Happily Ever After

“I always hoped I'd die first. I know it's selfish to say out loud, but, who are you going to tell at this point?” the old king said to the queen that had ruled at his side the past forty years. She chuckled before she started coughing. The king's grip on her hand tightened.

“All the enemies of the kingdom that I've battled, and I can do nothing to keep you here a little while longer,” the old man growled. She patted his hand.

“Death takes us all in time. Now is mine, and I'm not sad. I've had a good life,” she said, her voice a mere whisper.

“Defeating the evil witch. Slaying the dragon. All the strange and curious things that brought us together, that became the story that they've told about us ever since. It seems so strange to hear it sometimes, but it's just what we had to do at the time,” the king mused. The queen smiled.

“That wasn't the real magic though. Watching our own children grow and have adventures of their own. Rescue villages from trolls. Find lost tomes. Complete quests for wizards. Then to watch them marry and their own children grow,” the queen said.

“Where has all the time gone?” the king sighed.

“In good company,” the queen said, tightening her grip on his hand one last time.

“I'll be sad in my days alone. But I have no regrets. It's been a good life, and I'm so glad I got to share it with you,” the king said, mist gathering around his wrinkled eyes.

“It's funny. It sounds so silly when they read it in the story books, but it really can happen,” she whispered.

“What can?”

“Happily ever after,” she sighed. Then she went still. Her eyes stared at the ceiling, almost as if she were just lost in thought. But the king could see that her chest rose and fell no more, and so he brought his hand across her forehead and closed her eyes forever.

“It really was,” he replied, his lips trembling under his bushy gray beard and mustache. He patted her hand and stepped outside to break the news to the rest of the family. He looked down the balcony from her room at them all gathered. Their children, and grandchildren and cousins and all the people of their household that looked up to them both. Some began weeping. Others forced a smile for their father. He simply nodded in reply.

“It really was...”

Moriarty

• All of the dignitaries of London had come to mourn the fall of their great hero. Even though he attempted to live a quiet life between his myriad adventures, Holmes was beloved of many. Politicians attempted to strengthen their names by connecting themselves with this hero of the people. Many simply owed him their thanks for solving the cases no one else could and bringing some succor to these injured parties. Diplomats, foreign aristocracy, including the king of Bohemia, and so many others whom Holmes had helped over the years. All of that came to an end unexpectedly when Holmes passed from a heart attack. Complications from his use of cocaine to solve his stack of cases. “Natural causes”, Scotland Yard had ruled it, but many of us knew better. I knew better. The servants and colleagues of so many of these gathered reported directly to me, or to a proxy who reported to me. I sat and waited while the Anglican minister commended his soul to God. Inspector Lestrade stood with his underlings in a single file line, rifles over shoulders. I saw one of my own emissaries in that line who’s eyes went wide like a buffoon when he saw me in the crowd. Not all of my associates are yet versed in properly not recognizing me in public. I waited while various speeches were given, tears were shed, hands were shaken. I waited while they lay Holmes in the ground. I watched his ever faithful Watson in tears, held up by his dutiful wife. I even saw the vivacious Irene Adler whom Holmes had shared a keen friendship with. I waited, until it was Lestrade and his gathered men on duty. Then I approached. “A said thing, this,” I said. “Indeed! It’s most terrible. Not that we couldn’t do the job on our own, but Scotland Yard won’t be the same without a consultant like Holmes at our disposal,” Lestrade stammered. I fought the urge to growl. I fought the urge to smash his ignorant, smug face in with the end of my cane. I had much bigger fish to catch. “And the autopsy turned up nothing?” “Autopsy?” the idiot replied. “Yes. An autopsy. Whenever a prominent figure of English society passes, it is customary to look into what may have caused it,” I said. “It’s been ruled natural causes sir,” Lestrade said and turned away. As much as his very existence rankled me, I had to remind myself to be thankful for men like Lestrade. Without buffoons like him in positions of power, it would not be so very easy to run my underground organization right under their very noses. “I examined him myself actually,” a voice appeared from the growing fog. Watson. “And you found nothing?” “Nothing of import.” “So the bluish tint under his nails did not strike you as something noteworthy?” “Bluish tint?” “Or the fact that the left side of his face was pinched ever so slightly. You missed this as well?” “The man fell when he had his heart attack. And the symptoms you observed are common side effects of the drugs Holmes was known to use to keep his mind focused on his cases.” “So long in the presence of greatness, and yet you still fall so short of it.” “Why are you here?” Watson growled. I smiled. I couldn’t help myself. For all of my anger since learning of Holmes’ death, I would draw what small satisfaction I could today. “Are you here to gloat? That you outlasted your nemesis?” Watson pressed. “I came to test what I already knew. I wanted to see his body, and I did. I wanted to be certain that I’d been properly robbed before seeking out the bandits responsible.” Watson paused for a moment. “I beg your pardon?” “You daft man! Holmes has been murdered! The prize of all English crime fighting has been slain, and I have been robbed of my victory!” I said, turning on Watson. Something in my glare unsettled the man. Good. It would be best if he stayed far from what was to come. “I have no quarrel with you Doctor. You are not my equal, and you never will be. But Holmes was mine to claim, and mine alone. And the streets will run red with the blood of whomever stands in my way while I claim recompense for my dissatisfaction,” I said. “If you’re going after them, then let us work together. We have our differences, but we want the same thing. Justice for Holmes!” I laughed. Even well-educated men could be remarkably simple. “I have no interest in Justice my dear boy. That is not my aim. Bloody vengeance for what was taken from me shall be my succour. I shall drink deep from the vineyard of misery I am soon to visit upon those who have wronged me thus. Good day sir.”
  7:05 PM
  Matthew Smith
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