A/N: Sorry about the mixup, folks. Hopefully, things make a bit more sense now that Chapter 8 comes after 7, as it's supposed to. Argh...

Nightfall brought with it a cold, unpleasant drizzle that seemed to creep its way to the very bone. Autumn had arrived in London in full force. Holmes insisted that we wait until dark before venturing out to hunt informants. I was less than pleased at this—the slums of London are bad enough in daylight! It didn't seem to bother Ben, however, and Holmes was as unruffled as ever.

Mrs. Hudson saw us off, a worried frown creasing her kindly features. She seemed to have attached herself to Ben, young as he was, as the perfect object for mothering. She was forever fussing over him or herding him off to the kitchen to ply him with food. As we left through the back door, she admonished us to be careful. "Tisn't safe, out there, Mr. Holmes. That Professor is a dangerous man—he's sure t' have it in for you."

"We'll be careful, Mrs. Hudson," he soothed her. "Watson has his revolver—"

She sniffed disdainfully. Our landlady had little liking for guns, I'd discovered. Most women, I'm sure, felt the same, but somehow I think it went even further with our landlady. From her various comments over the years, I'd formed the opinion that she felt they were supremely clumsy and inelegant. Had Mrs. Hudson lived in the sixteenth century, I suppose she would have been a rapier and main gauche sort of woman.

"—and I've my own defenses. Ben…" Holmes glanced at the young man.

"Is well armed," he replied, though the only thing I had seen him tuck beneath his coat was the strange cylinder he'd liberated from Holmes's study. He still refused to tell Holmes exactly what it was. "Though I hope it does not come to violence."

"Well." Mrs. Hudson folded her arms across her ample bosom. "You just watch yourselves. I've got a bad feelin' about it."

Holmes shot me an amused glance. "We really must be going, Mrs. Hudson."

"I'll have some tea warming in the oven for whenever you get back." With a final huff, she turned and went back into the warm kitchen.

It was a long, cold walk to the borders of the nearest slum. Holmes, despite his reassurances to Mrs. Hudson, seemed uneasy, and deemed taking a cab too great a risk. I wondered at this attitude, as he had received no further messages concerning Moriarty's movements. Then I remembered what he had told me of Rat's death, and realized that it may have disturbed Holmes more than he had been willing to let on before. I huddled into my coat, with chilly drizzle working its way past my upturned collar, and kept one rapidly numbing hand on the revolver resting in my pocket. The shadows around me seemed to crawl; the lamplighters had not lit many lamps on this wet night, and the spaces between the fitfully burning gaslamps were long. The footing was treacherous on the slick cobbles, and only very rarely did we see another living creature hurrying through the rain to somewhere warmer and dryer.

"You couldn't have picked a more lovely night to do this, Holmes," I groused. "We're all going to catch pneumonia."

"Nonsense," he replied. "That's what you're for, Watson."

"Part of being a good doctor, Holmes, involves preventing the illness in the first place."

"You're welcome to go back."

I chose not to respond to that, instead turning my head to look at Ben. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, his hands buried in the pockets of the shabby overcoat Holmes had provided. As we passed a sullenly burning lamp, I could see that his features were strained. "Are you all right?" I asked him.

He glanced up at me, his eyes hooded. "I'm trying to sense my master," he said. "But something's blocking me. I'm not sure if it's because he's drugged, or if it's…something else."

Unsure what to say to that, I lapsed into silence. It was another quarter-hour before we reached our first destination, a seedy little tavern titled The King's Legs—the innkeeper's idea of a joke, I suppose, on the hundreds of pubs scattered all over England known as 'The King's Arms.' The interior was poorly lit and smoky, both from the damp wood thrown in the fireplace and the numerous pipes, cigars, and cigarettes being smoked about the room. The ceiling overhead was low-beamed and draped with cobwebs. The floors and tables had not made the acquaintance of hot water in some time.

The common room was surprisingly full for such a miserable night. Holmes said it was not only the lure of alcoholic escape, but that, for such a rat-hole, it had surprisingly good beer. I was somewhat leery about testing this pronouncement, but as soon as we entered, Holmes headed for the bar, leaving us no choice but to follow. His walk and posture changed subtly, losing its grace, becoming rougher. It was amazing, really, how he could change his whole demeanor with a few subtle changes, even when wearing such a minimal disguise as he was now. Holmes always maintained that the key to a disguise lay not in the amount of makeup or false hair or clothes that one put on, but how one changed attitude, or gestures used when speaking, or facial expressions. I suppose he's right, but I can never seem to grasp the technique. That would be why he is the consulting detective, and I'm not.

Ben, for his part, didn't change anything noticeable about his walk, but instead seemed to suddenly become unnoticeable. I was startled to turn around and find it hard to distinguish him from those nearest him. Another of those mysterious talents he seemed to possess. I simply did my best to remain unobtrusive, but I had the worst feeling that, though I was the shortest of the three, I was the one who stood out. Keeping my head down, I took a stool next to Holmes and resolved to keep my mouth shut. It would do no good to draw further attention to our group by letting my distinctly non-lower class accent to show through. I couldn't disguise it, no matter how hard I tried.

Holmes signaled for the barkeep to bring us ale. When the man turned back with the three glasses, my friend leaned forward. "Seen Shaever around lately?" His clipped, well-educated accent had been replaced by a Yorkshire drawl. Not unpleasant, really, but very unlike Holmes.

The bartender, who dwarfed Holmes, eyed him for a long moment. "Why?"

"He owes me some money," Holmes lied easily. "I'm getting a little tired of waitin'."

"Hmph. Well, he ain't been here since yesterday. Seemed scared," he added.

"Did he tell you why?"

"Nah. I just sell th' man drinks. I don't ask questions—'s bad for business."

"Any idea where we might find him?" A pound note suddenly appeared in my friend's hand. I sipped at my ale, and was surprised to discover that it really was good, though the glass could have stood a thorough cleaning.

"If I did, I wouldn't tell you, neighbor," the man replied coldly. "He was scared, and maybe you're the reason."

Ben leaned forward. "We mean him no harm," he said softly, bringing his hand slowly across the front of his chest.

The man blinked a few times. "Maybe you don't mean him no harm," he said slowly.

"It's all right to tell us where he lives," the young man continued, again moving his hand.

"I-I suppose it'd be all right. He holes up 'bout three blocks away, next to Ma'am Lorden's whorehouse."

I stared. Holmes, who had been watching Ben curiously, looked back to the barkeep. "Thank you, he said, laying another pound note on the bar to cover the drinks and rising. "Let's go," he said to us. He stalked toward the door, and I caught something muttered under his breath. It sounded like "damned hocus-pocus."

"What did you do?" I hissed to Ben as we left the tavern.

"It's as I said earlier, Doctor. The weak of mind are easily influenced."
"Hypnosis?"

Ben shrugged. "Not really," was his maddeningly vague reply. Then lengthened his stride a little to draw even with Holmes, who had gotten ahead of us. I hurried forward, trying to catch up before they were swallowed in the crowd.

Our destination was a tenement that was rundown even by the standards of this neighborhood. I could see a number of dark shapes slumped in the nearest doorways, surrounded by a cloud of gin-fumes. Holmes roused one roughly, and there followed a murmured conversation I couldn't hear, along with the exchange of a few shillings. Then my associate straightened. "He says that Shaever's on the third floor, fourth flat."

The interior of the building stank of old grease and urine, and Holmes had to dig out a stub of candle from his pocket so we could navigate the stairs. Shadows flickered eerily around us. "Shaever is a fringe member of Moriarty's organization," Holmes explained softly as we ascended. "If any of my contacts know anything about your master, he would."

"Would Moriarty know that?" Ben asked.

"Probably."

"We could be walking into a trap," I said.

"There isn't anyone up there right now but Shaever," Ben replied.

"How can you be so certain?" Holmes demanded.

"As a Jedi, I can sense life forms, Mr. Holmes, as well as emotions. Shaever is terrified, but he's alone in his room."

My associate snorted, but did not say anything more. We reached the third floor, and after a cautious look around the hallway, Holmes led us to the fourth door, and reached out to slowly try the doorknob. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. "I doubt he'll answer if we knock," Holmes whispered, and pulled out the felt roll that held his lockpicks. The lock was poor, and it only took a few seconds for him to conquer it, opening the door just wide enough for us to enter.

Shaever wasn't difficult to find—he was huddled over a grimy gas lamp in the tiny main room, nursing a bottle of cheap rum and well on his way to becoming roaring drunk. He was about my height, thin to the point of emaciation, with tangled, shoulder length grey hair.

"Don't bother getting up," Holmes drawled with vicious amusement.

With a yelp, the man shot up from his stool, overturning it, and tripped on it as it fell. He tumbled into an ungainly sprawl on the dirty rug. "G-get away from me!" he cried.
Holmes blew out the candle, dumped the little pool of wax that had gathered around the wick onto the floor, and tucked it back into his pocket. "Come, now, Shaever. I always pay you well."

"Money don't do me no good if I'm dead!" The informant had pulled himself up into a crouch, hugging the wall beneath the room's single window like a frightened animal.

"But if I learn what Moriarty is planning, I can stop him. And then you wouldn't have to worry." My friend strolled over to the stool, righted it, and sat down casually.

Shaever shook his head vehemently. "It ain't him I'm worried about!"

"No—you're worried about his new ally, aren't you?"

"H-how did you—"

"I learned a few things from Rat before he was killed."

"Not enough," the skinny man said with sudden violence. "He didn't tell you what that one can do!"

"And what would that be?" Holmes's voice was soothing and gentle—the tone he used to coax information from those unwilling to give it.

It almost worked. Shaever opened his mouth to reply, then froze. "No, no. I won't talk. If I don't talk, they don't have any reason t' kill me."

"These guns they have—what are they called, Ben?"

"Blasters," the young man said. "Pure energy–lightning, if you will–rather than projectile. Very powerful compared to what you have here."

"Blasters. Thank you." His curiosity satisfied, Holmes leaned forward. "See, we know more than we ought to already. You can just confirm what we already know—not really betraying anything. You do realize, Shaever, that they'll kill you anyway, whether or not you talk to us." His voice hardened. "Someone was following us—once he sees that we've spoken to you, they'll assume that you've betrayed them—and it doesn't matter what you say. However, if you tell me what you know, I'll do what I can to protect you."

It has always impressed me, in a perverse sort of way, how Holmes can tell a bald-faced lie without so much as turning a hair.

Shaever had turned a sickly shade of grey. "Nothing you can do," he whispered. "You can't protect me from—from that one."

Ben moved toward him, crouching down on his heels a few feet away. "Are they holding a prisoner? A tall, bearded man, dressed strangely."

The informant only stared at him in terror. Ben's eyes narrowed, and the intensity in them flared. Shaever squirmed under that gaze, and finally blurted: "I don't know! I might've heard some talking about a prisoner, kept not far from here. But that's all, I swear!"

The young man nodded. "He's telling the truth. I caught an image of where they're holding him." He lifted his head, tensing. "We should leave." He rose, turning toward the door.

A sudden change came over Shaever's face, and he sprang up from his crouch, a knife appearing in one hand, straight toward Ben's unprotected back. I cried out a warning, but the Jedi was moving before the cry even reached my lips, and with inhuman speed turned back, catching the man's wrist in one hand and his throat in the other, pushing him back toward the window. The glass shattered under the impact, nearly sending both tumbling out.

"You—I know what you are!" Shaever snarled, still straining against Ben's grip. "If—if I kill you…he'll let me live! He's got a price on your head!"

A flash of green light suddenly blinded us, followed by a high-pitched whine that I recognized. Ben released Shaever, diving back onto the floor. The skinny informant, suddenly finding himself free, grinned triumphantly and raised his knife. I saw him silhouetted in the light from the next shot, the expression on his face changing to one of shock. Then he staggered forward and collapsed in a heap on the floor, smoke rising from the wound in the center of his back. Ben gestured for Holmes and I to get down, and crawled over to Shaever to feel for a pulse. Glancing at me, he shook his head. "He's dead." He glanced toward the shattered window. "And I'm afraid we may have to fight our way out. But at least I know where they're keeping Qui-Gon. Looks like you weren't lying about us being followed after all." His face darkened. "Strange, though...I sensed no one."

"Abilities beyond the pale of normality you may possess, my young friend," Holmes said, "but I doubt very much that even you are infallible."

Ben flushed slightly. "That is true," he admitted, a little reluctantly I thought. "All the same, I know what we need to know. Shaever not only heard about the prisoner–he's seen the place and been inside the room. The image in his mind was very clear."

"I'm not going to ask for details on that," Holmes said. "I don't think I want to hear your

explanation."

"Do you know how many are out there?" I asked. I did not pretend to understand the powers that Ben Kenobi laid claim to, but if they kept us alive…

The young man's eyes grew distant. "Three—no, four. I think I can get us out of here without them noticing that we've left."

"And how do you intend to accomplish that?" As he spoke, Holmes withdrew from his overcoat's pocket the scarf I'd seen him use before. It looked innocuous enough, but one end was heavily weighted with metal balls designed to do painful injury. It was one of the many esoteric items my friend preferred to guns. He would use one when necessity demanded it, but I think he held the same opinion as Mrs. Hudson.

"It's one of those things you'd rather not hear about, Mr. Holmes," Ben said with a tight smile. "But I'm hoping to fool them into not seeing us, similar to the way I persuaded the barkeep back at the tavern to tell us where Shaever was. It's not going to be easy, with four, and they're alert, but there's a good chance it will work long enough for us to get past them and most of the way to the building where my master is. It's quite near."

"You intend to mount a rescue with only the three of us?" Holmes raised his eyebrows. "That seems a little suicidal to attempt on the spur of the moment. If I had more time to plan, I might be able to come up with something workable, but like this—" He shook his head.

"We don't have time to spare. After this," he jerked his head at Shaever's body, "they won't take any chances. They'll likely move my master—or kill him." His face was very grave, but I thought I saw fear buried deep in his eyes. He grinned then, pulling an odd little device from his coat pocket. "Don't worry, though, I intend to call in some backup to get us out once we've got him."

"What is that?" I asked.

"It's a communication device that can be used to talk to people over distances. MacEiver has one."

"All right, all right," Holmes said shortly, edging up to peer around the edge of the splintered window-frame. "We haven't time to chat. I think they're moving on the building."

"Let's go then." Ben rose, making certain to keep away from the window. "I'll need absolute concentration, so please don't speak to me after this, and try not to make any sudden movements, or think about anything too hard. If you can, try to concentrate on water dripping or something equally boring. The building we're looking for is a quarter-mile away to the west. We'll keep to alleys as much as possible. Ready?"

We nodded, and I took the precaution of pulling my revolver from my coat. I wasn't convinced that Ben could do what he said he could, and if they did see us, I was determined to be prepared. With a final gesture for silence, Ben's face closed, becoming fiercely intent. His blue-green eyes seemed to burn. We followed him, as silently as we could. I concentrated as hard as I could on the most boring think I could think of: the wallpaper covering the walls of my old school headmaster's study. I could hear the voices of our attackers in the stairwell. Ben waved us to the wall, and flattened himself against it. We followed suit, waiting breathlessly.

It was impossible. Even being there, seeing it happen, I found it unbelievable. Four men, roughly dressed and armed with silvery gun-shaped weapons, emerged from the stairwell, talking in low voices. Though the three of us were in plain sight, they did not so much as glance at us. Once they had passed, Ben moved on silent feet to the stairs, with Holmes and I following. I held my breath until we were out on the street and safely into the shadows of an alley. It was still raining.

"What do you know?" Ben breathed, relief coloring his voice. "It worked."

Holmes rounded on him, eyes flashing. "You mean you haven't ever done this before!"

"Well, yes, but never on three people, just on myself."

"And if it hadn't worked? What was the alternative?"

The young man looked grim. "Then I would have had to kill them." His voice was cold as he pulled the metal cylinder from beneath his coat. "And that, Holmes, was something I'd just as soon avoid. Killing is not something Jedi take lightly. Besides, better to deceive and confuse them, than leave them silent if they are supposed to report in."

"I see." Holmes looked only slightly mollified. "Next time, however, let me know if you are planning to attempt something you've never done before. I like to be prepared in the event of failure."

"Of course."

It was a tense fifteen-minute sprint from the tenement to the building where they were keeping Ben's master, most of it spent dodging in and out of alleys. The quarter was suddenly teeming with pairs and groups of tough-looking men, some armed with clubs and knives, others armed with guns or the strange weapons called 'blasters.' It was evident that the men we had fooled at Shaever's rooms had somehow put out a call that we were at large in the area. I wondered how, then remembered the device Ben had shown us. If they had devices such as that, communication would be far more efficient than anything Holmes or I had ever experienced.

At one point, when we were forced to squeeze into a shadowed doorway to avoid yet another group of hunters, Ben sighed. "I wish I knew where they were getting the blasters," he muttered. "The report given to us said nothing about a shipment of blasters being stolen."

"Could they be manufacturing them?" Holmes asked quietly.

"If this were a more advanced planet, I would say yes. But Mailen is a pirate, not an engineer, and no one here has the know-how to—" He broke off. "They're past. Let's go."

The building proved to be quite similar to the one we had just left—rickety, falling apart, and odiferous. Unlike Shaever's tenement, however, it was obviously and heavily guarded. We huddled in the deep shadows of an alley across the street to assess the situation.

Ben said something softly in a language I did not recognize. I had the feeling he was swearing. "They seem to be expecting us." His eyes darted back and forth over the building, looking for any gap in their defenses.

"Could you use the same trick on the guards you used earlier?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not on that many alert people, even if I were to go in alone. No, it will have to be something else."

"A diversion?" Holmes suggested.

"Yes. If I just had—What are you doing!"

My friend suddenly rose, moving from the concealing shadows and out into the middle of the street, his hands in his pockets, whistling a Mozart concerto. I started forward to pull him back, but an iron grip on my arm prevented me. I stared furiously at Ben, but he only shook his head. Holmes appeared so nonchalant that the guards at first only watched him with wary curiosity.

Still holding onto my arm, Ben cursed under his breath in that same strange language, and pulled me out of our concealment into a dead run. His teeth were clenched, and since none of the distracted guards so much as glanced at us, I guessed that the young Jedi had decided to try his earlier trick after all, taking advantage of Holmes's audacity. It worked—barely. Just before we reached the safety of the narrow gap between the building and its neighbor I saw one of the guards cast a confused gaze in our general direction, as though he wasn't quite certain whether or not he'd seen something. Then the darkness closed around us again and Ben released my arm to lean heavily against the wall. He looked more winded than a short run across the street warranted.

Holmes, for his part, had stopped directly in front of the door guards, with only a dozen or so yards between them. The guards, suddenly suspicious, shifted, and one suddenly drew in a sharp breath. Holmes, seeing his reaction, grinned tightly at him, twitched his eyebrows, and bolted. After a confused flurry, the guards took off after him, firing.

"Damned cheeky fool!" I muttered, partly in admiration, but mostly in sheer exasperation.

"Yes," Ben agreed sourly. "But he left us a way in. Come."

The interior was poorly lit, and we could hear people moving around above us. For the moment, though, the entrance was deserted. "How will you find your master?" I whispered to my companion.

His head was tilted, as one listening. "Now that we're so close, I can get a very faint sense of him beyond whatever drug they're using. Upstairs, on the second floor."

"First floor," I corrected absently. He glanced at me. "This is the ground floor," I explained. "The next one up is the first floor."

"Whatever. We'd better get out of sight, Doctor. Someone's coming back." He opened a door—I tensed, fearing someone would be on the other side, but the room was empty—and pulled me through.

"There's only the one flight of stairs," I hissed. "How do you intend to get up without being seen?"

"Creativity, Doctor Watson. Just keep your revolver pointed at that door in case anyone comes through." He tugged a worm-eaten chair out a few feet from the wall and climbed up onto it, eyeing the ceiling determinedly. I obediently aimed my weapon, but kept an eye open to see just what it was Ben had in mind. I was certain it would be something as outlandish and bizarre as anything Holmes might come up with. Remembering the young man's unusual origins, probably even more so.

I was not disappointed. He pressed the switch on the tube that Holmes had been so curious about, and a length of blue fire poured from the end of it. My mouth fell open. "What is that?"

"It's called a lightsaber—a weapon that Jedi use. It's–oh, I don't know how to explain it to you." He slowly pushed the—I hesitate to call it a blade, but could think of no other description—straight up, into the ceiling above. There was a flare of light, followed by the sharp smell of burning wood and dirt, and Ben began to cut a circle.

"Ah…aren't you worried about starting a fire?" I asked, nervously eyeing the smoking wood.

"No. I'm channeling the heat into the whole ceiling. Smoke is the most it's going to do—though you might want to be careful of the edges going up. They'll be a little warm."

What he meant by 'channeling' it, I've no idea, and wasn't sure I wanted to know. I have long held disdain for the spiritualist groups springing up all over London who claimed to 'channel' spirits—but somehow, I don't think that was the sort of channeling Ben had in mind. He had strange powers that even the most deluded of the spiritualists had never conceived of. Who knew what someone from a distant planet was capable of?

Completing the circle, Ben shut down his weapon and caught the freed piece of ceiling before it had fallen more than a few inches. As he climbed down from the chair, I saw that he was actually holding two circles—not only the ceiling in this room, but from the floor above. I was grateful that he hadn't accidentally cut into a support beam. In this pathetic excuse for a building, who knows what might have happened. "You first, Doctor," Ben said, making a stirrup of his hands so I could climb up. I was a little dubious about it—though I was shorter, I knew I outweighed him—but he seemed to have strength as uncanny as the rest of him, and had no trouble pushing me up through the hole he'd made. A moment later, he shot straight up through it, to land lightly on his feet. I just shook my head, realizing that I was rapidly moving beyond surprise. On silent feet, he moved to the room's door, the handle of his lightsaber held down at his side but not ignited.

Ben eased open the door far enough to allow me to poke my head and scan the hallway beyond. Pulling back, I glanced at him. "There's a guard posted at the fourth door," I whispered.
He nodded. "That's almost certain to be the room then." He opened the door again, sticking his head out. "Sir?" he called, and I felt my heart lurch in shock. "Could you come down here a moment?"

I gaped at him, and heard pounding feet in the hallway. Ben pushed me back and moved to one side as the door flew open to reveal the guard, holding a blaster. Ben brought his hand down on the man's wrist, twisting it sharply and forcing him to drop the weapon. Then, still keeping his hold, he pulled the guard toward him, bringing his knee up into the unfortunate fellow's midsection. As the man fell to his knees, gasping for air that refused to come, the young man drove his lightsaber hilt sharply down onto the back of the guard's skull, felling him without another sound.

"Dammit, boy, warn me the next time you do something like that!" I growled, pressing a hand to my chest. "Between you and Holmes, I'm going to have heart failure before this night is through!"

Grinning an apology, Ben signaled for me to follow him out into the hall and to the now-unguarded room. Before I went, I searched the unconscious man's pockets until I found a key.

I found Ben stalled at the door—it was locked, as I had guessed. I waved him aside and inserted the key into the lock with a silent prayer that it was the right one. My prayer was heard, and the lock clicked. I pushed open the door slowly, my revolver at the ready. To my relief, there was no second guard inside. The room's only occupant was a still form on the bed.