Iterations and other stories (collection)

“I do not like this,” I said to my companion. “ ’Twas bad enough to live through this horrible day once, but I had hoped I would never have to relive it again except in nightmares.”

“Watson, recall that I have fonder memories of all this. Vanquishing Moriarty was the high point of my career. I said to you then, and say again now, that putting an end to the very Napoleon of crime would easily be worth the price of my own life.”

There was a little dirt path cut out of the vegetation running halfway round the falls so as to afford a complete view of the spectacle. The icy green water, fed by the melting snows, flowed with phenomenal rapidity and violence, then plunged into a great, bottomless chasm of rock black as the darkest night. Spray shot up in vast gouts, and the shriek made by the plunging water was almost like a human cry.

We stood for a moment looking down at the waterfall, Holmes’s face in its most contemplative repose. He then pointed further ahead along the dirt path. “Note, dear Watson,” he said, shouting to be heard above the torrent, “that the dirt path comes to an end against a rock wall there.” I nodded. He turned in the other direction. “And see that backtracking out the way we came is the only way to leave alive: there is but one exit, and it is coincident with the single entrance.”

Again I nodded. But, just as had happened the first time we had been at this fateful spot, a Swiss boy came running along the path, carrying in his hand a letter addressed to me which bore the mark of the Englischer Hof. I knew what the note said, of course: that an Englishwoman, staying at that inn, had been overtaken by a hemorrhage. She had but a few hours to live, but doubtless would take great comfort in being ministered to by an English doctor, and would I come at once?

“But the note is a pretext,” said I, turning to Holmes. “Granted, I was fooled originally by it, but, as you later admitted in that letter you left for me, you had suspected all along that it was a sham on the part of Moriarty.” Throughout this commentary, the Swiss boy stood frozen, immobile, as if somehow Mycroft, overseeing all this, had locked the boy in time so that Holmes and I might consult. “I will not leave you again, Holmes, to plunge to your death.”

Holmes raised a hand. “Watson, as always, your sentiments are laudable, but recall that this is a mere simulation. You will be of material assistance to me if you do exactly as you did before. There is no need, though, tor you to undertake the entire arduous hike to the Englischer Hof and back. Instead, simply head back to the point at which you pass the figure in black, wait an additional quarter of an hour, then return to here.”

“Thank you for simplifying it,” said I. “I am eight years older than I was then; a three-hour round trip would take a goodly bit out of me today.”

“Indeed,” said Holmes. “All of us may have outlived our most useful days. Now, please, do as I ask.”

“I will, of course,” said I, “but I freely confess that I do not understand what this is all about. You were engaged by this twenty-first-century Mycroft to explore a problem in natural philosophy—the missing aliens. Why are we even here?”

“We are here,” said Holmes, “because I have solved that problem! Trust me, Watson. Trust me, and play out the scenario again of that portentous day of May 4th, 1891.”

And so I left my companion, not knowing what he had in mind. As I made my way back to the Englischer Hof, I passed a man going hurriedly the other way. The first time I had lived through these terrible events I did not know him, but this time I recognized him for Professor Moriarty: tall, clad all in black, his forehead bulging out, his lean form outlined sharply against the green backdrop of the vegetation. I let the simulation pass, waited fifteen minutes as Holmes had asked, then returned to the falls.

Upon my arrival, I saw Holmes’s alpenstock leaning against a rock. The black soil of the path to the torrent was constantly remoistened by the spray from the roiling falls. In the soil I could see two sets of footprints leading down the path to the cascade, and none returning. It was precisely the same terrible sight that greeted me all those years ago.

“Welcome back, Watson!”

I wheeled around. Holmes stood leaning against a tree, grinning widely.

“Holmes!” I exclaimed. “How did you manage to get away from the falls without leaving footprints?”

“Recall, my dear Watson, that except for the flesh-and-blood you and me, all this is but a simulation. I simply asked Mycroft to prevent my feet from leaving tracks.” He demonstrated this by walking back and forth. No impression was left by his shoes, and no vegetation was trampled down by his passage. “And, of course, I asked him to freeze Moriarty, as earlier he had frozen the Swiss lad, before he and I could become locked in mortal combat.”

“Fascinating,” said I.

“Indeed. Now, consider the spectacle before you. What do you see?”