Author's Note: The night-time stroll of this chapter takes place during the SIB, after Sherlock solved the password to Irene's phone. The journey that leads Sherlock to the place where he is in this chapter is covered in sevenpercent's Level Up. Do read it first if this makes little sense to you.

Warnings: Mention of drug use and murder

Chapter 2: The stuff that matters

More than two decades later, the pirate dreams of childhood had given way to a more practical occupation — but no less risky to life and limb. The thrill of the chase, the pull of the puzzle had led Sherlock Holmes to the life of a Consulting Detective. The skulls and crossbones were replaced by the bodies at crime scenes and the treasure grounds of home had turned into the battlefields of London; feeding his hunger for danger and adventure. He was living the dream.

But the appetite only grows while eating and by now, he might have got more than he could chew. Or as the pirates would have put it: he was forced between the devil and the deep blue sea, caught in the brutal power games between Mycroft and Moriarty. Cracking the secret code of a certain Irene Adler had led to a series of unfortunate events and he was the one to blame. But instead of staying at their family manor and waiting to be keelhauled by his brother after he cleaned up the Bond Air mess with Moriarty, Sherlock had decided to bolt.*)

Two nights later, Sherlock was standing at the junction where River Ember slowly flowed into the Thames, deep in thought. The Hampton Court Palace stood opposite him, on the other side of the river, brightly lit up in the night. The reflection of the lamps on Hampton Court Bridge glistened on the dark water that swirled under it, following the course of the river towards Windsor.

He had come a long way to be standing here again, at the crossroads of the past and the future. To the left was the past: the winding path to Eton once taken by a boy who was running to his brother in time of need. To the right lay London, his life and his choice; the future still shrouded from view by doubts. But this time, no doubt about that, he was on his own. To the nine-year-old, his brother had been his pole star, the one he looked up to for guidance. But that delusion, like the rest of his childhood, was water under the bridge now; been and gone. Things have changed, brother dear.This time, I know better. If he didn't break free of his brother now, he never would.

The long walk from the family estate had cleared his thoughts, as well as the sky above. The stars were coming out and there was a crescent moon rising over the palace buildings on the north bank. Sherlock stood under the trees on the other side of the river, watching the familiar shapes of the brick Tudor chimneys. Even in the spectacular night time lighting, the age-old buildings looked less impressive than he remembered. In the eyes of a child, they had seemed like a stronghold, a solid signpost pointing out the path toward his brother. Now they only mocked him, reminding him of the place – and the brother – he had left behind.

Although Sherlock had a vast knowledge of many subjects, general history had never been his cup of tea. Too many morons allowed to rule the fate of nations, too many places and events of no importance whatsoever to the Work. His interest toward it tended to be sporadic; picking out the pieces that held any value and deleting the rest. But coming from one of the oldest aristocratic families in the country, avoiding history was not an option. Although he would never admit it, his background had left him with a sense of significance nevertheless. As much as he wanted to shake off his past, he would always carry the ancestral ghosts on his shoulders. His family had played a minor role in the making of England over the centuries and now, it seemed, it would be his turn.

Sitting down on a bench on the south bank, Sherlock listened to the lapping of the Thames. This was his river, an artery pulsating through his beloved London; throbbing with the ebb and flow of the timeless tides. He thought about the countless invaders the river had witnessed in the course of history: the Romans, the Vikings, the Normans…Today, London faced a fiend of a different kind. James Moriarty was hardly the first Irishman to bear a grudge towards the English, but this time it was personal and directed at him. Although the threat was global, Moriarty was still very much a foe of his own. His Archenemy. And Sherlock was the only one who could stop him, no matter what his pretentious git of a brother thought. There had to be a way for him to tackle Moriarty alone, just had to be.

The detective drew his knees against his chest and rested his elbows on his knees. Hands clasped under his chin, he looked up to the starry sky as if searching for answers there. Something kept niggling him but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. The river and the stars — something about that combination bothered him. What was the connection? Why couldn't he remember?

The stars stood mutely in the sky, staring him in the face, just like the Van Buren Supernova so long ago. It must be possible…That brought back a memory and suddenly, he just knew. Once before, it had started with the Thames and ended with the stars, just like his musings tonight. The fourth pip.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it", Sherlock had told John when they saw the sliver of the sky full of stars under the Vauxhall Arches. That small confession was not even close to expressing the sensations that the sight of the stars still evoked in him, after all these years. It was beautiful, yes, and he relished it more than he would ever admit to anyone. Even if there was no room for the solar system in his mind palace anymore, the essence of his private childhood moment had never made it to the trash bin of his memories. The stars still reminded him, every time, of being here and alive and free; being one with the world and having a purpose in life. Then and there, walking with his best friend beside him, it had been clear that the sense of purpose was shared and appreciated by the both of them. Looking for answers, facing the danger — together. Maybe that was what had made Sherlock reach out to John and say those words, despite himself. He had never wanted to share his childhood memories with anyone else before and doubted he ever would, but it was a small token of trust nevertheless.

Ironically enough, the stars had chosen a rather embarrassing time to remind him of their importance. In hindsight, he could call it divination, a sign of things to come (if he believed in such foolish notions, that is). Just then, they had been running around London trying to solve the case of Alex Woodbridge — an amateur astronomer, of all things. After the Vauxhall Arches, they had headed for the planetarium to find Professor Cairns and the Golem. That was the place that had offered him the final clue to solve the mystery of the lost Vermeer painting — just in the nick of time. After the case, John had been quick to criticize him for the lack of knowledge that almost cost the life of an innocent boy strapped to the bomb. If Sherlock had bothered to pay more attention to the solar system, John had reasoned, the case of the fourth pip could have been solved more quickly.

And yet: wasn't that the whole point? What John had failed to notice was that without him and the public revelations in his blog, many turns of the great game would have been played out in a very different manner. John's blog had made the consulting detective both famous and bare, exposing his secret and embarrassing weaknesses for anyone to read — and Moriarty had harnessed that information to his advantage. After all, the twofold purpose of the game had been to simultaneously challenge and humiliate the detective.

The fact that the puzzles had been designed for him only was obvious, of course. But, as much as it had been a display of Moriarty's merits, advertising the artistic range of his criminal ingenuity, the Irishman had also gone to great lengths at pointing out the shortcomings and weaknesses of his opponent while doing that. Every one of the five pips had also been a direct personal taunt: scorning Sherlock for the inability to solve the Carl Powers case in his youth (while Moriarty himself got away with murder), trails of the second pip leading to Colombia in an I-know-what-you-did-in-your-recreational-past kind of way; and in the cases of Connie Prince and Alex Woodbridge, taunting his lack of knowledge in popular culture and astronomy — both facts made public information by his blogger. Moriarty had been well versed in Sherlock's weaknesses and because of that, had dared him to fail; had expected him to fail…And in the case of the supernova, it had been just a little too close for comfort.

Back then, John's taunts of his ignorance had rankled, even after solving the case before the deadline. But he got Moriarty's message, loud and clear: Sherlock had been too young and powerless to intervene before, too high to pay attention to what was going on "in the big bad world" out there (as Moriarty put it himself), and lately just too slow and ignorant to ever catch the consulting criminal…at least as long as he kept spending time in the ordinary company of John.

By leaving John as the last pip, Moriarty had finally driven the point home. John was Sherlock's ultimate weakness… After the pool incident, that revelation had opened his eyes and terrified him at the same time. Since then, he had come to terms with what having John by his side meant. That was the one good thing he had, something that he didn't have to regret or question — no matter what Moriarty or anyone else thought about their relationship. And he knew now what needed to be done to keep John alive…

Thinking about that distracted him, threatening to lead his mind to places he didn't want to go. Sighing, he stopped the train of thought and stuffed his feelings for John back into the depths of his mind palace. They weren't helping him right now; he needed to concentrate on the problem at hand. Getting impatient with himself, he backtracked a bit. Where was he going with this? Oh right, the stars.

The stars had been his weakness then, making him almost fail the five pips campaign because of the lack of astronomical knowledge. But maybe he could turn them to be his strength instead; providing him with the epiphany he so sorely needed right now. In a twisted way, John had been right after all: this was the stuff that mattered.

John, ever his conductor of light, had shown him that information and exposure were the key words to induce a broadside from Moriarty. Only this time, Sherlock would provide the ammunition himself. By using all the possible channels available to him, he would create a path of tempting breadcrumbs of (mis)information, strewn at strategic places — and Moriarty would certainly follow. The detective knew that after the recent events Moriarty would come after him soon enough anyway. But by being provident,Sherlock could at least influence the course of the path that the consulting criminal would have to follow to get to him. Instead of continuing their hide and seek games in private, he needed to lay himself bare, exposing every inch of himself to public scrutiny: his ego, his eccentricities, his weaknesses, his whole life story. He would bare his throat and wait for the Irishman to come and take a bite.

Underneath the stars, new ideas were emerging. The detective needed to plan every step of the way with the utmost care and precision, always ahead of Moriarty and Mycroft. But combined with the general approach and the flexible strategies he had outlined earlier during his journey from the manor**), he was as close to a Masterplan as he would ever get.

It would be a path of secret scenarios and lies, but it would be the only way to go. To follow that path, to play that game, bridges needed to burn. Sherlock sat still for a moment more, listening to the waves of the Thames in the silent night. For the first time in days, he felt certain again: grounded by the steady soil of England beneath his feet, the constant skies above him and the endless river meandering through land and life beside him.

Further down the stream, beyond Teddington Lock, the tide was already rising. This time, come hell or high water, he would be ready. Defiantly, Sherlock stood up and turned his back on the Hampton Court Bridge. The game is on! With a swagger in his steps and a smirk on his face, he resumed his long walk home to Baker Street; blissfully ignorant of the gauntlet he would be forced to run.

High up in the sky the stars still twinkled, showing him the way to go. Underneath the stars, his river was still running, rushing towards London by his side. The stars in the sky, the waves in the water — turning to the tango of touch and go, winding with the waltz of what ifs.

Author's Note:
*) & **) = If you are curious about the circumstances behind Sherlock's decision to flee and the strategies he invented earlier during his second walk, I strongly recommend reading Level Up, once again. That's not for me to tell.

An essential part of this chapter adamantly refused to be written almost until the very end. So, if this chapter was confusing, bear with me – it will get better!

Thank you again for reading! Reviews will be relished!