I've broken this up into a few chapters. It's longer than I thought it was, now that I'm looking at it in this format...

It was definitely time to go.

Maddeningly, Sherlock was now the only one with access to the ladder. "By overlapping nearby broadcast frequencies," he explained, turning the freed cube over in his hands, "this device can—"

"The short version, Sherlock," John snapped, holding on for dear life as the entire windmill vibrated with the thunder.

The detective rolled his eyes long-sufferingly. "It's the secret she discovered about the smugglers," he shouted through the rumbling, referring to the victim of their latest case. "This is why she was murdered. The farmer is obviously in on it, too, although he hid it well before."

Well, he did shoot at us, John thought darkly as he nodded, accepting the importance of their errand despite how troublesome it was. Since it was all but accomplished, however, he saw no reason why they should stay up on the swaying metal any longer.

"Right. Great job Sherlock. Now go down."

Sherlock looked affronted. Usually, John would be game for a full dissertation on the device and its part in the murder. There may have also been a little disappointment in his eyes over the lack of the effusive praise he so loved. "But—"

Lightning flashed, the white-hot energy crackling audibly nearby. John snatched the box out of the detective's long fingers and stuffed it in his pocket. "Down!"

The thunder from the last bolt was so immediate and cacophonous that it almost shook them off their perches. The storm was directly overhead. At last grasping the urgency of the situation, Sherlock looked down and started descending.

With the tempest's arrival, the wind had grown so loud that even bellowing could hardly be heard over it, and bits of ice were starting to intermix with the rain drops. It made the windmill slick and treacherous, forcing the taller man to move slowly.

Thankful as he was for Sherlock's uncommon show of prudence, John still gritted his teeth with every further second he had to wait on the twisting, groaning tower. To make things even better, through the gale he saw a light flicker on at the farmer's house.

Wonderful. If I'm not electrocuted or killed in a fall by the time the sod fetches his rifle, I can get shot at. Again.

John was really starting to get tired of criminals having guns. He probably wouldn't have minded so much if he hadn't left his own back in their room at the local hotel. Admittedly, the tower was an impossible place to shoot from. The blond felt suddenly wretched as his attempt to comfort himself failed miserably. Was the windmill moving more than usual all of a sudden?

He closed his eyes. He really needed to get back on the ground. The moment Sherlock was far enough, John all but leapt over the short, harrowing distance between his spot and the detective's. The rungs of the peg ladder were slippery and smooth; his feet couldn't find purchase at first.

The doctor's chest squeezed painfully as his lower half swung into the air, but suddenly there was a confusing flash of relief amongst his panic. His questing fingers had brushed against metal, and then suddenly John was standing on the ladder, gasping. Taking a deep breath, he stared at the pole in front of him and did his utmost not to think about what had almost happened.

In his peripheral vision, the ground seemed to have receded several miles. It took him less than a second to shake away the nerves, but the cold knowledge that he had almost fallen imbued him with renewed respect for the danger of the situation. Only the instinctive tightening of his hands around the supports had saved him; he wasn't likely to be so lucky again.

Below him, Sherlock was over halfway to the ground already. Another floodlight blazed at the house, and then the report of a double-barreled firearm startled the curly-haired brunet into missing a few rungs. Cutting his losses, the detective pushed entirely off the pole of the windmill, hitting the ground with a stumble. He disappeared into a thicket a few meters away.

John cursed violently in his head as he became the most visible target. The farmer evidently recognized his vulnerability as well. Another shot echoed through the gale. Metal clanged against metal close by. Too close. Far, far too close. His shoulder burned in reaction. Then another bullet drew sparks from the pole above his head, and the doctor threw caution to the winds.

Ducking instinctively, he started dropping as fast as he could. It felt like he nearly slipped every other rung, but at least the grass was getting closer with each heart-stopping plunge. Once he'd reached the height that Sherlock had jumped from—well, close enough—John turned and followed suit.

Hitting the ground would have hurt a lot more if he wasn't so full of adrenaline. Grunting, John turned his forward momentum into a roll and came up sprinting. A gunshot cracked. Something hot and silent pushed air into his cheek and stung his ear, but he barely felt it. His focus was fixed ahead, where a tall, thin shape hovered close to the trunk of the closest tree, waiting for him.

Sherlock turned and started through the woods as John came upon him. The doctor really hoped he knew the way back, because the road they had come in on before was on the opposite side of the windmill. It was the only route he was familiar with, but it was also completely open to the shooter.

Mentally, he shrugged and let the worry go. If he were being completely honest with himself, he didn't care where they went as long as Sherlock stayed close and they were moving away from the person trying to kill them.

The storm continued to beat at the trees overhead, ejecting bright flashes of danger through the rain-turned-hail. Its thunder was still deafening and physically percussive, although being on the ground did help a bit. John could feel the vibrations in his chest cavity as he fell into step just behind Sherlock.

Despite the maze of the forest, they stayed at a dead run. The pace would carry them all the kilometers back to the town if they needed it to; both of them were well conditioned to prolonged races through hostile territory.

They were even accustomed to ducking every time they heard a loud noise. A bullet zinged into a tree trunk nearby, punctuating the last retort of thunder. John and Sherlock hunched and swerved, scattering through the trees in different directions. Their movements remained coordinated with each other as they ran roughly abreast, keeping enough distance between them to make things harder for the gunman. They'd had to split like that many times.