A/N: This story is completed, but for the sake of suspense I'm not posting it all at once. (Yes, I know. I'm evil. I'm an author–what did you expect?) However, I am leaving to go home for Christmas at the end of this week, and will not be back to my own computer until the 3rd of January. So there will be a slight delay. My humblest apologies. :) And Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to everyone!

They had taken my pocket watch along with my jacket, so I had no idea what time it was. The room in which I was imprisoned was small, six feet by eight feet square, and windowless. It was old, judging from the rough stone blocks that formed the walls and floor, and the heavy, dusty smell of countless years. This observation did me little good. London, after all, is a very old city. I could be anywhere. I prowled the length and width of my prison several hundred times, tested the door, kicked at the walls (in the off-chance I might discover a loose stone?) but only gained a scuffed shoe and bruised toes for my troubles.

Some time after Moriarty left me the first time a narrow cot was brought in, and a chamber pot. The cot was flimsy wood and canvas, completely useless as a weapon, and though the pot was of heavy ceramic, it had clearly been broken once and glued back together, dashing any hopes I had in it.

I was sitting on the cot–which was even more uncomfortable (if it were possible) than the military issue ones I had once been closely acquainted with–when a man arrived with a tray of food. He set it down by the door and was gone before I could do more than half-rise. Once again, the tray and all its accouterments were too flimsy to be used in any useful fashion. I wondered if I ought to be flattered.

There was a bowl of what I took to be stew. It resembled stew, at any rate, though not in any appetizing form. Greyish chunks of unidentifiable meat floated in greasy liquid, with a few dissolving lumps that might have been potatoes. The cup contained musty smelling water. There were no utensils.

I picked up the bowl and took a cautious sip. It was pretty bad, but not inedible. I gulped the lukewarm stuff down, trying not to think of Mrs. Hudson's delectable repasts. I had to keep my strength up. Finishing the stew and the water, I curled up on the cot and tried to sleep.

My dreams were troubled, plagued with nightmarish scenes of my military campaigns, only the enemy of my dream visions was armed with lightsabers and blasters, wreaking carnage through Her Majesty's ranks. I stood in a battlefield, the battle over or moved elsewhere, surrounded by the dead. Ahead of me, standing on top of a pile of fallen, was a tall man, a glowing lightsaber held in one hand. His back was to me, his form obscured in shadow as I drew near.

"The wall is breached."

I paused as the voice rolled over me, hardly more than a whisper, harsh as a crow's call. The silhouette half turned toward me, the harsh angles of his face illuminated in the glow from his weapon's blade. It was maddeningly familiar, but I could not put a name to it.

"The wall is breached," he repeated. "Power spills like water poured on sand."

"I don't understand," I whispered.

"Danger. The Dark rises..." All at once I was engulfed in a howling gale that tore at flesh and clothing alike. Icy water cut into my skin, and the wind drove me backwards. I was falling, and there was nothing to grasp, nothing around me but the screaming wind and rain...

I sat up with a gasp, in time to see the door of my cell open. My body reacted even before my brain came fully awake. Launching myself from the cot, I tackled the newcomer in a fit of desperate strength, bearing him down beneath my weight. The door, which he had been in the act of closing, banged open against the outside wall. Startled shouts came dimly to my ears. I paid them no heed. The overwhelming need to escape drowned out all else.

It was a simple matter to subdue the man I'd attacked. He was smaller than I, and slender. My arm wound around his throat, choking off his cries, and I pulled us both to our feet, intending to use him as a shield. He had been armed with a blaster, which I appropriated and held at ready as I moved out of my cell into the narrow hall.

Three men, two armed with blasters, the third with an ordinary pistol, awaited me. I raised my own weapon higher, hoping that my hostage would delay their fire long enough for me to even the odds somewhat.

An impasse ensued, the four of us eyeing each other warily, my captive struggling feebly against the choke hold in which I held him. My mind raced frantically, trying to formulate a feasible plan for getting out of here.

Then Moriarty stepped into view, framed in the doorway behind the three men facing me. He held by one arm a girl of about ten years. In the other hand he held a long bladed knife.

"Doctor Watson," he greeted me, as casually as if we had met while walking in Hyde Park. His pale eyes took in the scene. "How...resourceful of you."

My heart in my throat, I turned the barrel of my blaster from my original targets and placed it against my captive's temple. "Call your men off, Moriarty," I rasped. "Or I will kill him."

"Go ahead," Moriarty replied pleasantly. He pulled the child he held closer and laid the knife across her throat. "And I will end this one's life."

My blood chilled. Surely even Moriarty wouldn't kill a child...but as I held his implacable gaze and saw the very real terror in the girl's eyes I decided that he would indeed. "Don't..." I began.

"Release him," the professor said coolly. "Drop your weapon and walk back into your cell."

What other choice did I have? I did as the arch-criminal ordered, pushing my captive away from me and dropping the blaster. Keeping my hands in sight I backed slowly into the tiny room and sat down on the cot. Moriarty appeared in the doorway a moment later. I was relieved to see that he had released the child.

"I see you do not appreciate my hospitality," he observed dryly.

I chose not to respond.

"I will issue you a warning," he continued, "only once. Further attempts to escape, any further problems at all, will result in consequences. First, I will kill that child and her head will be brought to you on the next meal tray."

I eyed him with cold hatred. "You're bluffing."

"I am not." Moriarty smiled. "She is the daughter of one of my men. And before you get any ideas about finding an ally in her concerned father, I assure you he would hardly notice. He is not the family sort of man."

"You said 'first.' What follows?"

"Your fiancee will be the victim of a most unpleasant attack. I have six men watching her house even now, most eager for a chance to...practice their trade."

I caught my breath sharply. "If you kill her–"

"Who said anything about killing her? Not all the people in my employ are killers, Doctor Watson. Some are guilty of...other sorts of crimes. I have no intention of killing the charming Miss Marston, oh no. She will suffer another sort of attack, one that will leave her condemned in the eyes of society and wishing she were dead."

He hadn't come out and said it, but it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to deduce his intent. I'd been at war, and I had seen what it turned men into. I'd seen–and even treated, quietly–the results of brutal rape inflicted by men who were supposed to be honorable soldiers in Her Majesty's Army upon women who had committed no crime other than to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He wasn't threatening my Mary's life, he was threatening her very soul.

I half-rose. "You bast–"

"Now, now, Doctor," he interjected. "Do try to remain a gentleman. If you are well behaved I assure you no harm will come to Mary Marston. I give you my word on that."

As if I could trust his word. But once again, what choice did I have? I sank back down, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I'm so glad you are willing to cooperate," Moriarty said sardonically.