a few minutes of gazing into the watery depths, I was quite relieved when we turned to go back.

But then a young boy came running towards us. Panting, he handed Watson a letter with the mark of our hotel upon it. Watson opened it and read out the contents.

The letter explained that an English woman had just arrived at the hotel and was gravely ill. She refused to see a Swiss physician and it was thought that the presence of an English doctor and an English lady would be of great comfort in what appeared to be her final hours.

I did not want to leave Holmes but he insisted and Watson felt the pull of professional duty. I left only on the understanding that the boy would stay with Holmes as a guide so that he would not be alone in such a fearful place. We agreed to reunite later that evening at Rosenlaui, just over the hills.

As Watson and I walked away down the path, I turned to look back at Holmes. He stood motionless as mist circled around him. An uneasy feeling crept over me. I pushed it to one side and hurried along with Watson back towards the hotel.

But the feeling persisted and after no more than five minutes I suddenly halted.

“I can’t do this Watson. I can’t leave him when there is so much danger. You go on; I’m going back.”

Watson reluctantly agreed but insisted that I take his revolver.

My walk back towards the falls became a frantic sprint knowing that I had made a grave error of judgement. My heart pounded and I willed myself forward, faster and faster, hoping beyond all hope that I would not be too late.

Finally, I reached the ledge where the path ended. A person was standing at the edge, but it was not Holmes.

Looking down into the waters was the bent form of Professor James Moriarty, my husband. His thin bird-like features and domed forehead were unmistakeable.

I stood for a moment catching my breath and looking at the physically tragic form that I had once respected so much but now hated with a rare, determined passion.

I was wet now from the spray and wiped my eyes. Only then did I notice Holmes’ alpine-stock leaning against the rock-face and next to it his silver tobacco case perched on a ledge with paper underneath it.

I knew in that one horrible moment that he was gone, it was too late. James’ head turned to face me upon hearing my cry as the mists swirled around us both.

“What have you done?” I screamed, starting to walk towards him.

“So simple really. All very polite; I even let him write a note to his friend. We fought a little. It’s all about the ground, you see? I could see the composition of it, count and analyse every stone. I knew where to stand, where it would be firm, but Holmes did not.

“My body is weak Red, but my mind with all its complexities saved me yet again. Holmes stood on crumbling ground which gave way beneath him and he went into the falls. He is dead.”

I pulled out Watson’s revolver and, without any hesitation, I shot him.

No words of hatred or disgust, no shouting or screaming, no accusing him of taking all I had ever loved. Just a calm certainty that such a thing had to be done and that I was the person with most cause to do it.

I shot him once for my lost child, once for Jude and once for Holmes. His feeble body crumpled. He threw open his arms and tumbled over the edge. Gone, consumed by the torrent, gone forever.

I felt my heart shatter, a physical pain, a manifestation deep within my very soul that made me wretch. It hurt, the most terrible all encompassing kind of hurt which threw me into a blind panic.

There seemed like nothing left, the battle was already lost. I walked to the very edge and looked down at the water rushing below, its sound enticed me. What had I to live for?

I stretched out my arms and just wanted to fall. I leaned over the edge, held my breath, bent my knees and prepared to fall, to surrender.

At that crucial moment two arms locked around my waist and pulled me back, throwing me to the ground. As I struggled to stand, wanting to lose myself in the waters, wanting to die, Watson fell on top of me squashing me into the wet earth. I screamed, kicked and pushed, but he was determined to restrain me.

Eventually I gave up fighting against him and fell into a state of crushing despair. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t scream or struggle anymore. My energy was gone just as Holmes was gone. Everything was gone.

Watson eventually pulled me to my feet. He too had realised the error of judgement we had both made, though it had taken him a little longer. He ran back, just like I had, in the hope of saving his friend, but we were both too late, a heavy burden of guilt we would carry forever.

I remember nothing of the walk back to the hotel, except for the surprise on the landlord’s face when Watson showed him the letter regarding the English woman.

The letter was, of course, fake and had certainly not come from the hotel. Holmes must have realised this. He wanted us to go, wanted to have his last moment with Moriarty alone.

My final agony came with the most intense pain ripping through my stomach as I lay in bed in the hotel that night.

I got up and staggered several paces before realising I was drenched in blood. My mind flashed back to the time all those years ago when I woke to find my child gone. I fainted and collapsed against the door.

The noise alerted the guests in the suite next door. They informed the hotel manager who fetched Watson.

My next memory is of Watson gently lifting me from the floor and asking if I had known I was pregnant.

“Not until I saw the blood,” I quietly replied and slipped back into the comfort of unconsciousness. Now I truly had lost everything.

I woke during the night, clean and in bed. I sensed that I was not alone and indeed lying there fully clothed, on top of the sheets, was Watson, looking pale in the weak glow of a single oil light.

He woke as he felt me move and turned to me. It seemed so inappropriate for him to be there but somehow I perfectly understood. Nether of us wanted to be alone.

As the lamp burned the last drop of oil and the light expired, I lay there listening to his rhythmic breathing and took some small comfort from it. All I could do was keep breathing too, clinging to the faint flicker of life in me.

After resting for several days we began the long journey back to England. Watson was very attentive as I remained a largely silent companion and refusing all but a minimum of food and drink. I was lost to the world, broken, distant and numb.

I just wanted to get back to London; it willed me on, my city calling to me. I longed for its familiarity, the smells and sounds that had been with me all my life.

I was traumatised, frozen into a state of shock and paralysed by my own grief.

At last, after many difficult days travelling, we were on our final train, speeding towards London. I was a pale and silent figure gazing from the window as the countryside gave way to the city outskirts. I felt such a different person to the strong young woman full of love and hope who had left all those weeks ago. Now my youth and strength had gone.

As we drew further into the great urban mass, my heart started to beat a little faster and my mind began to reinvigorate. I looked over to Watson, who was reading a newspaper, and realised I needed to be apart from him. He reminded me too much of all that had happened.

As the train pulled into the station I dashed from our compartment along the aisle, leaving my bag and case. As others headed for the doors the crowd swallowed me up and Watson could not reach me. I heard him call my name but as soon as the train stopped I jumped out and started to run.

After a period of such intense lethargy I suddenly became possessed by a furious energy and ran out from the station pushing people out of my way. I discarded my boots and sprinted barefoot into the streets of my city in the late evening sunshine.

I kept running until I reached my destination. I finally halted, sweating and panting, at the entrance to Baker Street.

Many people were out walking on such a pleasant evening; finely-dressed ladies hanging on the arms of handsome gentlemen, newspaper sellers shouting the headlines, and riders on horseback indulging in the last light of the day.

I stood gathering my breath. As the light finally faded from the sky a rumble came from overhead.

The sky grew darker and clearly a summer storm was about to break. Then the rain came, gently at first then a deluge.

I began to walk down Baker Street, past all the tall elegant houses with their inviting pockets of light coming from inside.

My destination was the house towards the end of the street. I was oblivious to all the bemused stares of those hurrying along under their umbrellas as the down-pour soaked my long hair and simple white dress. I looked a bedraggled figure, slowly advancing down the street, my bare feet stepping in the puddles, completely at odds with the normality around me.

Eventually I reached 221B, the only house without light coming from within. It was completely in darkness.

I walked up the steps shivering slightly. I put my hands on the polished black door and breathed deeply.

In my mind I saw the hallway, then up the stairs to the sitting room as it had been before the fire. It was as it will always be in my memory, bright and warm with a fire burning in the grate and Holmes sitting stretched out in his fireside chair, surrounded by his books, papers and scientific paraphernalia.

I saw him stand from his chair and walk towards me with outstretched arms. “Red, you have made it home.”

The image faded and I was alone again, my mind returning to reality with a painful jolt.

I sank down against the door, curled up on the step and for the first time since Holmes’ death, I cried. I bawled and wailed; big fat tears spilling down my cheeks, my whole body possessed by wracking sobs. I cried for everything, for Holmes, Jude, the children I had lost, my sins.

Everything came pouring out of me on the steps of 221B as the thunder crashed.

Chapter Thirteen

I woke stiff and cold from a night spent lying on the doorstep of 221B in wet clothes. The sun was bright and the promise of warmth hung in the air.

Baker Street was already getting busy with carriages rattling along, barrows being rolled out, shops being opened and people striding out ready to start their day.

I stood stiffly and looked up at the house, decided that I never wanted to see it again. I had lain at its feet and said my goodbyes but, ultimately, it was just a collection of bricks and mortar now that its master had gone. Its heart had been taken away.