"Forgive me, T'Lar. My logic is...uncertain, where my son is concerned."
–From Star Trek III: the Search for Spock

September 2014

As before, the last vestiges of daylight were fading when Sherlock ascended the stairs from the basement to the threshing room. But what had then seemed mysterious, inviting, and thrilling with the promise of adventure now carried a sense of foreboding and doom. The abandoned machinery seemed menacing in its enormity and stillness, like prehistoric creatures that had been frozen in the act of going about their daily lives. The shadowy doors in the brick walls, metal corkscrew chutes, chipped and peeling columns, and gaping chasms in the floor, which before had seemed rich with intrigue, now held the threatening air of potential blinds behind and within which merciless enemies could conceal themselves.

A couplet from a poem he had learned at school – he had deleted the name of the author, and indeed thought he had deleted the poem – kept replaying annoyingly in his head: "And was Jerusalem builded here/Among these dark Satanic Mills?" When he was with John this place had seemed a New Jerusalem, a paradise of potential discoveries; without John, it felt more like the deadly, endless pit.

Impatiently Sherlock shook the fancy away. Such morbid, septic thoughts would only bring his reason stuttering to a halt. He needed to focus, to hone all his considerable mental powers into one all-important objective: John's safe recovery.

Attempting to conceal himself seemed pointless at this juncture. Sherlock stepped up onto the platform on which the previously boarded-up main entrance, now inadequately barricaded with yellow police tape, opened. The dim light here would not hide him, nor did he try to hunker down or seek safety behind the nearest column. Not knowing where Moran was positioned, he did not know the likeliest place of safety; additionally he guessed Moran was not interested in cutting him down just yet.

Besides…Sherlock was here to ensure John's safety, not preserve his own life.

As he waited, the detective suddenly thought of three separate times he had left John behind in order to face an enemy alone: he had gone with Jefferson Hope to learn the answer to a mystery; he had gone to the pool where Carl Powers had died to seek out his arch-enemy; he had gone to Bart's rooftop to match wits with the mind most like his own. All three times Sherlock had been excited, eager, and alive with anticipation and the thrill of risk-taking. That feeling would not have been so intense with a companion, however stalwart and trustworthy, nor would the presence of his one great friend leave Sherlock with the freedom to take whatever chances he would. Without John by his side, the detective had been free to wager it all.

Now he was alone again, but there was no thrill, and no eagerness to play the game. Now the stakes were higher than ever before, for it was his friend's life for which he was gambling instead of his own.

Suddenly Sherlock remembered something else about those three instances where he had left John behind: all three times, his friend had been there in the end, giving his all to keep Sherlock from harm.

Clearing his throat, he raised his deep voice so that it echoed through the cavernous space.

"Got your invitation…I believe this is the correct address?"

Immediately a light came on, fiercely bright, near the lift on the first level. Sherlock shaded his eyes, peering up.

Camping lantern – too bright to be battery operated…gas powered? Likely.

A figure stepped up to the railing; with the lantern behind, its features were shrouded.

"I'm surprised my simple strategy was able to fool such a clever man as yourself, Holmes," Moran said. "It's a common enough trick for a shikari…tie a goat under a tree and wait for the tiger to show up." The sniper glanced around. "Looks like this derelict mill is my tree, and you my tiger."

Sherlock glared at him with hate. "And I suppose that makes John your 'goat,'" he said acidly.

"Well – in a manner of speaking." Moran's voice was infuriatingly calm. "Though I didn't tether him here."

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat. "Where, then?"

"Does it matter?" Moran said reasonably. "We both know the real reason you've come."

Sherlock's voice dropped an octave. "Oh? And why is that?" The t at the end of the word was clipped in the still, dusty air.

There was a sound of boots on a hardwood floor as the figure above walked along the platform until he was directly opposite Sherlock, his face emerging from the gloom as the angle of the light shifted. "Because you want to see – again – if you're clever enough to bet your life."

Moran stopped to let Sherlock view his face at last. It gave the detective a start to see how similar this man was, in both his looks and his bearing, to John. Tensing, Sherlock subtly tightened his fingers around the butt of the revolver concealed in his right coat pocket. Perhaps not subtly enough: Moran casually shifted his stance so that Sherlock could clearly see the deadly looking black crossbow he held casually across the front of his body, a bolt loaded on the string and pointing toward the floor before the man's feet. A five-bolt quiver was attached underneath the front of the weapon parallel to the string: six bolts altogether. As a plan began to form in his brain, Sherlock hoped that Moran's confidence in his own skill had led him to eschew backup weaponry, though it would be folly to count on that.

He refused to be intimidated. "John Watson. Where is he? What have you done with him?"

Moran gave a short, bitter laugh. "That poor, deluded sod. Do you know he actually believes you're his friend? Even after everything you've done to him, caused to happen to him, he still believes it. I should have put him out of his misery while I had the chance."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "And I'm to believe you didn't?" His heart pounded at the thought.

Moran shrugged. "No, I didn't. Going soft in my old age, I suppose. At any rate, he's safe and sound and a stone's throw from home – across the street from 221, in fact; I left him tied up in Camden House."

A sudden inrush of conflicting emotions assaulted Sherlock all at once. He felt anger at his own stupidity for letting his concern for John lead him into such an obvious trap. Fear that the assassin wasn't telling the truth – that John was here somewhere, helpless, or worse, dead in the empty house opposite 221 Baker Street. But one emotion quickly overrode the others: relief, simple, giddy, and profound. He had detected the ring of truth in Moran's negligent reply, and knowing that John was out of harm's way caused the tight feeling in his chest and the knots in his stomach to loosen all at once. However this confrontation ended, he would be content knowing his friend was safe.

Aloud, he asked, "Why now?" He tried to keep his voice neutral.

Moran offered a rueful half-smile; it again reminded Sherlock uncomfortably of John.

"You and your brother have made England too hot to hold me, as it happens," the sniper said frankly. "Killing you was the last item on my 'to do' list; once that's done I can be on my way."

Sherlock took a casual step sideways out of a dusty sunbeam into shadow, obscuring Moran's aim. His eyes narrowed. "Right then. Next question: why at all?"

Moran raised his eyebrows. "Isn't it obvious?" His tone was mild.

"To avenge Jim Moriarty?" Sherlock clarified. He shifted his position again, and now the sniper's aim was partially blocked by a grain chute.

Moran inclined his head. "Just so."

"All right." Sherlock nonchalantly slid his other hand into his left coat pocket. "Enlighten me, then: why go to all this trouble for a man who never viewed you as more than a tool? A useful tool, certainly, but a tool nonetheless."

Above him, Moran began casually to walk along the platform, keeping pace with him.

"Holmes, that doesn't hurt a bit," he said easily. "Unlike your own 'second,' I'm under no illusions about where I stood with my CO."

"And where was that, precisely?"

Moran paused near the railing, turning to face Sherlock voice full on.

"At his right hand," he said calmly, "until he finally went where he didn't need one anymore."

"So certain he did need you, are you?" Sherlock's tone was scathing.

Moran frowned. "He sought me out, Holmes."

"Yes, I should imagine so. Disenfranchised soldier drummed out of the service for conduct unbecoming an officer, skilled sniper, sinking further and further into debt as a result of his gambling addiction…I'm sure for Moriarty it was like finding a damaged, neglected, but still-useful tool hidden away in a drawer."

"Rather like you with Watson, eh? You should have heard him, insisting over and over again that you're his friend." Though Moran's tone was still light, Sherlock thought he could detect a tenseness that hadn't been there before.

John had said that to Moran? Sherlock's throat suddenly felt tight.

Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know…you've got John. He felt bile rise in his throat at the memory. He wished, suddenly and viciously, that he had dropped Moriarty off Bart's roof when he'd had the chance. He paused briefly before he responded to ensure his voice would not shake.

"Not quite. I did come in response to your personalized invitation, after all."

Moran snorted. "You came because you couldn't resist squaring off with me; it's in your nature. Don't tell me Watson was anything more than another card on the table."

"Oh? If you believe that, why did you deal him in?"

Moran was silent, his eyes ablaze and his face working.

"You think I place no importance on friendship, or on John," Sherlock continued smugly. "That wasn't what your boss thought."

"And what did he think?" Moran's voice was low and dark now.

"Didn't you know?" Sherlock lifted his brows mockingly. "He used John, along with two others, as incentive to get me to kill myself. Did he not tell you? Or did he just," Sherlock paused, drawing it out, "give you your marching orders with no explanation, forgetting you the moment you fell in line, like the piece of machinery you were?"

He glanced around meaningfully at the ancient, silent equipment rotting away in the threshing room. He noted the tightening of the assassin's jaw.

"John and I shared living quarters," Sherlock said. "You say he wasn't my friend? We shared meals together, faced danger together. Argued and made it up and laughed together."

Though he was meant to be goading Moran, Sherlock couldn't quite keep his voice from wavering, just a bit, on that last word. He'd never laughed with anyone the way he had with John. The emotion in his voice stung Moran even more than his words.

"My brother told me caring isn't an advantage," Sherlock went on, almost forgetting for the moment that Moran was there. "It's true John was a liability to me, simply because I cared – Moriarty knew that, and used it. I'd say it was worth it, though." He looked up again. "I couldn't have used that ploy on him, could I, Moran? Not on a resource he could easily replace–"

Though he had been prodding Moran like a sore tooth, he was surprised to hit the nerve so quickly.

With a snarl, Moran abruptly raised the weapon and squeezed the trigger. There was a loud twang, a swish, and a silvery tinkle of broken glass as the bolt smashed through the remains of a broken window to the left of Sherlock's head. Instantly, Sherlock leapt behind the nearest column and whipped out his revolver. Though he was nowhere near as good a shot as John he could hold his own, and though neither the light nor the angle was optimal, the timing was – one of the crossbow's disadvantages was that it would take a moment for Moran to set another bolt. Sherlock fired at the figure above him, but Moran was already moving. Another tinkle of glass followed the gun's explosive report and the light abruptly vanished – all he had managed to hit was the camp lantern. Damn.

Sherlock dove behind a grain chute just as Moran released a second bolt; there was a heavy metallic thunk as it punctured the sheet metal exactly where his head had been a second earlier.

That's two, Sherlock thought grimly as he raced across the threshing room floor toward the eastern side of the Mill, aiming for the lift. He heard Moran scrambling on the catwalk above, fiercely hauling on his bow's cocking stirrup. Sherlock flew underneath the platform just in time – a third bolt shot straight down into the floor behind him, missing his right heel by mere inches and burying itself in the floor. That's three.

The lift's ancient gate was partly drawn back. Sherlock wriggled through it into the well, stashed the revolver in his pocket, seized the cable in his gloved hands and began to scale the shaft using his feet against the wall to propel himself upwards. He remembered from his last visit here that the lift itself had been suspended on the second level; Moran was on the first. If Sherlock could get there before the sniper could reload he might have a chance at a clear shot – that is, if the decades-old cable didn't give way and bring the lift crashing down on him first… a shudder seemed to pass through the entire shaft as an ominous creak came from somewhere above his head.

Anticipating the detective's plan, Moran was waiting; the sniper loosed another bolt at him just as Sherlock's head emerged from the shaft. His over-eagerness cost him – Sherlock jerked back into the shaft just in time, the sudden movement almost causing him to lose his grip on the cable. There was another warning groan from the heavy lift above. Not wanting to lose time reloading, Moran dropped the bow, charged up to the door, flung the gate shut with a rattle and rapidly retreated.

Another creak followed by a hair-raising screech of metal-on-metal, and Sherlock realized why – heart in his throat, he swung backwards on the cable, using his feet to propel him from the wall, and slammed into the gate as hard as he could. If the thing hadn't been almost entirely rusted through it would have been over then and there; as it was it gave way under Sherlock's weight and, releasing the cable, he broke through it and onto the landing just as the cable above the lift snapped and the lift plunged down to the ground level with a horrific crash.

The palms of his leather gloves were burned through from the friction of the steel cable, his clothes were torn from crashing through the rotted gate, and he coughed and gagged on the thick dust permeating the air. But he dared not stop even to get his bearings – with the light gone and Moran nowhere to be seen, he was a dead man if he remained where he was. Thinking fast, he began running away from the stairs toward the far end of the platform before the sniper could finish cocking the bow

He had been right not to keep still – he had not gone more than five steps when a puff of air whisked by his left cheek and a fifth bolt embedded itself in the wall just ahead of him. Sherlock ducked and redoubled his speed. That came from the head of the stairs, he thought. Only one bolt left.

Impulsively, Sherlock pulled the revolver out and spun about, coat flying, to fire in the direction of the stairs; he had no idea if he had hit anything – he could see nothing through the heavy cloud of dust from the broken remnants of the lift – but he hoped to discourage pursuit at least for the moment. He fired once more and hissed in frustration when the weapon jammed.

No time to stop and clear the malfunction – not when he wasn't sure where Moran was.

Sherlock came to the far end of the first level without incident – a minor miracle considering the floor's instability. Leaning against the wall briefly to get his breath back, it suddenly occurred to the detective that the flooring on this side of the building – the side away from the Thames – was less degraded than the side near to the river, else he would never have made it this far, not without extreme care. He remembered John and Lestrade dangling above the threshing room floor over and above where he was now. The thought made him shiver, but it also gave him an idea.

Reaching out blindly, his fingers found an opening in the railing – the platform opened onto a narrow catwalk along the wall, a mere three feet wide, connecting this side of the first level to the other on the far side of the threshing room. If Moran took a shot at him while he was on it Sherlock would be a sitting duck, but the dusky gloom was further enhanced by the choking dust as well as the distance, and he guessed the sniper wouldn't be eager to fire his last bolt without being sure of a kill shot. Crouching low, the detective began making his way across the narrow metal platform, hoping desperately that it would hold his weight.

It was a harrowing journey – not knowing when the catwalk might give way as suddenly as the lift had done, nor wanting to make a noise that would give away his exact location and draw Moran's fire, Sherlock crept along as inconspicuously as possible. Upon reaching the other side he began to breathe more easily and, careful to keep close to the wall, he moved along the platform towards the stairs at the front, gun at the ready. When he passed the room where Lestrade had shown him and John the metal door someone had used to join this building with the next, he continued on to the next room closest to the stairs, pressed himself against the closed door for cover, and paused to catch his breath and try to clear the jammed revolver.

The nurse at John's surgery had observed that he knew nothing about human nature. Sherlock was willing to concede that this was true – but he did know John Watson. Observable similarities aside, Moran's convictions be damned, John Watson was nothing like this man who was hunting Sherlock now. At their core they were two different men entirely – Moran might not think so; John himself might doubt it in his darker moments, but their ideals and beliefs were diametrically opposed. This was not something Sherlock merely thought or deduced – he knew it, plain and simple. Strong moral principle, Sherlock's own moral compass…Moran was not capable of serving in that role to anyone, and certainly not to Jim Moriarty.

So – there was one fundamental difference between John Watson and John Sebastian Moran. Might there be others – differences he could use to shake the sniper?

Sherlock had deduced another almost straight off – while both men were cool-headed under fire, Sherlock knew that John's steadiness came from a different source: his compassion, integrity, loyalty and dedication. Moran, on the other hand, seemed to shut off his feelings so that he became as intent and focused as a predator on the hunt for its prey.

So: if John used his emotions to help him focus, and Moran focused by shutting his emotions off, might not the latter's nerve be shaken if he were prevented from shutting them off?

Moran would never have got as far as he had in the military had he not been very, very accomplished at keeping his cool, but Sherlock had managed to visibly rattle him, however briefly, by the mere intimation that his faith in Moriarty, rather than John's in Sherlock, had been misplaced.

Use that.

"Well, well!" Sherlock said mockingly. "Have the old shikari's nerves lost their steadiness? Whatever would the late, unlamented Jim Moriarty say?"

A low, stealthy sound came to his ears – not from the direction of the stairs on the west side of the building, as he had expected, but from the very room by which Lestrade had entered the Mill from the east weeks ago. A door creaked open; an instant later, steps crept along the first-level platform beyond – steps which were meant to be silent, but which reverberated hollowly through the empty space. Crouching back against the wall, Sherlock bit his lip in frustration as he fumbled to clear the jammed gun.

"Dear me…what does one do when a good hunting dog is no longer…useful? Put it down, I suppose" Sherlock observed, sounding bored. He gritted his teeth – the damned gun was just not clearing. If I have to I can use it as a club…

Peering through the gloom, he saw Moran's vague outline in the doorway, a shade blacker than the blackness beyond. The sniper stood for an instant, and then he crept forward, crouching, menacing, onto the landing.

Sherlock waited until the sinister figure was within three yards of him; then, like the tiger to which Moran had compared him, he sprang onto the marksman's back and hurled him flat on his face. Moran was up again in a moment and used the stock of his bow as a club to knock the gun from Sherlock's hand and send it skittering over the edge of the platform to the threshing floor below. Sherlock swore as Moran let out a triumphant cry and leapt at him, but before he could seize the detective by the throat Sherlock ducked away and sprinted towards the stairs, the sniper hot on his heels.

Counting his steps, Sherlock leapt over the sagging beams he had taken note of on his prior visit. The ploy worked – the weakened woodwork collapsed under Moran's weight just as those on the eighth storey had given way when Lestrade had ventured onto them. The former colonel plunged through the faulty flooring with a yell and a crash.

Sherlock hoped against hope that the bastard had broken his neck, but it was perfectly conceivable that he hadn't – the drop wasn't high enough to ensure instantaneous death. Mrs. Hudson – Lestrade – John – none of them would ever be truly safe if Sherlock didn't end this here and now, and so, pulling out his torch as he ran, he continued his mad dash down the stairs. Without stopping to check on Moran he sprinted past, determined to find his gun.

In his haste and anxiety, Sherlock did not remember that this floor was also unstable. An ominous crack reminded him too late – a fraction of a second later, a rotted board gave way as he set his right foot down on it, sending his lower leg plunging through the splintered wood to his knee and holding it fast.

Stupid, stupid! "Damn!" Frantically he pulled at the trapped limb, struggling to free it – then froze when he heard the ominous sound of the bow's cocking stirrup locking in place as Moran set his last bolt into the flight groove.

Sherlock turned his torch toward the sound; just a few yards away Moran stood, surrounded by bits of wood and debris from the shattered floor above. Dark blood gleamed along the side of his head and face in the torch's beam; his nose looked slightly askew, and he was bearing all his weight on his left leg so that the tip of his right foot only gingerly brushed the ground. But his arms and hands were steady as were his eyes, and there was no mercy in that cold gaze.

"Now I have you." His voice was a guttural growl as he cuddled the butt of the weapon into his shoulder. In that moment he did not look or sound like John at all. Despite the danger he was in, Sherlock could not quell a triumphant smile.

"John is nothing like you," he told the sniper. "He would never have allied himself with a spider such as Moriarty."

"So you think you're better than Jim Moriarty, do you?" Moran shifted the cocked crossbow, resettling it into his shoulder; his right eye gleamed as it peered along the sight.

The unexpected question gave Sherlock pause. It was true that this was something that had worried him from time to time in the past, but now…thinking of John, his heart swelled. Speaking clearly and with absolute conviction he declared, "Perhaps I wasn't. But I do know this: John Watson makes me…better than I am."

He'd told a lot of lies in his life. If these were to be his last words, he wanted them to be true.

Moran's face twisted in sudden malice, envy, and grief. "What you are is a dead man," he hissed, sliding his left hand up the fore grip of the weapon and tightening his finger around the trigger.

And then, in a moment eerily reminiscent of the night Sherlock confronted Jefferson Hope at the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, a gunshot rang out and impacted Moran's chest dead center at the exact moment the assassin released the bolt, continuing through his body and burying itself in the wooden beam behind him, splintering the wood as its victim fell to the floor.

The flight of the bullet had knocked Moran off balance at the last possible instant, altering the bolt's trajectory enough so that, instead of burying itself in Sherlock's heart, it tore a gaping hole in the upper left arm of his Belstaff coat and continued on without piercing his flesh.

With a mighty effort, Sherlock jerked his leg free, tearing his trousers and scraping his calf along the broken edges of the floor. Without bothering to turn and look for the shooter – he already knew who it was; the how he could find out later – he hurried over to where Moran lay, face up and unmoving. He stooped to take the man's pulse, but there was no need – the man's eyes were glazed, fixed unseeingly on the ceiling far above, and there was a widening splotch of blood positioned directly over his heart. Sherlock deduced the sniper had been dead before he hit the floor.

The detective straightened and looked back across the threshing room to see John Watson standing at the top of the basement stairs. His pistol was still raised and aimed towards the body at Sherlock's feet, but when Sherlock gave him a slight nod, he slowly lowered the weapon to his side. Eyes tracking the movement, Sherlock sucked in his breath when they landed on John's wrist – both his wrists; the skin was shredded, bruised and bloody.

Restraints – he did that to himself attempting to break free of restraints so he could get here in time.

Sherlock felt his throat tighten again. With rare humility he wondered what he had ever done to deserve such loyalty, and though he was not one to make vows, he silently vowed to himself that he would never take John for granted again.

Looking at his friend, a bright, warm thing began to bloom in Sherlock's chest, growing and pushing outward until it seemed to take over his very being – like sunlight, making him feel light yet heavy, elated yet humbled, joyful yet overwhelmed.

He cleared his throat. There was so much he wanted to say, but in the end he said only, "Good shot."

He tried to infuse everything he was feeling – all the tenderness and gratitude – into those two words. What he wanted was for John to smile and say, "Yes…yes, must have been" – just as he had that first night – as a sign that things really were all right between them now, that Sherlock was forgiven, and that they could start again.

But John did not say that. He did not say anything, in fact, but only stared, grim-faced, at Moran's unmoving body.

Sherlock frowned a little. "John?"

John gave no sign he had heard. The fingers of his right hand fell open suddenly, allowing the pistol to slide out of his grip and clatter to the floor. John blinked and stared down at it as if surprised.

"John!" Sherlock was alarmed now.

The doctor looked up at him; his eyes were oddly huge in his white face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He looked…stunned, Sherlock thought.

Slowly, John looked down again. Puzzled, Sherlock followed his gaze.

His breath caught in his throat when he spotted them – three blue-tipped feathers nestled snugly against the black fabric of John's jacket, clearly marking the place where the bolt had entered his body.

Author's note: some of the text in this chapter is paraphrased from ACD's "The Adventure of the Empty House."

Many thanks to Chai4Anne for her editing skills.