They wait a long interminable minute before someone steps forward and shoves Sherlock with the toe of a boot.

"He's out sir," Greg hears a voice say as he is ushered at gun-point out into the corridor again, but he doesn't get the chance to turn around and check if Sherlock is alright before the door locks shut and cuts Greg off from the other boy. He turns his frustration and anger on the guard to his left, someone until today he'd considered his closest friend in this place. He feels like an idiot more than anything else. Sherlock is right, this place is beyond corrupt, and it's not the first time someone's tried to make him see sense, John warned him of this a long time ago. John Watson, god, what he wouldn't give to see the kid again, and that damn village that he swore ten times over he was glad to see the back of.

He rounds on Murray in anger, "You can't bloody tell me this is right, what just went on in there?" he jerks his thumb backwards towards the cell as they march him back down the long white corridor.

"Shut it Lestrade, you should know that I'm just following orders….and anyway," he adds, remembering the alteration in their status, "we're not supposed to interact with you."

"Oh for – seriously?" Greg growls, "Three years we've known each other and after one bloody day this is what it comes down to? We had breakfast together in the mess hall just this morning and what, now you treat me like I'm some sort of fucking criminal?"

He can't kept the tremor from his voice and he hates it, hates the loss of control, hates that he feels so vulnerable and cheated. These men are supposed to be his colleagues and his friends, but they're acting like Sherlock is a bomb that's just about to detonate, and he's not, he's really not Greg thinks, because the truth is, whatever this kid is, in a few short hours he's opened Greg's eyes to the real enemy and it sure as hell isn't some smart-arse tattooed teenager.

"He's just a normal kid for god's sake," he continues when no one responds, "got a bit of a mouth on him, I get that, yeah, but you could say that about half the idiots in our dorm mate. He didn't do anything except get caught by the patrol with no papers and you lot just storm in tonight and drop him for no fucking reason".

"Getting a bit attached are we?"

"Sod off," Greg snaps, "it's called basic human decency, something I thought us Guides were supposed to be good at, but I guess I was wrong. This place is toxic can't you see?"

Murray at least has the decency to look guilty, unable to look Greg in the eye, but the other one, Davis, an idiot who in fifteen years has never progressed beyond a lowly security rank cuts in instead, all bravado and no brains, hiding behind his weapon.

Greg despises him.

"Watch it Lestrade," Davis yells, "everyone knows your best mate thinks you're a traitor, doesn't he, old Johnny Watson? Or are you planning on turning against the Castle now with your pretty little boyfriend? I think maybe you should shut the hell up and think about where you loyalties lie."

"Loyalty?" Greg scoffs at the blatant irony, and the sheer pig-headed ignorance of the man, "Shoved in a cell and held at gunpoint and you talk about fucking loyalty?"

The muzzle of a gun jabs him in the small of the back, the metal like ice against his skin. "That's enough Lestrade, you've already been warned more than once, keep it up and next time, woops, my finger might just slip."

Greg's lip curls automatically, but the insult poised there dies on his lips at the warning look on Murray's face, as brow furrowed, he gives the slightest almost imperceptible shake of the head. Greg's not sure what it means yet, if anything, but in the absence of any other choice he follows the order through gritted teeth. It won't help Sherlock and they might not let him go back to the cell. And he has to go back. He wants to.

He is taken to a room off the corridor to the left of the observation deck where Ericsson waits with a sickly smile and a steaming pot of coffee. He motions Greg to sit, pouring hot fragrant liquid into a small china cup, adds two heaped sugars and stirs slowly, tapping the spoon off on the side. It's a surprise that they are alone, the guards stationed outside the door.

"Mr Lestrade," the smile is obsequious, gloating, as he presses the delicate china to his lips, "how good of you to join us…I would offer you a cup perhaps, but it wouldn't do to be overstimulated now would it?" he smirks, as Greg slides down into the seat on the opposite side of the wide white desk and rests his hands loosely in his lap.

"Not that I had much choice," he snaps sullenly, eyes fixed on his nervously twisting fingers, determined not to look at the man. There is a long black leather couch in the corner, restraints attached at wrist and ankle level; Greg's eyes dart nervously towards it despite his resolve to appear unconcerned, and Ericsson tracks the direction of his gaze with barely suppressed amusement.

"Haha, no, indeed, I merely wished to see how you're getting along with your assignment, I trust we've made you quite comfortable, that you find the accommodation to your liking?"

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" Greg barks, anger flaring in his chest.

But Ericsson just gives a put-upon sigh and chooses to ignore his outburst. He places his elbows on the desk, links his fingers and rests his chin on the cradle of his hands, deep in thought. "You know," he starts slowly, "what's particularly of interest Mr Lestrade, is how much time you appear to have spent gazing lovingly into each other's eyes. And one can only speculate what's going on 'undercover' so to speak. Would you like me to hazard a guess perhaps, or would you prefer to enlighten me? Nothing too graphic," he waves a hand dismissively, "the general idea will suffice." He pauses then, as if waiting for Greg to gather his thoughts , takes a sip of his coffee and looks up at him expectantly. "Pardon? You'll have to speak up now, I didn't quite catch that," he cups a hand around his ear."It's none of your damn business." Greg stares down at his clenched hands, itching with an urge to punch. But that won't get him anywhere and he knows he has to get back to the cell, to Sherlock. It's all hanging by a thread, and this defiance isn't helping, but he can't seem to stop his true feelings bleeding out.

"Oh well, that's where you're wrong," says Ericsson, as if in confirmation of his fears, "It's very much my business considering you were placed there specifically to perform a duty and report back to me as and when requested. But as you seem to be less than forthcoming, let me tell you what we've learned today….we've discovered something rather fascinating. There seems to be a particularly unusual level of brain activity whenever you're in close proximity to the Sentinel, physically touching specifically. Did you really think it would go unnoticed?"

Greg doesn't know what he'd thought, what either of them had thought to be honest. Perhaps they hadn't thought at all.

Had Sherlock been aware this might happen?

"Just trying to win his trust sir like you asked me to."

"Yes, I can see that. And what exactly is he trying to win do you suppose?"

Greg's face flames with embarrassment at the less than subtle implication. "It's not – no, he doesn't want me – not like that."

"Doesn't he? Well – that is most….disappointing," Ericsson sighs, "perhaps we should assign someone else, someone more amenable. It was a prime objective after all."

"No!" Greg cries in panic, "You can't, I mean he trusts me I think, and he chose me like you said he could….just give me more time to win him round. I can do it."

"Well now, how very public spirited of you, but no, I believe there's something else going on here that for some specific reason you've opted to keep to yourself for the time being." Ericsson cocks his head to the side, and stares at Greg with reptilian eyes. "Of course, while you're perfectly at liberty to do so I must remind you of your obligations. I know you have family who depend heavily on your continued employment here, and I'm a reasonable man who would rather not resort to the more nefarious means at my disposal. But then again…time is of the essence, and I am now fully aware that our illustrious guest hails from a rather impressive lineage."

Greg narrows his eyes, "So if you already know about him, know who he is, what the hell is the point in all this?"

"Let me be honest with you Mr Lestrade. Relations with the South are somewhat strained and have been for several decades…this you already know, I'm sure." Greg nods reluctantly. "So what would the offspring of a prominent Sentinel family such as the Holmes clan be doing here in the North alone? We've already made some discreet enquiries about the boy, but every set of data found has been heavily encrypted. Someone, it seems, from within the annals of power, right in the upper echelon apparently, is attempting to conceal his whereabouts and identity. Even the most basic information such as education, manifestation, and bond status which would be in the public archives is missing. All we have is a name which Master Holmes himself deigned to give us and confirmation of his birth, dated seventeen years and five months ago. This begs the question why. Someone is helping this boy to hide, all but wiped his existence from both public and private record and he turns up mysteriously a mile from our compound? Coincidence? I think not."

Ericsson shakes his head a little, like a dog with a flea in its ear. He frowns, letting his revelation sink in and takes another sip of his coffee peering over the rim.

Greg feels almost relieved that they obviously know nothing about the murder charge and the fact that Sherlock is on the run from the authorities and some sickeningly powerful enemies. The rest he can't explain, Sherlock had been sketchy on the details of his escape and Greg supposes that in doing so he's only trying to protect the people he cares about, not wanting their names dragged into this mess and make them a potential target even as they continue to cover his tracks. He knows if it were him he'd do the same, die for them if he had to.

He jumps as a china cup clatters loudly into a saucer and looks up in surprise to find Ericsson slack-jawed and blinking in confusion. The dark brown liquid spreads slowly over the desk, spills over the side and splatters onto the floor below. His fingers spasm and as he tries to clutch at the fine china handle he glances up at Greg in horror and a fine white foam begins to gather at the corner of his mouth.

"Sir?" Greg's eyes go wide in panic. What the hell? This is bad, this is so, so bad. He casts around desperately, disgusted to find that his first reaction isn't to help the man at all, but to scan the room for security cameras instead. One points back at him from the upper right-hand corner. Fuck, they can see he didn't touch him, right?

"Wh…what…h…have…you….do…done?" Ericsson gasps just before his head sags forward onto his chest. His shoulders collapse next, and in ridiculous slow motion he slides down clumsily in his chair, limbs rendered floppy and useless from whatever it is he's ingested. It must have been the coffee, it's the only explanation, and it was already here when Greg was brought in, but he's the subordinate, essentially a prisoner at present, stripped of his status and escorted under armed guard whenever he's not in the cell. So who? How? Why?

Ericsson twitches and pitches himself forward landing heavily against the hard white surface, desperate, he lurches to his right, breath laboured, hissing out between clenched teeth as he wills himself to consciousness. In a flash of realisation Greg understands what he's trying to do. Each private room is equipped with a panic button, a manual alarm system to elicit a rapid response team but remain inaudible within the confines of the room.

Greg pushes away from the desk. The chair crashes backwards as he soars to his feet in panic and scrambles around the side. His bare feet skid on the highly polished floor, right hip connecting painfully with the unforgiving corner. He hisses in pain, heart beating out of his chest as instinct takes over from reason and he grabs at Ericsson rough and determined as the man claws helplessly at the handle of a drawer. He's almost a dead weight by now, heavier than his slight build suggests and with a muffled grunt Greg hauls him backwards and they collapse into a tangled heap upon the floor.

He's out. Unconscious.

Greg shoves at him forcefully, anger taking over, kicking out until he's free and his head hits the floor with a dull thump. Now what the hell is he supposed to do? Back pressed to the wall he tries to think, but his scattered thoughts and the surge of adrenaline are making it almost impossible to concentrate.

Get up and get out, he thinks, heart sinking as he remembers who brought him here and the bite of cold metal on his back. There must be something here that could help him. Come on Greg use your head – of course, the bloody desk. Greg forces himself to stand and once on his feet again he moves with purpose ripping open drawer after drawer. Folders full of documents are tossed aside in a fruitless attempt to find something, anything that will give him even the slightest chance to defend himself against the guards. Not that he stands much chance against a bullet, but if he's fucked anyway he'd rather go down fighting, it's either that, or hide in a corner and be shot point blank like a rabid dog.

He can hear them coming, muffled voices and the tread of heavy boots. He yanks at the handle of the final drawer, the bottom left, cursing out loud as it resists his frantic tugging. Fucking locked dammit, so guaranteed to be the only one with anything inside worth taking.

Ericsson.

Greg dives towards his unconscious form and hauls the man over onto his back. His head lolls comically to the side and a thin line of drool connects the corner of his mouth to the tile below. He's breathing, but shallowly and his skin looks sickly, but he's very much not dead and that's good enough for Greg right now. He pats him down briskly, hands smoothing over pockets, in the search for a key of some description, growling in frustration when he comes up with nothing. As a final resort Greg rolls him onto his side again and with a grimace dips a hand into the tight snug space of his back trouser pocket. His fingers close around a long metal object and he carefully pulls it out.

A knife, a Swiss army knife to be exact. It's about the length of his middle finger, but at least two fingers wide with smooth oval edges and inlaid in a delicate tortoiseshell. It's obviously seen some considerable wear, but this does nothing to detract from its serious quality. This knife had cost money, and lots of it Greg thinks, as his thumb traces over a well- worn engraving.

W.S.S.H.

The knife belongs to Sherlock. It feels warm and slightly heavy in his palm and Greg understands instinctively how cherished this object is, and how it must have saved Sherlock's life so many times over the past lonely, dangerous months, and what it must have meant to him, the sense of loss and frustration and despair when this precious link to his home and his family was finally ripped away from him.

It feels like sacrilege to use it.

He flips it open as the door rattles, searching frantically for something, anything, to help him pick a lock. He pulls out a thin metal spike that looks like an oversized needle and another that's hooked at the end. But he can't use both at once, and impulsively deciding on the first, he pushes it into the keyhole and wiggles it.

The door to the office crashes open and a uniformed guard bursts through into the room. A rough voice cries out, "Stand back", and Greg lets the knife fall from his hand and flattens his body against the wall. He raises his arms above his head automatically and squeezes his eyes closed anticipating a blow.

"Fucking hell, I thought the old bastard was never gonna go, I guess the fucker's stronger than he looks… Sorry if I made you piss yourself mate I thought he might be putting up a fight."

Greg opens his eyes blinking stupidly back at Murray.

"Well don't just stand there like a goldfish, do you want to get out of here or what?" Murray grins impishly and strides across the room bending down to pick the knife up off the floor. "Here," he says, closing it carefully and tossing it over to Greg, "might come in useful on your travels."

"Er thanks….what the hell's going on?" Greg manages, catching a glimpse of the other fat guard through the doorway, slumped just like Ericsson on the floor.

"Pulled a blinder, didn't I? Not even the kid had a clue. Must admit though, I did get a little side-eye in the shower room, but I swear it was nothing dodgy, just checking out the ink, ya know?" he taps the top of his arm.

Murray reaches into his holster with his left hand, the right still holding his rifle. He pulls out set of keys, unlocks the drawer and sucks in a breath at the contents. "This what you were after?" he asks, and resting his rifle on the top of the desk he reaches inside and pulls out a hand gun. It's already loaded and there's a spare clip of ammo too. Murray takes both and a silencer, and places them in a pack he'd had slung across his shoulders. "Here." He shoves the bag at Greg instead. "You'll need it."

There are so many things he should say, that he really needs to know, but all that comes out is, "Why?"

Murray sniffs. "I listened," he starts simply, "To what you said to me that is, so when they came sniffing round for volunteers I thought I'd check things out for myself. Funny thing though, no one was mad keen for this job. But you know, you and me mate, we always get the arse crack jobs that no other fucker'll take so I thought I may as well give it a go. And then I starts hearing things, about them throwing you into the lions den, and how the officers paid your mum and dad a little visit this morning, they was laughing about it at mess, about making the little'uns cry and stuff."

"They did what?" Greg snaps, knowing where the order must have come from. It's one thing to mess with his life, but to threaten his parents and terrify the babies? And for what? This place makes him sick. Greg glances down at the prone form of Ericsson overcome with the sudden urge to kick him in the nuts, hurt him, hear him beg for forgiveness, beg him to stop, see his blood flow hot and red. If he even has any. And still it would be too good for him.

Murray catches his eye, and what he sees there is enough to shock him into action.

"Not worth it Greg," he tugs on his arm, "come on mate, we need to get you out of here."

He nods reluctantly because there is no other choice now, so shouldering the pack Bill gave him he follows him out of the room. Bill fishes out the keys again and locks the door behind them. "Might by us a little extra time."

"What about him?" Greg nods at the guard on the floor.

"He'll wake up with a headache in about an hour or so, probably. I stuck him with a tranquiliser dart, the same ones they used on the kid, nicked it from the ammo room. Right in the arse cheek," he laughs, "Barely felt it."

Greg doesn't bother to mention Sherlock's unusual, almost preternatural resilience to the drugs he's been given so far. He'll take every advantage he can get at this point.

The corridor is strangely silent, and the absence of noise sparks a thought that's been bugging him. "How come the alarm hasn't triggered? There was a camera feed, surely someone just saw what happened?"

Murray glances over as they jog side by side. "Maybe, but I'm not a fucking magician, I thought about blacking the lens, you know, when I took the coffee in earlier, but the bastard was already in there, so this was the best I could do. This sides on lock-down though, restricted access cause of the Sentinel, not even the kitchen staff get in. The gallery too, I called in a favour to block off the right-hand exits, just a little code change but it should buy us a minute or two."

"How does that help?"

"Well it doesn't, not much, but we should be okay until we get back to the cell, that's when the shit'll really hit the fan…. Here." Murray reaches into his left breast pocket and pulls out a folded slip of paper. "Code for the door lock, get in and get him quick, it was a fast-acting short term dose, but the kid might still be out. If he is, fucking run, you'll only have six seconds before the door starts to close. If he's up, let him come to you, and stand underneath the sensor, that should stop it from closing until you both get through."

"Restraints?" Greg asks as they near the door.

"Nah, he dropped quick, so they left him where he fell this time I think. I'd better stay here, cover us if anyone breaks through."

Greg huffs out a breath, "What about you, they'll kill you for this Bill, you know they will."

Murray just grins at him wolfishly. "Nah, don't think so, not if I'm gone they won't. You think I'm gonna stay after this? I'm leaving the same way you are mate."

Greg frowns, "And how the fuck is that?...We haven't had time to plan this. The castle's too secure, we can't just walk out the door, and even if we did get out there's patrols and drones and god knows what else, how the hell is this supposed to work?"

"Come on mate think about it," Murray prompts, "the perfect escape has been there all along, but you were never gonna get there without a little outside help," he smiles triumphant, "The Tunnels."

Murray stops dead, not waiting for a response from Greg, and calmly turns back to face the way they came. "Just get your arse back here as quick as you can," he says, eyes trained back down the corridor, "they'll see you for sure but try not to panic, the door locks automatically as soon as you come back through. Smash the key pad if you have time, they might have a way to open the cell, get in from the gallery and try to follow you out that way but if they can't open that air lock remotely anyone in there is stuck, right?"

Greg tosses Murray the pack, anything that slows him could cost vital seconds.

It's only a few more strides but it feels like miles, his bare feet slapping on the floor. Greg reaches the key pad and fumbles with the paper, and even though he's not visible from here, casts surreptitious glances to the distant blurred forms in the gallery. He resists the temptation to scan the room for Sherlock, stabbing at the key pad with clumsy, trembling fingers.

77426

Greg holds in a breath as the light over the air lock turns from red to flashing green, feels a rush of cold air against his face as it opens.

He's in.

The first thing Sherlock feels is the cold press of tile against his cheek, the next thing a heaviness throughout his body and the stark realisation of what they did to him, again. It does little to assuage his anger and frustration that he let them do it deliberately this time, and this knowledge does nothing to erase the look of fear on Greg's face when for one fleeting, heart-stopping moment he thought the guards gad shot Sherlock for real.

He struggles to pull his senses on line, allowing time to adjust and blink back to full awareness. The cold from the floor has yet to seep into his bones and turn his limbs stiff and leaden. The drug kicked in quick then, and must have faded out quite fast, so the object would appear to be to swiftly incapacitate and to get Greg out before Sherlock in his heightened state had time to mount a resistance. Do they really think he could have? Do they think him so strong, such a threat that four armed guards are deemed necessary to elicit a simple extraction?

Perhaps they believe he'd do anything to protect his new bond-mate, that biology has the power to render his behaviour animalistic and possessive and his sense of reason secondary. Idiots.

He pushes himself up trying not to groan and shakily rests on his elbows. A persistent dull ache pulses at his temple.

He mostly ignores his captors now, what they do in that room is of rapidly depleting interest or relevance, but what he would like to know is why now? What prompted such a rapid intervention?

His isolation presses down on him, it's impossible to feel Greg now and whatever tenuous connection they have forged has failed to surmount his removal from the cell. Instinct tells him that Greg remains firmly within the boundaries of the castle and that Ericsson's absence is similarly notable, connected. An interview or interrogation then, the scheduled debriefing? Sherlock has no doubt at all that Ericsson will use whatever means are at his disposal to get the information he wants and this scares him more than he ever imagined, fear for someone other than himself this time.

He tries to relax and not to think Greg won't be coming back and of what he might be subjected while absent. He is shocked to the core that in a few short hours after months of relative isolation, sleeping rough, that he misses the simple human contact. It's disconcerting, and it makes him feel weak, but does nothing to ease the sense of longing. It puzzles him deeply, Greg is not his Guide, but something about him seems achingly familiar, clawing at his skin as he just tries to think.

Sherlock climbs up onto the bed, seated at the edge with his legs dangling over and his fingers curled around the soft edge of the mattress, and waits.

Something feels off, wrong. He can't tell exactly how long Greg's been gone now, but it can't be much more than an hour. He shivers a little. The room has gone cold again and he longs for the warmth and security of the bed and someone to share it with if he's honest with himself. But he can't afford to let his guard down, being alone feels too dangerous.

Trust no one.

Mycroft's last whispered words. And here he is, finally putting his faith and trust in an unknown Guide who until today had been a stranger. Would his brother call him a fool, or would he applaud his choice of companion?

The atmosphere is wrought with tension, despite the appearance of normality. Staff line the gallery stationed behind monitors, one stands, a printed read-out in hand and heads towards the supervisor at the back. They confer, his stomach twists uncomfortably at the muttered words 'potential breach' and that they've been told to wait for confirmation. Several pairs of eyes turn to stare in his direction and he stiffens under the scrutiny, but keeps his head down, determined not to react.

His skin tingles, a buzz of electricity fizzing in his veins as his ears pick out the faintest of sounds from the long deserted corridor beyond the airlock door. Thud, thud. Slap, slap. Two pairs of feet, running, one shod in the clumsy regulation boots characteristic of a castle guard, the others are bare, size ten, high arches and tacky with perspiration.

Sherlock wills himself not to react, knowing any slight change in his neurological response will only increase the level of scrutiny he's subject to. He breathes in deep and evenly, the residual fog finally clearing from his throbbing head. The footsteps move closer, only one set now, they stutter to a halt outside the airlock.

A hiss of compressed air, dark dishevelled hair, white-faced and breathless, Greg stands on the threshold. It doesn't take telepathy to understand what Sherlock needs to do and he feels the surge of relief, the stutter in Greg's heartbeat as Sherlock looks up carefully from under his lashes to acknowledge him wordlessly, willing Greg to stand still and let Sherlock come to him to stop the door from closing and trapping them inside. It definitely wasn't the plan, but it could be the only chance they get.

The door clicks and whirs, unable to close as the sensors pick Greg out on the threshold. He wants to give a sign, clear his throat, something, but any communication will immediately draw attention, he can barely believe it as it is that the incursion has so far gone unnoticed.

Sherlock carefully slides to the floor. He scrubs a hand through unruly dark curls and casually walks across the room towards the Guide. He's still a little spaced from the drugs, slower, unsteady. Legs feel alien, the usual effortless grace is missing and he stumbles slightly, right foot catching in the trailing leg of his cotton pyjama pants which still hang loosely from his hips.

It all seems much too simple, and it is, because then all hell breaks loose around them.

The ear splitting sound of the alarm rents the air. The door begins to close – someone hit the manual override. Bodies rush for the exits, and four armed guard storm the gallery from the right, but when the panicked staff try to exit the same way the door is unyielding and the code no longer works to open it. Some idiot with an itchy trigger finger points a rifle at his back and lets fly at the glass that separates them. It holds, and the bullets raise a shower of sparks but little else and then ricochet back on the terrified staff trapped inside. Someone is hit, goes down hard, it's just a kid, a girl even younger than Sherlock. A bullet to the shoulder propels her forward into the bank of white monitors, and a bloom of bright red spreads slowly across her back as she stills.

Greg can't move. He stands in the doorway bracing his arms against the straining mechanism, visibly praying for Sherlock to hurry as he breaks into a faltering run. His arms start to shake, and just as Sherlock reaches him, his left arm buckles and the door jolts inwards a little throwing him off-balance.

So close now…. Sherlock could almost reach out and touch him. He lifts his head and meets Greg's eyes. Just one more step, closer, he's almost there…

Sherlock dives and barrels into him, knocking Greg out of the doorway and it closes with a vicious snap behind them. They lie still, breath heaving raggedly, Sherlock can feels Greg's heart almost beating out of his chest underneath him. They have to move. Now.

"Up!" Sherlock urges, he rolls off Greg and scrambles to his feet, grabbing a handful of cotton and flesh to drag Greg up from the ground. Greg grunts and rolls over onto his front, manages to get his feet under him again, and they take off at a run. It's frenetic and ungainly, the hard floor unforgiving as they half drag half hold each other up in an unconscious show of solidarity.

Then Greg stops dead and Sherlock stumbles forward as they pull apart. "Keypad," he gasps, "We need to smash the fucking keypad." He turns and heads back towards the cell.

There's no time for questions and splitting up now would be madness and so Sherlock turns too and follows Greg back to the straining bullet proof doors to the small manual keypad set at waist-height on the wall outside them.

"What do we use?" Greg says desperately. He looks at Sherlock, and at their loose soft clothes as if they will provide an answer. Then he eyes his own clenched fist with a grimace and pulls his arm back to strike.

"NO! Here, use this," Sherlock pulls off his t-shirt over his head and holding Greg's arm still, wraps it tightly in several twists to cushion his elbow.

"Would do it myself," he shrugs, " but the drugs are still in my system and I doubt if I have sufficient strength right now, but you need to do it quick and hard first time so we can get the hell away from here". Greg nods in understanding, pivots around and cracks his arm back hard against the pad. The crunch of the keypad is wonderfully satisfying, and Sherlock reaches his fingers carefully between the shattered shards finds the bundle of wires nestled behind and pulls. The electric whir of the door dies out just as the guards break through from the gallery. They rush forward, too late, as the impenetrable barrier clicks firmly back in place. Gloved fingers claw at the smooth unyielding panel. They're stuck.

"Come on, just leave it, serve the bastards right," Greg yells, pushing Sherlock in the small of his back to urge him on.

Turning to run again, Sherlock's legs still feel so heavy that it feels like he's wading through sand, but slowing down isn't an option and he lets momentum and Greg's grip upon his wrist continue to carry him forward. And then he spots a guard up ahead and tugs on his arm in a desperate bid to pull him back, but they can't go back, there's only the blocked-off cell, and with the way ahead barred to them and no weapons with which to defend themselves Sherlock tries to push his way forward and put himself between Greg and the guard. It's a ridiculous act of chivalry and selflessness, but after what Greg had sacrificed it seems like the least he can do.

He spreads his arms out wide.

"What the hell Sherlock, get out the way." Greg pushes up against him. Sherlock shoves back just as hard.

"He's armed you idiot."

"Yeah, but he's on our side," Greg hisses in his ear, "Stupid shit drugged Ericsson, so we have to get out now, all three of us, or god knows what they'll do if we don't, I know it wasn't part of the plan, but we don't have much choice."

Sherlock shakes his head and tries to remember he's been in much tighter spots than this before now, and if being on the run alone has taught him anything at all, it's that sometimes shit happens and you deal with it or go down. And he will not have Greg's death on his conscience. They'll have to fight, together.

"And you think we can we trust him?" he snaps.

"Yeah I do," answers Greg, "An hour ago I would've said no…"

"But now?" Sherlock prompts.

"I think crazy as it is, he's handed us a chance….and we might not get another one."

Sherlock is torn. They need it, this chance, if he's ever to find his Guide, or ever to see his family again.

Every minute that he stays here hurts Mycroft and Molly and Victor. He knows what he has to do.

"Fine then, let's do it."

They jog towards Murray, who is stationed just where Greg left him, rifle cocked at the ready.

"You took your bloody time," he grins at Greg, tossing the pack into his arms again, his eyes a little wary as they dart to Sherlock's thunderous face. Sherlock is breathing hard, part exertion part from anger and he takes another step forward and leans right up into Murray's frozen face. He's the one half naked, yet he can smell the fear radiating from the man, pulse pounding despite the stillness of his body and the slight sheen of sweat which beads his brow and upper lip. He recoils back from Sherlock, breaks eye contact, looks down. Submissive.

"If you get him killed I'll rip you limb from limb," Sherlock spits out and he scowls, almost nose to nose, and despite the fact he's unarmed and shirtless, Murray tenses again, fidgeting nervously. "And you will tell me why you did this, I haven't decided if I trust you quite yet."

"No one's dying," Greg huffs, thrusting an arm out in warning and to separate them, "and for god's sake Sherlock, stop being all…bloody alpha….it's not going to get us anywhere. We need to work together."

THUD!

All three jump as the exit door shudders. A reminder that this is serious and real. It's not a fraction as strong as the bullet proof construction of the cell, but three boys and one rifle don't stand a chance against whoever, or whatever's on the other side.

"Wasn't that our way out?" Sherlock snaps, "So what the hell are we supposed to do now?" he begins to pace, scanning quickly up and down the stark, empty space which stretched like a tunnel between the cell and the outer door. He scrubs both hands through already tangled curls, willing his mind to just bloody function, the drugs have made him weak, stripped all his sharp edges away. He looks around him, twirling, assessing and calculating. The walls are smooth white plaster, the ceiling lit at intervals with long fluorescent tubes, it is nothing but a rat-run between the cell and the main body of the castle. Sherlock closes his eyes against the bright artificial glare and tries to read the inner structure of the building. Where are they? Somewhere behind all this, somewhere teasingly close and unseen the surf rages hard against the rocky shore. He can hear it. His gaze travels inexorably higher. Above them, the sea is above them. But how can he use this knowledge, they'll all be shot if the guards break through. When, he amends as the metal groans yet again. He growls in frustration, nothing on this stretch at all, no others exits, only the shower room.

The shower room.

Water, plumbing, pipes. It all has to lead somewhere.

"In here," he yells, pacing backwards quickly while keeping his eyes on the rapidly caving door. The metal frame groans under the ceaseless shattering blows from something heavy and blunt and a gap appears in the centre where the two panels strain apart. Sherlock sees a glint of oiled black metal and in a wave of panic throws his body forward knocking Greg into the wall with a muffled "Oomph" just as a bullet rips by. He senses the heat, feels the air that bends around it, hears the whip sharp crack as it buries itself inches deep in the plaster wall ten yards further down the corridor. They have to move, get out of here now.

"Come on!"

No one needs telling twice. They surge towards the only refuge they have left, Murray's gloved fingers grapple uselessly, frantically as they all three push and shove together slamming hips and shoulders and knees in desperation. They're sitting ducks out here. They have to get inside.

As a timely reminder, another bullet rips past followed swiftly by an ear shattering volley of shots. The door gives way with groan, slamming inwards and taking all three of them with it and they fall on each other in a tangle of sweaty limbs. Underneath it all, Sherlock shoves back hard and fights his way onto his hands and knees before jumping to his feet. His mind starts to fizz again taking in all the items in the room and quickly assessing the ways that they could use them, until his eyes are finally drawn back to the shallow metal bowl tightly bracketed against the wall. But of course, he laughs to himself. It's all so very obvious.

He crosses the room, crouches down to examine it more closely, "What's behind here do you think?" he looks up at the other two.

Greg frowns at him in confusion, "Water tank, a wall, solid stone maybe."

"Or a network of pipework, pumping water around the castle perhaps?" Sherlock smiles and brushes his fingers against the short scratchy stubble on his jaw as he thinks. "We need to get this off the wall, there has to be a pipe to take the waste out and another to feed it, and the sink and shower with water." He casts around or something to use. The others follow suit. Greg dips a hand into the pocket of his pyjama's, "Here," he calls, "I think this is yours."

Sherlock plucks it out of the air as Greg tosses it towards him. The knife fits perfectly in his palm, the warmth of the tortoiseshell and the cold rim of metal around the edge. He thumb glides smoothly across the inscription. "He took it from me," Sherlock looks up at Greg, "It's all I had left…of home. I don't even know where home is anymore. It's been so long." His voice cracks a little without him meaning to, rich with emotion. Greg squeezes his bare shoulder and he catches Sherlock's eye again. "Well let's find it again, I'll help you, I promise."

"Don't promise…." He starts, before his mind skitters suddenly. They don't have time for this now, maybe later when they've put some distance between them and their captors. Sherlock turns, dislodging Greg's hand from his shoulder, and flicking open the knife with his thumb, combing through the tools for something he can use. "Their gonna black us out." Murray says as the overhead lights flicker and fade. The deep orange glow is eerie, but Sherlock works by touch and instinct, selects a flat- bed screwdriver after running his fingertips over the brackets. The head is too small but it's the best he can do. He leans his weight into it to stop it from slipping too much straining to turn the bolt counter clockwise. It appears as a visual in his head, just an incline plane wrapped helically around an axis, deceptively simple. His hand is slightly sweaty and he slips, cursing as the head pops out again.

"For fuck's sake," he curses as the blade almost stabs into his palm. "Let me try," Greg offers, "or help at least, if you want me to that is." Sherlock shuffles over to give him room to crouch down pressed in beside him and wordlessly hands the knife to him, shaking his aching wrist out a little. Whether from luck, strength or some previous skill Sherlock knows nothing of, Greg makes short work of the task, deftly unscrewing the smooth metal panel which holds the bowl to the wall. As the last one gives way the panel collapses slightly and a gap appears at the top of it. Sherlock feels air on his face and presses forward.

BANG. BANG.

"Get this off, pull it," he shouts. Three pairs of hands grasp tightly and yank backwards hard and with an ear-splitting screech the panel gives and they tumble backwards. Sherlock dives forward, reaching into the space beyond and growls. It's blocked, but the construction has been rushed and is flimsy at best, confirming his suspicion that it's a very recent addition. The castle is damp this far below the shoreline and the plaster overlaying it feels wet and crumbles slightly under his fingertips. But they still have to get through quickly. "Murray, get down on the damn floor, now!"

Murray looks at him wildly, "Why?"

"Because I'll break my bloody feet if I try to kick through plaster and brick and you're the only one with boots on," he screams, "Just do it!"

Murray doesn't argue, and scooting over obediently he pushes his legs into the narrow space. There's barely room to draw his knees up but he lies on his side and braces his arms out in front of him before kicking out strongly with the solid heel of his boot. He yelps as pain jars up his leg, but the plaster gives a little so encouraged, he does the same again. This time there's a shower of debris as his leg sinks clean through. "I'm in," he gasps, pulling his leg back again bringing plaster and debris with it. Wildly, he kicks out, over and over, again and again until a small foot-sized hole becomes a body-sized gap set a metre inside the wall. It should be enough. It has to be. The noise from outside suggests a breach of the rat-run is imminent. Greg looks at him in alarm as a deep distant rumble makes the floor beneath them tremble. Sherlock shoves Murray out the way, peers into the gloom. This is either escape, or a tomb. "We have to do this now," his voice is urgent, "Greg, you go first, then Murray, I'll close it once I'm in."

"Close it?" Greg asks puzzled.

"I'll drag the panel back, in the dark they might not notice it at first, it won't give us much of an advantage but it could give us valuable seconds….now go."

He can sense Greg's reluctance as he slides to the floor and flips onto his stomach. He pushes the pack ahead of him and crawls forward using his elbows as leverage before he heaves himself out through the gap. He drops through onto a metal grille of some sort judging by the ringing metallic echo. "It's some sort of walkway," Greg calls back through, voice muffled and distorted, "And you were right, there's pipes, loads of them running all the way along this place, I think this is a maintenance shaft or something."

Murray scoots through next and Sherlock drops down to his knees. His heart starts to race again and his head whips around as a crash beyond the door signals the guards have finally broken through.

"Come on Sherlock, hurry," Greg calls, his voice has an edge of urgency to it. He can sense it too, Sherlock knows how close they are to freedom and how equally close to death, and as this thought flares brightly through his mind the room grows hot and the air grows thick around him. The tile beneath his fingertips bubbles and spits and he shuffles backwards in terror through the gap. When he's in, wedged in the tight, cramped space, he reaches out into the room again and curls his fingers around the sharp metal edge of the panel. It glows red, beneath his skin, then orange, then buttercup yellow and it moulds to his fingers like soft yielding dough while he drags it back into place. As his hand falls away the faint sunset glow winks out again as if it had never even been there. Sherlock brushes hesitant fingertips gently across it feeling faintly sick and light-headed, and what he feels makes him gasp and snatch his hand away abruptly. He scrambles back the rest of the way and drops down lightly onto the walkway. He feels drained, limp, and Greg peers at him in concern. "You okay?"

Sherlock nods. How can he express what he doesn't understand himself? Greg doesn't look convinced, glancing into the hole, brow furrowed, but has he presence of mind to drop it – this isn't the time. Or the place for that matter.

He looks around him. They are standing on a narrow metal grille around ten feet up from the ground. It runs along the length of the wall on this side with mesh and a rail on the other, the sole barrier against the drop. Copper pipes, corroded with damp and of varying width run overhead, and in the dusky orange glow he sees super-heated steam burst out at random intervals. It's almost unbearable to stand here so close to them and his naked skin glistens in the crawling, humid heat. The noise is a cacophony of groaning metalwork, hissing vapour and the whir of industrial-size fans. They're lucky. It should help disguise the sound of their footsteps.

"Which way?" he looks up at Greg expectantly, eyes glittering darkly, "Or should I be asking the one who got us into this damn stupid mess in the first place?" he to glare at Murray.

"Hey," Murray snaps at him, defensively, "If it wasn't for me you'd still be in your cage kid, so I'm sorry it's not the fucking great escape or something, but I had to get Greg out tonight and he wasn't gonna leave without you."

Greg's head whips round suddenly, to face his friend, "Why did it have to be tonight?"

Murray throws up his hands as if to say, 'you're really going to make me do this now?'

"Just come on, this way," he snaps instead, thumbing to the left and starting down the walkway, "If the castle's on alert the mess room and dorms should be pretty empty…I hope," he adds. Sherlock hesitates. Not so long ago this idiot stood and watched him get naked in a shower and did nothing, said nothing to give any clue he was planning this escape – and now he had to trust him with his and Greg's lives?

Greg looks back at him, standing immobile on the walkway. He signals to Murray to hang on a minute and walks back over to the Sentinel. He reaches out a hand to tentatively touch Sherlock's arm. The skin on skin contact makes him jump, he had drifted for a moment, retreated into his mind a little, and that just can't happen here. He concentrates on the warm point of contact and sucks in a lungful of pungent steamy air. "Hey," Greg says carefully, "I trust him, yeah? I trust you and I don't even know you so there's that I guess, so, will you just take my word for it – you can kill me yourself if I'm wrong." He grins a little crookedly only letting go and relaxing when Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and says, "Don't have much choice I suppose."

"Bullshit," Greg says in answer, "You're just pissed off cause you weren't the one to get us out of there, but what does it matter, as long as we did it – but right now, we need to move, okay?"

Sherlock nods his agreement.

They start to jog down the walkway in a line. "You weren't going back," Murray puffs as they run, his comments clearly aimed at Greg, "Ericsson already had what he wanted I reckon, and he was gonna…..deal with you privately, see if you had any intel but after that...I dunno, but it came up on the system this morning, a cash transfer made out to your parents to be sent on request, not to you, and the last time that happened was that MIA last spring, remember, that bloke that went missing on night patrol? So, you know, I'm not an idiot, I sort of had to improvise a bit, knew you couldn't get out on your own, and it just as easy could have been me, maybe not this time but I'd rather not take the risk?"

"But isn't this a bigger one?" Sherlock pants. Greg has gone silent, the only sound are the harsh huffs of breath as they run.

"We came in together," Murray tries to explain, "bunk together, work the tunnels together, take every shitty order without complaining so that one day they can decide, okay that's it, you're surplus to requirements so we'll off you and bung your families a little bit of sympathy money all hush, hush like? Nah, don't think so mate. That good enough for you?" he throws a look back over his shoulder, waiting for an answer.

Sherlock's mind is ablaze. The two young Guides have had little to no contact with the main body of the castle for much of the time that they've been here by the sound of it. And Ericsson never guessed, never realised what this could mean. It has been his downfall, underestimating the weak. Or those he perceives as such.

Murray throws out an arm, "Shush stop!" The wall bends away to the right, the walkway following it round, and he leans forward hands against the stone and peers around it carefully. "Clear," he says and waves them forward.

Sherlock's ears prick, and he makes a grab for his arm. Murray swings round abruptly and the hiss of annoyance poised on his lips is swiftly extinguished as Sherlock points down. A Guide is pacing slowly along another walkway below them, he's not a guard, unarmed in standard grey uniform and he whistles to himself as he ambles along, alone. The three boys hold still, backs pressed against the rough stone wall and Sherlock looks over at Greg and sees a lone bead of sweat roll slowly down his brow. It drips from the end of his nose, completely avoids the grille below and lands with a splash the cheek of the Guide. They see him swipe at his face in confusion before his slowly tilts his chin up. His mouth drops open in an 'O' of surprise. There is a crash from behind, reminding them of what they're trying to get away from. "Forget him, he's irrelevant, just move," Sherlock hisses, pulling on Greg's arm with one hand and pushing Murray forward with the other. The Guide is unarmed, harmless, and despite him noticing them it doesn't matter anyway, the guards know where they are by now and are closing in behind them. Sherlock runs his hand along the rail at his side, the metal beneath his fingers seems to pulse and vibrate. Too close. They have to slow them down somehow. Think.

Sherlock reacts on instinct. He slams Murray hard against the wall and grunting rips the rifle from his shoulder. "Sherlock…what the hell are you doing?" Greg yells as he tries to stop him, reaching out as Sherlock pushes past and turn the rifle, butt upwards and leans out precariously over the waist-high metal rail of the barrier. Stretching up as far as he can he brings the rifle down hard. He hits the pipes at the juncture as they curve around the corner out of sight and it takes two more solid blows before they buckle. Scorching steam hisses through the puncture in the old corroded pipes and Sherlock throws himself out of its path stumbling back heavily into Greg. It hisses out in an endless stream cutting right across the walkway. Anyone trying to pass through will be scalded. He hopes it's enough to hold them back.

"Christ Sherlock, a warning next time would be good," Greg gasps. They scramble back, keen to put more distance between themselves and the steam as it whistles through the severed metal hissing like a kettle.

"Yeah, you're bloody mad kid," Murray adds, "thought you were gonna do me in for a second when you went for the rifle."

"Waste of precious ammunition," Sherlock curls his lip, "But what do I know, I'm just a stupid kid apparently." He plants his palms on Murray's shoulders and shoves him. He stumbles backwards, arms flailing until the wall breaks his fall. There's an audible thud as his skull connects with stone.

Greg grabs Sherlock's arms and pins them behind his back, he's kicking out, spitting and snarling like some sort of animal, like someone flipped a switch inside him; all he sees is one of them, what they did, how they want to break him apart. Greg's rich voice cuts through the swirl of emotion. "Sherlock….Just stop it okay? No one thinks that….please!"

"No one's gonna think anything if we're dead….which we will be when they catch us." Murray struggles to his feet again, using the wall for support. "Not everyone is the enemy," he wheezes, "You might do well to remember that."

Sherlock wrenches free of Greg's grasp. He's barely placated, and fury burns under his skin like fire but when Murray turns to lead them on along the endless chain of walkways he tries to shut it down, not for himself but for Greg's sake.

"Here," Murray says at last, "this one leads out to B-section dorms."

"They all look the same, how can you tell for sure?" Greg glances at a blank metal door set in the stone. It looks identical to the three they've already run past, smooth on this side, no handles no key-hole, an incongruous slab of dull grey steel.

Sherlock runs his hand along the surface, his eyes skittering over and up and around it. He scuffs at the raised stone step above the grille. "It's opened on a regular basis. There are shallow, fresh scratches in the stonework where the fitting has dropped a little on the right hand side, and a sizeable gap, about an inch high on the left running to the edge." He drops down, couching on his knees. "There are deeper marks here," he points to left, "Where something heavy, another piece of stone perhaps, was used to prop it open, and here," he swipes his finger along the walkway, "traces of tobacco ash, and some wadding from a filter." He holds up thumb and forefinger, a shred of yellow-stained cotton fluff pressed between them. "You're not a smoker," he lifts his eyes to Greg, "Not of this stuff anyway."

"Yeah, but how do we get in?" asks Greg, glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting an assault at any second. But the vibrations in the metal grille are minimal, and the jet of steam should ensure protection, at least for now.

Sherlock presses his ear to the door and runs his hands, lightly, across the surface. The mechanism that locks it automatically has been rendered weak by misuse. He pushes slightly against it - the latch has been improperly engaged. "Like this," he says simply and dropping to the floor again he flattens his hands, palm up and slides his fingers into the gap. He feels the tips skirt the edge, pushes through a little more and curls them around, gripping the other side before he tugs. The push bar flaps uselessly and the door swings open just enough for Greg to get his hands in too and pull it open the rest of the way while Sherlock scoots back across the walkway. His knuckles are grazed where they scraped across the stone. "Get in," he huffs, blowing on the reddened, bleeding skin.

They duck inside, and Murray pulls the door back in place, dropping the safety bar to lock it. They are standing on a landing between two flights of stairs, a sign on the wall indicates sub-level one. "Down," Sherlock states, and they thunder down the staircase. "Sub-level two," Greg pants beside him, "when we're in, its bunk twenty, mine's the blue locker on the right hand side."

Sherlock doesn't question him, just follows, his lungs and muscles burning after the enforced confinement of the past two days. Their footsteps are the only sound in the silence of the stairwell, no alarms no sounds of pursuit. The castle is vast and complex network of original architecture and modernisation and the sub-level dorms are ancient with thick stone walls that in the past formed part of the dungeons. No one spends time here unless it's for sleep. It works to their advantage and they slip inside unnoticed and unheard, Greg leads them, down the rows of narrow metal bunks to a double tucked away in a corner. He throws his locker open and pulls out two neatly pressed uniforms. "Here," he tosses one a Sherlock, long grey trousers a white t-shirt and grey over-shirt. There's only one pair of boots, and he growls in frustration. "Shit."

"Size ten right?" Murray busts a locker further along the row, pulls out a pair of boots and throws them over to Sherlock. He's already half-dressed in the stiff, starched cotton, the loose pants discarded on a bunk. It feels odd to be dressed after days spent in sleep-wear, half-naked at times and it only takes moments for his overheated body to start sweating through the new clothes. Greg shoves his feet in his boots, picks the bag up from where he dropped it on the floor and rummages through the locker and drawers for anything else they might need. Sherlock twitches with the urge to be on the move again, "This isn't a bloody camping trip Greg," he hisses, keeping his voice low.

"Have you any idea what it's like in the tunnels? We still don't know how far out to sea they spread and that's the way we have to go at least while it's still light outside. And there'll be patrols and drones, and I doubt you'll want them to see you either."

He's right. It's now an attack on two fronts, surveillance drones from the South, Ericsson and the castle guards in the North. Sherlock likes to think he can look after himself, he's done that for months until now, but every instinct he has is screaming out to stay close to Greg, and Greg knows this County much better than him. His way then. "Ready?" asks Greg, shouldering the pack, and just as they move off again the door swings open. Murray steps in front of Sherlock automatically shielding him from view. He drops down to the floor, and slides beneath the bunk on his stomach. Greg crouches down beside him, and Sherlock shuffles over as far as he can to make room. It's cramped and dusty and it stinks. After days spent in the controlled sterile atmosphere of the cell, the acrid smell that comes from scores of sweaty human bodies is almost enough to overwhelm him under here.

"Hey," he hears Murray ask, "What's going on in surveillance wing, I just came off shift and I missed all the fun." He laughs, but it patently obvious how hollow and forced it is.

"Nice try," a voice snaps, "Now where the hell are they?"

"Who?" asks Murray, feigning innocence.

"Your mate, Greg Lestrade, and the freak."

"On surveillance wing as far as I know," Murray retorts.

"Funny thing is," the voices snarls stepping closer, "we just chased three dickheads through a hole in the wall and down the bloody maintenance shaft. I've got blisters on my hands and neck because someone fucked up the pipes…so either you tell me where they've gone or we'll hand you over to Ericsson."

There are two of them, the one talking and another pumping out epinephrine in waves – he can work with that, he realises. Sherlock senses Murray heart-rate kick up a notch even though he doesn't move a muscle but they're losing valuable minutes hiding here, and if they don't go soon the whole castle will be on lock down and not just the surveillance wing. Sherlock moves to the left, and Greg grabs his wrist in warning.

"Where are you going?"

"Just speeding things up a little."

"By doing what? Not something stupid I hope….Sherlock?"

Sherlock ignores him and snatches his wrist away breaking contact. Having Greg in his head is far too distracting. Too much morality and kindness. The pack lies open on the floor at the side of the bunk. He hooks a finger around the thick padded shoulder strap and carefully pulls it towards him, knowing exactly what he is searching for. Reaching inside his fingers close around the grip of a hand gun and he gently draws it out, along with a slim black silencer. Greg goes rigid with fear at his side.

Yes, Sherlock thinks, he's about to do something very stupid indeed.

One chance, just one chance and he has to get this right. There's the faintest of clicks as he locks the silencer in place, then he checks the clip, weights the gun in his hand and curls his fingers around the grip, adjusting them until he is satisfied. He takes aim, left hand underneath for added stability, and sighting past the legs of the bunk, he squeezes the trigger and fires. The noise is barely audible as the bullet flies from the chamber but the kick-back wrenches his shoulder in the socket sending a white-hot spear of pain down his arm. The result is worth it. The guard in front of Murray screams out in agony and they hear the sound of his body dropping heavily to the floor. In one smooth move Sherlock slides out from under the bunk and cat-like jumps up, he raises the gun and stands ready again, stares impassive at the guard sprawled out at Murray's feet. The toe of his boot is shot through and a trail of bright red blood seeps out onto the floor. It's barely a flesh-wound, calculated specifically for minimal damage but significant pain and bloodloss – he might lose the toe at worst but recovery will be swift and complete. The outcome therefore justifies the means. A rifle lies discarded by his side, and Sherlock bends to snatch it up, tossing it over to Greg.

He glares back at the second guard. "Now," he says, evenly, "you're going to stand at that door and politely explain the dorm is off limits if anyone so much as attempts to come in. You will not raise the alarm, you will not call for help, or I will find you and when I do, you'll lose so much more than just the tip of your toe….nod if you understand." He finishes, snatching away his rifle and tossing it onto the nearest bunk. The guard jerks his head in compliance and moves off at pace towards the outer door.

Can they trust him not to call out for help? Possibly….probably….unlikely. Sherlock trusts no one right now except Greg, Murray still an unknown quantity. But what other choice do they have – even for one of them to take the risk and show their face means potentially revealing where they're hiding. He can't send Greg or Murray, so it has to be the guard.

"Hold his arms," Sherlock snaps at Murray. The young Guide looks at him with a mixture of awe and fear in his eyes, but does as Sherlock says, thank god, kneeling round behind the guard and pinning his arms at his sides. They're Guides after all, Sherlock thinks, and he has just shot a man in front of them, in such a cold and calculated act of brutality which must rail against their very nature. They must think him unmoved by this, the monster they fear him to be, but he's not, he's not, he thinks working as quickly as he can while taking quick shallow breaths that make his head spin.

This is just survival.

This is what you have to do.

The stench of fresh blood assaults his senses and he swallows down the rush of saliva that fills his mouth and threatens to choke him.

"You've done this before," Greg states blankly, staring at the seeping pool of red.

"And that surprises you?" Sherlock turns to look at him raising a brow in question, "Once or twice, yes," he concedes, "with a knife not a gun and a little more….up close and personal."

"Meaning?"

"Despite what this suggests, I've never actually killed anyone…..performed the odd castration though, it was a public service really."

Sherlock turns his head away, not wanting to see the look of horror on Greg's face. He has to know what they're facing out there, it's tough and dark and worse than the blackest of nightmares and for a boy living rough for months on his own….well…people can sometimes get ideas….But he did what he had to do and for that he refuses to apologise.

"What can I do?" Greg's voice breaks through the turmoil in his head.

"Calm him down," he snaps, a little harsher than intended.

But Greg, incredibly, nods in understanding and an odd sense of calm drifts slowly over Sherlock's body. It clears his head a little allows him to breathe again, think clearly and work calmly and while the scent of fresh blood remains sickeningly strong he can push it to the back of his mind and concentrate on what he needs to do. An unintended side effect and not something Greg had intended he suspects, but welcome nonetheless.

Sherlock lifts the pack onto the bunk and rummages around until he finds what he wants. Bending in front of the guard on the floor he pulls out a small roll of duct tape unwinds a strip, he tears it off with his teeth and holding the guard's jaw taught with one hand, he presses the tape over his lips. Then he takes a second strip and winds it firmly around the man's wrists. It's not enough to hurt or hold for long, but will buy them enough silence to stand a chance of getting out of here before anyone else tries to stop them.

"Is there another way we can go?" Sherlock looks around him, at the long rows of bunks that run along either wall, the tall metal lockers and the low line of benches down the centre of the room. It reminds him of the Academy, stark and institutional, too many bodies packed in too small a space.

The sound of the sea is even louder down there, it stinks of brine rotten seaweed and the pungent smell of dead fish. The light tracks down the base of the stairs where the tunnel floor is thick with a filthy layer of sand and rich green algae grows wet and slick in the gaps of the ancient stone walls.

Murray heads down first, sure-footed on crumbling sandstone, Sherlock goes next, right hand on the weak rusty rail at the side, and Greg takes up the rear, gripping the flashlight between pursed lips to pull the oak hatch back in place. The darkness is almost complete, and Sherlock stills for a second, waiting for his eyes to adjust before picking his way carefully down until he reaches the flat tunnel floor.

"The castle is a mid-point," Greg explains, stepping up beside him, "and from here the tunnels branch out three ways, North, South and East which is out to sea."

"And West?" Sherlock asks.

"About one mile further South there's another branch that turns inland. We think it was made like that to try and skirt round the edge of the forest, but the roots get in anyway and it only goes two miles before it all caves in completely. Too much work to clear it."

Sherlock closes his eyes to make the darkness complete. Down here he can think, down here there is clarity at last. That the way back West is barred to them means little. He'd approached the castle boundary from that direction the sense that he had found his Guide getting stronger with each step East he took. But that way lay the open sea. And there's Greg – where does he want to go, where does he need to be?

Home, Sherlock thinks with certainty. It may be the last chance he gets.

"We head South then," he says, "at least until it's safe to break cover again."

He senses Murray's hesitation, the way he hangs back, feet pointing the other way. "You're not coming," he states blankly, "You want to go North, alone."

"I have family up in Berwick," Murray shrugs, "I'll bed down there for a night or two…and then they'll get me over the border into Scotland. Don't go home mate," he adds, speaking directly to Greg this time, "You know that's the first place they'll look for the both of you, and all this shit'll be for nothing."

"I have to."

Greg steps towards him, holding out a hand for him to shake, but Murray laughs at that and brushes his arm aside before crushing him tightly to his chest. "Look after yourself," he gasps, "and the crazy kid." They pull apart, slapping each other a little awkwardly on the shoulder in farewell.

Greg stands still, watching until the glow from Murray's torch fades out and disappears before he turns back to Sherlock and sets his feet South without a word.

Sherlock lets him have his silence, knowing it's pointless to tell him now that this is just the first of many such partings, more friends will be lost, more blood will be spilled…..

The escape is only the beginning.