My heart sank. For a moment, I had felt a wild hope that this was merely some feint of Holmes', that he would suddenly spring free and outwit Moriarty yet again. Now, though, it appeared this was not the case. Holmes had, indeed, made a mistake, and had been caught in Moriarty's trap. It was not the first time Sherlock Holmes had been defeated...but this time it was almost certainly the last.

We were dragged out of the room and back the direction I had come with Moran, though not back to my original cell. Instead we were taken to a slightly larger room up the hall from it, and shoved inside. Moran cast us a contemptuous glance as he slammed the door shut, leaving us in near darkness, the only light coming from a grate on the outer wall, near the floor. Holmes, who had stumbled and fallen heavily to the stone floor, dragged himself up into a sitting position and sat, his back against the wall, arms draped loosely across his drawn-up knees, staring at nothing.

"Holmes..."

"I'd rather not discuss it just now, Watson," he said dully. "Suffice it to say that my own stupidity has gotten us both killed."

"But, the Jedi..."

"Are unable to help us now."

"No, listen..." and I told him of the overheard conversation, of the captive Jedi, my sabotage. He seemed to be only half listening, and I felt frustration growing in my breast. "Don't you see, Holmes, we have a chance. We have to get out, if only to warn them about the traitor!"

"I already knew about the traitor, Watson. It did no good whatsoever. The Jedi cannot help us now."

I sank back against the cold stone wall, bitter disappointment replacing the frustration. My sabotage must have been discovered then. Or the rest of the Jedi had been captured. Perhaps there were other rooms, all holding unconscious figures whose veins were plugged into sinister, liquid-filled bags. Worse, Holmes seemed to have completely withdrawn, so caught up in his defeat. There seemed to be little hope. I drew my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms about them. They ached; damp always wakes up old injuries. We sat there, in sullen silence, for what felt like an eternity. It must have been only a couple of hours, though, by the movement of the light on the floor.

Then the lock in the door scraped, breaking the heavy silence. I jumped, certain that now was the moment of our execution. The door opened, and a figure stepped inside, a man in a shabby coat with a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes, a blaster in one hand. He paused in the door, surveying the room, then raised the blaster. I tensed, but the sizzling bolt struck neither Holmes nor me, but something in the upper corner of the room. A second shot struck a point somewhere near the floor near the grate.

Holmes sprang to his feet. "It's about bloody time," he hissed. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago!"

The man raised his head, and I saw that it was Ben Kenobi. Odd, that I had not recognized him before; the hat didn't conceal that much of his face. Then I remembered what he was, and wasn't that surprised after all. "Sorry," he said. "I wanted to be certain I wasn't seen." He tossed the blaster to Holmes, who caught it deftly, and pulled my Army revolver from his coat pocket. "Glad to see you well, Doctor," he said.

I glared at Holmes. "Why the act?"

He was busy checking over his weapon. "Hm? Oh, that." He jerked his head at the scorched spots on the wall and ceiling. "We were being watched–what was the phrase you used, Ben?"

"Bugs. Small listening and recording devices."

"Yes. I wanted Moriarty to be thoroughly certain that he really had caught me in a mistake. I'm sorry, old man," he smiled apologetically at me. "But–"

"–I'm a terrible liar," I finished for him. "Yes, I know." I shook my head. "I forget, sometimes, what a convincing actor you are."

"The day I cease to convince you, Watson, I shall retire. That's a promise."

I snorted. "Then I hope you expect to work until you're eighty; I'll never cease to be gullible."

Holmes' hand settled on my shoulder. "I am very grateful to find you well, Watson," he said softly. "I've been terribly worried."

"I'd have been out of here long before, save that Moriarty found an effective way to keep me in my place." I told him briefly of Moriarty's threat to my fiancee.

My friend's face grew hard as he listened. "We will ensure Mary's safety as soon as we are free," he promised.

"Thank you."

Ben shifted anxiously. "We should go," he said. "We haven't the time to stand about chatting."

"Right you are." Holmes hefted his blaster. "Let us be gone."

I grabbed his arm. "What about the captives?"

Faint shouts echoed up the hall to our ears, followed by the sound of blaster fire. Ben grinned. "What captives?"

"You freed them?"

"That's what took me so long. The bad guys had discovered your sabotage; Maeve wreaked some serious havoc before they got her down again. I got there, and stayed to assist a couple in purging their systems of whatever it was they were being drugged with, so they could help the others. Now let's go."

The halls outside were empty, but the sounds of battle drifted up from the general direction of the room in which I'd found the other captives. I could just imagine the sort of chaos that could be wreaked by four irritated Jedi. It was a happy thought, really.

We turned away from the battle; Ben explained that his freed colleagues would make their way out on their own, likely after pausing to creatively destroy sections of Moriarty's base.

"I thought your Order did not indulge in anger," I remarked as we ducked behind a stack of crates to wait for a shouting group of henchmen to pass, on their way to the battle still raging below.

"It isn't anger," Ben replied calmly. "It's instructive chaos. Moriarty and his goons will likely think twice before taking a Jedi captive again."

"No, they'll just kill you next time."

"They would try. Come on."

It appeared as though we would make our escape unchallenged. Moriarty's henchmen seemed wholly preoccupied with the escaping Jedi (how did they manage to create that much chaos? There were only four of them.) and paid little notice to the fact that their other prisoners were also loose.

Upon reaching the main floor of the warren-like warehouse that was Moriarty's stronghold, we discovered why.

"Ah, Holmes." Moriarty glanced at his–my–watch. "I was expecting you a good ten minutes earlier." He stood between us and the door, Colonel Moran at his side, flanked by seven very large, tough-looking men.

"Yes, well, you seem to be having a bit of trouble down below," Holmes replied lazily. "Didn't want to interfere."

For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of anger in the crime lord's pale eyes, but it was gone so quickly I couldn't be sure. "That will be taken care of shortly. My men are very competent." He flicked the watch case closed and tucked it back into his coat pocket. "But I'm hurt to see you leaving so suddenly. You don't care for my hospitality?"

"I'm so very busy," Holmes replied. He appeared content, for the moment, to play along with the Professor's banter. "And you know how things get when you're away, they just pile up until you can never get ahead."

"And what sort of things are those?"

"Why, stopping you of course," came the pleasant response.

Moriarty chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that sent chills down my spine. "And how do you intend to do that? You admitted yourself that you do not know my entire plan."

"Actually, you were the one who claimed I didn't," Holmes said with a smile. "I only asked if you would tell me."

An odd expression passed fleetingly across Moriarty's face.

Holmes folded his arms across his chest, assuming a pose of casual arrogance. "You are allied with the pirate Mailen and the Jedi traitor, who goes by the name 'Sardius.' With the technology they provide you, you intend to overthrow first the British government, then the rest of the world. Your Jedi friend, of course, intends to set himself up as ruler–and you plan to be the power behind the throne until such time as you can betray him and take his place. Mailen is expendable, and I rather doubt he will live long after the takeover. You are providing Sardius with local supplies–drugs, men, and so forth. He thinks he's very clever, exploiting your organization, using your connections to build his power base, and thinks that he can read all your intentions. You see, he plans to remove you as well as Mailen as soon as he is secure–but you'll betray him before that, won't you? I wonder who would win that fight," he added musingly. "Sardius is a Jedi, of course, with strange powers–but he's not as intelligent as you are."

Moriarty had gone a little gray, but his voice was steady and as cold as ever. "You're guessing, Holmes."

"Am I?"

"You don't know who the traitor is."

"Oh, but I do, Moriarty," Holmes purred. "I know who he is, just as I know why the Jedi are really here."

Beside me, Ben gave an odd twitch. Glancing at him, I saw him hastily smooth a most disturbed expression off his face.

"Well, you are clever, aren't you, Holmes," Moriarty snarled.

"Oh, it was elementary, my dear Moriarty. It's not the most subtle plan I've ever come across. Really, for you it's almost...clumsy. I expected more finesse from a criminal mind such as yours."

The Professor's sallow face twisted in rage, and for a moment I thought he would fling himself at Holmes. He quickly managed to bring it under control, though his eyes still blazed with hatred. "I suppose you aren't so disappointing after all, Holmes, though I fear it will do you no good. You won't leave here alive, and your friends on the outside will join you very soon." He made a curt gesture to his men. "Kill them." Moran and the others pulled guns from their jackets. I lifted my own weapon, ready to take at least a few of them with me.

Then from above dropped to figures with glowing lightsabers, landing directly in the middle of Moriarty's group. Chaos erupted, and the thugs scattered, most of them missing a hand or arm. Moriarty and Moran managed to scramble away from the one-sided battle without serious injury, but stood staring in horror as MacEiver and Shannan finished their short work.

Holmes was grinning openly now. "Really, Moriarty, did you think I wouldn't expect you to expect me to escape? A trap within a trap within a trap–convoluted, I admit, but I thought you'd appreciate it."

Moriarty, clutching a long burn on his arm, let out a howl of absolute fury. "Moran–kill him!" Then he turned and fled, Moran placing himself between us and his master's escape route.

Shannan raised her lightsaber. "Do you really intend to die for him, dog?" she asked.

Moran's lip curled. "You don't frighten me," he snarled. Then he lifted his hand. It was curled into a fist, thumb pointing upwards. "Holmes is mine."

Shannan's eyes narrowed, then widened in shock. "N–"

Moran's thumb pressed down, and the air around us tore apart in a shocking explosion of heat and noise. I was knocked off my feet and thrown several yards forward to land painfully amidst splinters and broken glass. A hollow roaring filled my ears, and I could taste blood where I had bitten through my lip. I lay there for a long moment, thoroughly disoriented, unable to feel any pain beyond the rushing that filled my head. At last I collected my scattered wits enough to roll over and half-sit up, blinking against the ruddy, searing light.

The far side of the warehouse was engulfed in raging flame, the heat rolling from it so intense it was almost a physical blow. All of us, even Moran, had been knocked over by the force of the explosion. Ben, who had been closest, was busy stripping his smoldering shirt off before it could burn him, and MacEiver was cradling an unconscious Shannan's head. Holmes was still down, but conscious and struggling to get up, the back of his shirt burned almost as badly as Ben's, bleeding from dozens of shallow cuts and scrapes.

Moran, furthest from the explosion, was quickest to recover. He was on his feet even as I took in the condition of my companions, crossing the littered floor toward Holmes. I shouted a warning just as the big man aimed a terrific kick at my friend's ribs. Holmes managed to roll aside, and the edge of Moran's boot only grazed him. He scrambled to his feet, shaking his head woozily.

The two men began to circle one another warily. I raised my revolver to shoot Moran and end it now, only to discover it was no longer in my possession. The explosion had knocked it out of my hand, and now I could not find it. I looked back to the imminent fight, and saw a flash of steel: Moran now held in one hand a long-bladed knife.

Ben saw it as well, and reached down to pull up his trouser legs. I saw he was wearing the boots he'd worn when we first found him, and from the top of each he drew a pair of daggers. "Holmes!" he shouted.

I saw Holmes glance at him out of the corner of his eye. Moran, also alerted, lunged forward, intending to kill Holmes before he could arm himself. Holmes, of course, dodged. Spinning out of the way, he used his momentum to snap a kick at the Colonel. Even I, inexperienced in the ways of unarmed combat, could see that it was meant more to drive him back and away than to do any real damage. It succeeded, and Ben flipped one of the knives he held. It flew, glittering in the firelight, straight for Holmes' head. He snagged it out of the air just in time to dodge Moran's next charge and, flipping the dagger over so the blade ran along his forearm, slashed at his enemy. Moran was forced to move back once more, or have his throat opened up. Holmes followed up with a kick aimed at the Colonel's knee, and though Moran–with uncanny quickness–avoided having his knee dislocated the kick caught him on the upper thigh and sent him staggering backwards.

Ben stood poised, the second blade in one hand. As soon as the Colonel fell away from Holmes the young Jedi sent it spinning toward my associate, who had clearly been expecting this, for he caught it as easily as he had the first. Now two blades glittered in the lurid flames as he waited for Moran to move.

In the years I have known Sherlock Holmes, I have never seen him engage in an extended physical battle with anyone. I knew he had studied many different forms of combat, including several from the Far East, and he had in the past exhibited a physical strength remarkable in a man so slender, but his usual weapon of choice was his mind, not his fists. That night, amidst the hellish surrounds of a burning warehouse, I saw a different side to my friend. All his grace and economy of movement came into full play as he circled Moran, knives flashing and weaving in the sooty air. The Colonel, for such a large man, was unusually light on his feet, and though he did not have Holmes' fluid grace he moved with the deadly quickness of a cobra, darting forward and back, seeking for a weakness in his opponent's defenses.

He seemed to spot one, and lunged. Like Holmes, he held his knife in the reversed grip of an experience knife-fighter, and as he moved he twisted his body, bringing his knife-arm forward in a backhanded thrust, putting the weight and momentum of his body behind it. Rather than moving back, Holmes turned into the attack, along the knife's path. He pushed Moran's blade out with his off-hand, the ring of steel on steel loud even above the roar of flames. With his right hand he slashed up and over their locked arms, and I saw a line of blood appear on the Colonel's cheek as he turned his head to avoid the blow. Moran snarled and turned sharply, dropping to one knee. His knife was still fouled with Holmes', allowing him to pull my friend off balance and send him tumbling to the floor. Holmes wasted no time in rolling out of Moran's attack range and propelling himself back to his feet. He spun and caught Moran–still getting to his own feet–on the side of the face with a foot. Before he could follow up with his knives Moran caught him with a powerful blow to the side with his fist.

Back and forth they raged, neither seeming to gain the advantage. Holmes had esoteric training that few Westerners possessed, but Sebastian Moran was a killer born, honed in the wastes of Afghanistan and by years of brutal domination in Moriarty's underworld kingdom. He was almost as fast as Holmes, and unlike my friend had no reservations whatever about killing. I could only stand and watch, both horrified and fascinated at the spectacle. The Jedi watched also, their faces expressionless masks. The tension in their bodies, however, stated clearly that they would intervene the moment it looked as though Holmes were in serious trouble.

For a moment the combatants broke apart, chests heaving, sweat dripping from their faces. The gash on Moran's face still bled sluggishly, running down his cheek and neck to stain his shirt collar. He also sported a few other cuts, mostly on his forearms, but none serious. He had repaid Holmes in kind; my friend's shirt was tattered and bloody from cuts on both forearms, his left shoulder, and a long gash across his back. The cut on his cheekbone had been reopened by a glancing blow from Moran's fist.

"This is pointless, Moran," Holmes said. "The warehouse is falling down around our ears. I don't know about you, but death by burning is not high on my list."

"Perhaps not on yours, Holmes, but I wouldn't object to seeing you burnt to a cinder." Moran grinned, his face a bloody mask. "Of course, if you ask nicely, I'll slit your throat and spare you the trouble."

"You're too kind," Holmes drawled. He feinted, as though he would make an overhand swipe. Moran fell for it, raising an arm to block the knife. My friend dropped to the floor instead, and swept his leg out, catching the Colonel behind the knees. Moran toppled with a startled cry. Before he could begin to recover, Holmes was back on his feet and on top of him, one of his knives at the big man's throat, the other held ready to plunge into Moran's chest, one knee bent across his rib cage, so that, should Holmes drop his full weight onto that knee, every rib in the Colonel's chest would splinter. "Really, Moran, hasn't anyone ever taught you not to chat with your opponent?"

Moran, his face livid beneath blood and soot, merely swore at him.

"Surrender, Moran. You're going to jail."

"Slit my throat, you damnable coward!" the Colonel raged.

Holmes sighed. "Must you be so difficult?" Without waiting for a reply he reversed the knife he held above Moran's chest and slammed the pommel into the man's groin. While the Colonel was thoroughly distracted by that tactic, my friend brought the hilts of both knives down hard on his temples, rendering him unconscious.

I winced. "That was a little...brutal, don't you think, Holmes?" I had no fondness for Moran, but I'm not sure I would ever have considered hitting him quite so literally below the belt...

Holmes got to his feet, wiping blood from his mouth. "Sportsmanship has very little place in a real fight, Watson," he said. "You fight to win, whatever it takes."

MacEiver was helping Shannan to her feet. "So why didn't you do that earlier?" he asked.

"For the same reason you didn't intervene in the fight. It wasn't necessary until that point." Holmes shrugged. "I do have some modicum of sportsmanship–I am still British, after all." He looked down at Moran, then at the flames blazing all around us. "We should leave, quickly. Pity we can't just leave him here...but I wouldn't wish death by conflagration even on Sebastian Moran. Someone help me pick him up."

I compliantly walked over and lifted the unconscious man's legs. "What are we going to do with him, though?"

Holmes picked Moran up by the shoulders. "I wish we could take him with us, and hand him over to Lestrade–but I fear we haven't the time. Moriarty must be stopped."

"We could take him with us back to Haven or Baker Street," Shannan suggested. "Tie him up, and deal with him later."

Holmes frowned. "I don't think we can afford to lose time carrying him," he said. "We need transportation, and explanations about his presence would be awkward at best. We should certainly tie him up, but leave him somewhere around here. Perhaps I can send Lestrade after him soon."