The Final Problem was in full motion, and it made William feel a bit melancholic.

The nobilities had united with the poor to save London from burning down completely. Just as he had planned. But it was not yet over, after all. One important step was left.

William's own, inevitable vanishing.

So there he stood, high up on a burned remainder of a high building, way above the water. He could hear and almost see the raging crowd on the other side of the river.

It had all gone to plan, and now, William had to pay his part, as well. It would only be fair for him to do. He had no right to deliver justice on another, and believed he had to pay for it.

However, it wasn't long until Sherlock had arrived at the scene. Now the two of them stood on the half broken bridge, William pointing his blade at Sherlock after the latter had tried convincing him not to leave so soon.

"I have done the unreversable, my hands are stained scarlet! And yet you still dare to convince me to live?!" William barked out at Sherlock. He believed Sherlock came to him as a detective.

So, swiftly, he did what he had planned. He stepped backwards from the ledge, falling. However, a hand grabbed his arm from above.