Here's chapter 66! I'm sorry it's a week late, but I had kind of a writer's block and a really stressful week - In about an hour the test for blue-belt in Judo will start - Wish me luck!

And now I can definitely promise, next chapter is about Maynard. Really. So yeah. Enjoy!

One day later we start putting our plan into action. It's horribly cliché, but we talk through everything again and get ready in the afternoon, to leave when it's getting dark.

I haven't explained to them exactly what I'm doing. They only know I closed myself off, that I am shutting them out, keeping them away. But sometimes I have the feeling they understand – after all, it's basically what they've been doing most of the time.

By the time we arrive at the old windmill Moran is staying at this night, it's completely dark outside. The usually lush green grass, ferns and trees are dark, looming shadows caused by the silvery light of the moon.

We are a few hours outside London, not too far, but somewhere I have never been before. As soon as I see the windmill, I understand why Moran chose to stay here. At light it must be magnificent, a huge, wooden windmill, her vanes still intact and one of them nearly reaching the ground, the white windowsills, which are almost glowing in the moonlight, must be nearly impossible to look at with the bright sun.

I've been in a windmill before with Father, when I was twelve. It hadn't been this beautiful, this big, and certainly not abandoned.

Sherlock's POV:

The door is closed when they reach it, but not locked. All in all, it's suspiciously quiet. Had Kiara's informant lied after all? But that was very improbable, Margery Grey had seemed genuinely happy to see Kiara.

As discussed, Sherlock takes out his gun, and he doesn't have to look at his brother or Kiara to know that they're doing the same. There are two corridors leading away from the door, and after a quick glance at the others, he takes the left one, hearing Mycroft and Kiara walking the other way.

It's dark and eerily quiet in the huge building. The occasional creaking and groaning of the wood makes him jump the first few times, but as he realises quickly, it's only because of the wind – and they have a certain sound, a certain quality of age.

There aren't many doors in the corridors. It's a bit worrying, not knowing who might be in there, but it also makes it a lot simpler. When the detective comes past a slightly opened double-door, he realises why there aren't many entrances to the room surrounded by the curved corridor he'd been walking on – it's a huge, open room, the marks on the floor and the high ceiling tell him it was used as a room for important gatherings – parties, weddings, discussions.

The room is empty, completely empty apart from dust, so it's easy for him to check the room for people.

Eventually Sherlock reaches a spiral staircase. The steps are quite dirty, only a few cleaner spot betray the people who must have walked up here a day ago, but there's nothing newer. So where are Kiara and Mycroft? They couldn't have gone up already, and he can't hear them, so they can't be too close. Another staircase, maybe?

And also, did Moran walk up these stairs a day ago and not come down for about twenty-four hours? Why?

Upstairs there is another staircase and two further corridors, leaving him the clear choice. Further up is unintelligent, as he could be trapped, so which one to take?

Choosing the one leading to the left, he can't help but hope Kiara and Mycroft will realise and take the one to the right, it's no use searching the same rooms twice.

The wind makes the wood creak again, and Sherlock can't help but frown. Has the wind gotten stronger, which, in an abandoned, old windmill, could be dangerous? Or was there another reason?

Then, his head explodes. Or at least, it feels like it – a bright light and cruel pain flare up, and he can see the floor rising up to meet his head.

Moran's shoes are black, practical.

Kiara's POV:

The narrow, straight staircase leads up to a small room with two further doors, and I look around to Mycroft. My lip twitches almost in a smirk, it's strange to see him in situations like this, undercover. I know, however, that the slight scorn I'm feeling isn't real – it's something I'm telling myself to distance myself. It fits to the situation though, and feels real.

In sign-language I signal him to take the left door and go through the right myself. Behind it there's another room with doors, and another one, and another one. After five minutes I'm glad for the strict memory training Father gave me.

The door of the next room I'm planning to enter is slightly ajar, making it possible to look into it without being seen. It is lighter than most of the others, but it isn't artificial or electrical light. It's just the moon shining through the mostly clean windows, flooding everything with silvery blue light. The shadows are much longer, but the side of Moran's face which is not completely black is nearly white, harshly accentuated, making him look almost skull-like.

Moran is standing in the middle of the room, facing in my direction, but looking into one of the corners, so his gaze isn't focused on the door.

The click of the safety trigger is loud in the quiet air and I wince, but I'm so deep in my old mindset that I don't stop. Pushing the door open, I lift my gun and enter swiftly, only to find myself in an impasse. Moran's gun is pointed directly at my head, me mirroring his position exactly, and it's only now that I notice the chair on my left, about three metres away from me. Another two metres and then there's Moran.

The dark curls are clearly distinguishable, even in the bad light, even with Sherlock not holding his head up. He's not facing me, being turned the other direction, so I can see his bound wrists, and I understand that it's him Moran was looking at. What I don't understand though, is how Moran got him here.

It's the tiny hint of worry, the urge to drop the gun and rush towards him to check whether he's all right, which makes me grateful for the dream of shooting him, Lestrade and Watson. Without it, I wouldn't be able to push the emotion away, to completely disregard him as a friend, leaving slight sympathy, like you would have for a stranger, behind.

Still, it's not only wanting to keep my detachment secret that makes me do my next move.

"Sebastian." I state, almost as a greeting, but I keep my face emotionless.

"Kiara." he replies, but he's smirking, and for some reason, it's really getting on my nerves.

"We both know we'd both be dead in less than a second, so let's not do it this way. Moriarty and Moran, wasn't that the way it was planned?" It's not hard to keep my voice steady, to make it sound nonchalant. Because right now, that's the truth. I'd be completely horrified if this happened a week ago, but right now, I really don't care.

"You're not him," Moran answers, now with an arrogant, smug look gracing his features.

"But you're rather glad about that, aren't you? Imagine he stood here now – may I?" Both our gun are lowered by now and set on a table near by, so I nod towards Sherlock.

"Don't hold back," It would be almost creepy how civilised he sounds, how normal it is for both of us to be talking about a human being, but that's what we both are, here and now. Criminals.

Suppressing a smile, I walk towards Sherlock, but don't stop talking.

"Where is everybody?" Reaching Sherlock, I start searching for a pulse. "Don't tell me you're here alone." Moran chuckles.

"I'm not. I just wanted to talk to you alone, and told them to stay on the third floor."

Turning my head to look at him, surprised, I see that he put his hands in his pockets – still keeping our agreement of no weapons while talking, good.

"You told them to stay upstairs? Two against one, a bit dangerous, don't you think?"

"Three against one, dear, I know the Iceman is here as well – actually, standing just in front of the door."

Sighing, I turn my head to the door I came through, which nearly slammed shut because of the strength I used to push it open, bouncing back from the wall. It's a dangerous moment for me – the balance is shifting, I'm not sure whether I can keep my detachment, so I remember the incident with Smith and Stone.

It seems so long ago now, so carefree. Almost exactly a year ago now, a year and three days, and so much has changed, but I try to remember how it was then – Mycroft, the annoying big brother of Sherlock's, who couldn't even do a rescue properly.

"Mycroft, come in." I call out, loud enough for him to hear, and slowly the door opens.

Mycroft has his gun drawn, pointing it at Moran, but I can see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. After all, neither Moran nor I are holding guns, Mycroft must have heard us talking, and I'm still touching Sherlock's neck, even though I've found the pulse minutes ago – slow, but strong and steady.

"Kiara, what's going on?" Mycroft's voice is sharp, wary, and for the moment, really annoying.

"Not now, Mycroft." I reply, knowingly using his full name. All that work on detaching myself and then a stupid mistake like that? Not going to happen.

It is almost heart-warming how much he trusts me, how easily he accepts such a useless answer in a critical moment.

"Have you ever thought about how delicate humans can be? How delicate even important persons are?" I ask Moran, carefully gripping Sherlock's chin and neck and slowly twist, as if I'd want to break his neck. "How easy it'd be to just twist and snap?"

"It is one of the first realisations you have when you do what I do." Moran states, nodding slightly.

Mycroft on the other hand looks, behind his carefully constructed mask, shocked and almost horrified. It's a great risk to provoke both conscious men in the room like that, I know, but I want to know something else from Moran – and to save Sherlock's, Mycroft's and my life.

"Why did you let me live?" My voice is steady, calm, but it is something that burdened me for quite some time. Why would he let me live, a continuous threat to rule over the web?

"There were those who obey because of fear and those who are loyal – then, they were loyal to Jim. Your two pals, Andy and David, wasn't it, would have known you'd been murdered, and probably by whom, so by keeping you there, but also making you run away, I kept those loyal people – You can't imagine how much we all grieved when you ran away and we thought you were dead.

What will Andy say though, when I tell him about Maynard? How it was your fault he was tortured?"

I can feel my mask slipping, can almost see the cracks in my façade. Anything else but Maynard I could have managed, but not him, not now, not here.

"It was Maynard who tortured him, not me. It wasn't my fault!" Moran smiles widely, his eyes gleaming. He has found a sore spot and he knows it.

"Oh, but it was you who disobeyed, knowing what would happen." I close my eyes and let go of Sherlock's head, instead steadying me on his shoulders.

"It's nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with this conversation." My voice is shaking with suppressed anger, but Moran just smiles wider, as Mycroft looks at us both in confusion and suspicion.

"It does. What do you think why I chose him as my second in command?"

Suddenly two things happen at once. A loud bang indicates the shot from Mycroft's gun, and Moran crumples to the floor, a wound on his forehead, like in my dream. And Sherlock suddenly moves, twitching away from my hands, obviously awake and aware what's going on.

It takes me a few moments to realise Moran is dead, then I sink to my knees to open the leather-ties holding Sherlock in the chair.

When the room begins to spin, I notice something is wrong. My head hits the floor a second later, nearly unconscious, and I hear Mycroft calling my name.

The last thing I can think about is how I didn't succeed, how Sherlock's bonds are still intact. Then everything goes black.