Sherlock had had six years of riding instruction and two more of polo, because that was what was done in his family. It was all still there, in a very dusty back corner of his hard drive – neglected but not deleted. He really ought to have gotten rid of it ages ago, but it didn't take up much space and now it looked like it would be useful.

Victor shows him to a stall. "Take Celia – she's the smartest and most surefooted. But don't push the speed, even the best horse can put a foot just as wrong as a human out there, and tonight's bad enough already without having to put down my prize mare as well. You'll have to tack her up, I'll head off Linda. She'll be having a litter of kittens over me endangering one of her charges like this."

Sherlock nods his thanks and lets muscle memory take over to saddle and bridle the mare. He doesn't like horses and they don't like him, but he knows how to make them obey. He knows the exact amount of pressure, the right shifting of balance, the perfect firmness of touch and voice to get the animal to do exactly what he wants.

He was a far better rider than Mycroft had been, some small satisfaction since Mycroft actually loved the animals and had been dying to make the polo team at school, but he was clumsy and unsure in the saddle, at eight Sherlock had been able to make a horse do things Mycroft hadn't mastered at eighteen, too bad he'd loathed every minute he'd spent riding…

He straps John's bag behind the saddle and swings himself easily astride the increasingly nervous mare. She champs her unease but doesn't try to unseat him. He takes the reins in one hand, holding the powerful torch with the other, and steers her with thighs and heels in the direction John had left in that afternoon.

It's faster than being on foot, but not as much as he could wish for. Even with his light the terrain is too uneven to risk a trot, although being elevated is useful for searching. He calls John's name every few moments and sweeps around with his flashlight, looking for any sign of him. He picks up John's footprints every so often, so at least he's on the right track, but the turf is so springy and the dew so new that it's impossible to keep his trail for long, even when it's not too dark to make anything out.

Why did Victor have to keep horses instead of dogs? A couple good bloodhounds, a beagle even. What kind of good English aristocrat didn't have at least one hunting dog around the place? A horse was transport, but a decent hound could track down John in minutes, no matter how dark it was. There must be someone around here with dogs, he hoped Victor had the presence of mind to find them, wake them, and set them on John's scent.

What had possessed him to settle in the middle of nowhere like this, it was all his fault that John was missing, his mystery, his remote castle with land completely out of mobile range, if he lived in a more civilised area John could have just called and said where he was, or Sherlock could text information back and forth with other search parties, why live like it's the Stone Age, most people didn't make it to see thirty back then and there was a reason why…

The width of the area John would have been covering grows larger the further out he gets from the castle, and Sherlock tries to think how John would have gone about a systematic sweep of an area. He'd use his army training of course, he wouldn't just haphazardly wander back and forth like a stray puppy. Sherlock had calculated an efficient zig-zag pattern for his area, but John… no, John would have plotted out a grid system. It would have taken longer, but he'd be less likely to miss something. John was nothing if not thorough. Which means he would not have not gotten as far away in a straight line from the castle as Sherlock had in the same time, and certainly not further. It was something.

He closes his eyes and imagines how John would have set up his search grid. If he's right… he nudges the reluctant animal behind her ribs to five degrees north and twenty metres ahead. There were the footprints again, in John's sure and even stride. He blesses John's predictability and continues on, finding the trail easy to follow even when it temporarily fades, now that he's got John's method worked out.

Sherlock urges the Andalusian to go faster and she speeds her walk but refuses to change stride. He finds the pace frustrating but can't help but admire her talent for self-preservation. He continues to sweep the landscape with the torch, checking the ground every so often to make sure he hasn't gotten off track, but confident now in his strategy. He calls out again and again, listening keenly for any response, a voice, a gunshot, anything.

As long as he thinks about it as a puzzle, a case, he can keep back the panic, the complete short-circuiting of his brain that happens whenever he contemplates a world in which John does not exist, the idea is so unfathomable that it destroys neurons and obliterates brain cells if its allowed to ping around inside his skull…

He's not sure how long he continues like this, too absorbed to check his watch, but eventually he realises he can't be far from John's turnaround point, he wouldn't have had time to get much further before darkness fell. In fact, John should have turned around a bit earlier than this, if he had planned to get back with any light left at all.

Sherlock checks the ground around him but the footprints have disappeared. He swears and backtracks a good three minutes until he picks up where the trail diverged from his predictions. Right where John most likely had paused to turn around, suddenly the prints halt and then go off on a sharp tangent. Sherlock can tell by the length of stride that John was running here, the force of his feet hitting the ground making the prints easier to follow than before, which is fortunate now that Sherlock has no pattern to follow.

Not wanting to lose the trail, Sherlock dismounts and leads the mare behind him, keeping his eyes as close to the ground as he can manage while still jogging as quickly as is safe. Suddenly the prints disappear onto an expanse of bare rock and he pulls up short.

"John!" he yells, swinging his light wildly hoping to spot something or at least allow his friend to spot him. "John, are you here?!"

There's no response, and no way to follow his trail. But to go running off like that, John must have seen something, and he'd been running in a straight line. The mostly likely scenario was that he'd continued along the same trajectory. Sherlock draws the line in his head and follows it, alternating between sprinting and pausing to shout for John.

At last, just when his voice is growing hoarse and he's beginning to doubt his calculations, he hears the unmistakable sound of a gun shot, muffled but not far off.

John, it had to be him, who else would be shooting here at the this time of night, he was alive, he had to be, unless that was the sound of the gun that had killed him just now, when Sherlock was so close, or maybe it was just a warning, he shouldn't call again, could attract attention, not sensible…

"John!" he shouts. "John, tell me where you are!" He turns his light in the direction of the sound and forces himself to scan the area methodically, but sees nothing.

"John, let off another shot! I can't triangulate your position like this!"

But there is only silence. Impatiently, he illuminates the area again, starting carefully towards it. Suddenly, he spots something. It's a grouping of stones that seem just the slightest bit too regular to be natural – about 300 metres ahead. Old ruins? Had John taken shelter there?

He drags the mare along as he runs towards the stones, and she whinnies unhappily at being made to trot after him in the dark on rocky and uneven ground.

"Shut up or I swear I'll leave you," he growls. It's an idle threat and they both know it.

He calls to his friend again, this time hearing a weak response, coming unmistakably from his target. When he reaches it, he finds that it is the remains of an old, crumbling well. And at the bottom of it is John. Curled on his side on the floor of it, slightly bloodied and blinking at the sudden assault of light from Sherlock's torch, but very definitely alive.

Relief suffuses his mind, making him hyperventilate, John is alive, the world still turns, the universe is operating once again under acceptable parameters, Sherlock will not have to choose between existing forever in a state of utter wrongness or not existing at all, it's too much for him now, he can't understand or process the feelings that are trying to crop up now, put them away for now, too much still to do, look at them later or maybe not at all…

"John! How did you get down there? Are you hurt?"

John squints up at him. "Sherlock, is that you?" he croaks. "Thank God, I thought I was imagining it. How on earth did you find me?"

"Are. You. Hurt?" Sherlock demands.

"I fell on my back, reinjured it a bit. It's not serious but I can't climb back up."

Sherlock can see the inner surface of the well is uneven, with plenty of protruding rocks that would allow a fit man to scale it easily. He could climb down simple enough, but could he get John back up it?

"Wait one moment," he calls down, and goes to remove John's bag from the back of the horse, who is waiting patiently nearby. He rummages inside, grateful the thought of bringing a rope had occurred to him, even if he'd been thinking about cliffs rather than wells at the time. He ties one end of the rope tightly to a boulder, and loops the other end around himself, running it through the handles of the doctor's bag as well so as to strap it to his back.

"I'm coming down," he informs John, climbing up the outside of the well and sticking the torch securely in his belt.

"No, don't be ridiculous! I'm fine, just go get help. You'll just end up stuck down here with me."

"I am help," Sherlock retorts. "Watch out, I'd hate to exacerbate your injury by falling on you."

Slowly and carefully, he rappels down. He can see why John would have had trouble climbing in or out – handholds are plentiful but every surface is wet and slippery, mould, slime, and moss inhabiting each crevice and outcrop. He nearly loses his footing several times on the way down. At last he reaches the bottom, untangles himself and rushes over to John.

"Don't worry, I'm okay, just don't shine that right in my face," John tells Sherlock as he runs his eyes and hands rapidly over John's body, seeking out every injury and scratch.

Small cuts on face and hands, coccyx and lower spine with fresh bruises, ribs and vertebrae intact, ankle possibly twisted but not sprained, body temperature 32.8 °C, into hypothermia, colour…

John is blue with cold and damp through, the bottom of the well being wet and moisture oozing from every crevice. Sherlock had barely noticed the chill until now – he had been too pumped up on adrenaline – but now he realises it's even colder than it had been the night before.

Without a word he begins to strip off John's wet jacket, jumper, and undershirt, working silently but efficiently, and taking care to mind John's injuries as much as possible.

"You know, Sherlock – oww! – I really don't think this is the time or place…" John jokes half heartedly.

Sherlock takes out the dry clothes he'd brought – blast it, why hadn't he thought of trousers – and helps John into them. Finally, he removes his coat, suppressing a shiver, and pulls it around John, buttoning it tightly.

"First aid?" he asks.

John shakes his head. "Nothing you can do here, a few cuts and new bruising. I can stand and move with help. I don't know how you're going to get me out of here. I was so stupid, I was about to turn around and head home when I would swear I saw a light in the distance. I followed it here, but there was no sign of it... I thought this well might be the entrance we were looking for so I tried to climb down for a closer look and…" he motions vaguely.

He's got to get John out of here now, even dry clothes won't keep his temperature from declining, if he gets too weak or passes out Sherlock won't be able to move them both, then he'll have to go to that place of thinking of a reality with no John again…

"Can you hold on to me?" Sherlock asks abruptly. "Do you have enough strength to keep a grip on my shoulders."

"I…think so. But you can't be serious. You can't climb back up that with the weight of an extra person!"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn't answer. He grabs the bag and hurls it up over his head, out of the well, then helps John to his feet and supports him as he hooks his arms under Sherlock's and wraps his legs around his waist as tightly as he can manage. Sherlock grabs the end of the rope, making intricate loops around himself and John as a makeshift safety harness.

"Ready?" he asks, and John nods without conviction.

Their progress is agonising in it's slowness, as well as just plain agonising. Sherlock finds a stable foothold, then shortens the rope. Then he finds another foothold. He repeats this over and over, carefully testing each new spot for slipperiness and lose mortar. He can feel John tensed on his back, using all his strength just to hold on and try not to cry out in pain. But he can hear the sharp breathing through his teeth that means John's close to the limit of his physical tolerance.

John can withstand so much pain, Sherlock can too but it's because he doesn't feel much of it, while John feels it and bears it beyond what a person should be able to, Sherlock knew he'd lain for hours in the brutal sun with the shrapnel in him before he'd been found, dying by inches and seconds, had he thought it was happening again, that he'd been left and lost by Sherlock to die alone in darkness…

By the time they reach the top Sherlock's arms and shoulders are on fire and John is panting with pain and exhaustion. Sherlock hauls them over the edge back to the safe, solid ground and unropes them. Then John does the last thing Sherlock expects at the moment – he starts chuckling, a rough laugh punctuated by sharp gasps, but one of real hilarity.

"John, are you quite all right?"

John fights to catch his breath. "I'm…fine… heh … Sherlock… did you actually… come to rescue me… riding on a fucking white horse?"

Sherlock looks at him quizzically. "Technically, she's a grey."

This only makes John laugh harder, for reasons beyond Sherlock's ken. He must be hysterical. When he's settled down at last, Sherlock carefully puts him in the saddle and then climbs up behind him, keeping an arm firmly around John's waist.

"You're going to freeze like that," John says. "You really should take back your coat.

"No." Sherlock turns the mare around elegantly and sets them on a course directly back to the castle. In a straight line – as opposed to the meandering route both of them had taken to get here – it's less than three kilometers away. Theoretically, one could see this spot from the castle on a clear day, but Sherlock had learned the hard way that the seemingly gentle and rolling landscape was littered with rills and copses and sharp dips that could conceal almost anything.

He can feel the cold of John's body seeping into him even through the thick coat, they can only go so quickly, too fast and it will injure John more, what if it's not quick enough, every minute counts, he's found his friend but it's not safe yet, it's never safe, really, what they do, he risks them both almost every day and he knows he won't stop, even when this is the result…

"Sherlock." John says as they ride back. "Thank you for coming for me. I knew you would."

Sherlock nods curtly, unable to articulate any of the things running through his head. John, thankfully, is not put off, and tries to keep up a one sided conversation either to keep himself awake or to reassure Sherlock that he is actually okay.

"Being saved from entrapment and certain death by a tall, dark, and handsome man riding on a white – sorry, grey – horse, who sweeps me off back to an ancient castle... all that's missing is a dragon. I honestly can't tell you whether this is the most romantic or the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me."

Sherlock finally gets the reference and snickers just a tiny bit, then is surprised that he has. He allows himself to start to feel just the tiniest bit optimistic, but it's short lived. As they approach the castle, John lapses into unconsciousness, colder than ever.

He decides it's better to hurt his back more than to risk his life in the cold, and forces the horse into a canter, steering her towards the front doors.

"Open up!" he bellows. "I've got him!"

The massive doors swing open just as he reaches the steps and he charges up them, riding right into the hall. Victor is there, as are the entire household staff, some police, and several other people Sherlock doesn't recognise and has no interest in.

They made it, John's still alive, he's going to stay alive, Sherlock won't let that change, not now and not ever if he has anything to say about it, but he's so cold, so dim, a weak little light, bluish, nearly impossible to make out in the brightness of the hall…

"My God," Victor breathes at the sight of them, going pale when he sees John.

"Here, take him, quickly – careful!" Sherlock orders, and Victor and Justin slide John down and lay him on a huge oak table. "Have you called a doctor? He's injured his back and he's unconscious from hypothermia."

Sherlock dismounts and immediately forgets about his steed, who is taken away by one of the nameless folk milling around. "Quick, we need to get him completely dry and wrapped up, he probably needs fluids too, where is that doctor!"

"He's nearly here," Victor promises. "Help me, we'll put him in my room for now, it's closest.

With the assistance of Justin, who is as strong as an ox, Victor and Sherlock manage to get John into his bedroom without too much additional jarring. Sherlock lays him on the bed and strips him naked, before removing nearly all his own clothes and getting into the bed with him, rolling them both tightly together in the down duvet.

Body heat, John needs an external source of heat, his own body can't do the job right now, he's like an ice cube in Sherlock's arms, he'll give John all his warmth but he doesn't have that much to give, it won't be enough…

"Get more blankets and something warm – soup, tea, coffee, anything!"

They obey, and Sherlock manages to spoon some hot broth into John's mouth. He's still insensible but not so out that he can't swallow if he's told. The doctor arrives eventually, scowling at Sherlock still wrapped around his friend, and provides an analysis similar to Sherlock's own earlier diagnosis, prescribing an IV of warmed saline solution, plus morphine, and some very strong pain pills for the next day. Sherlock hands these over immediately to Victor for safekeeping and he doesn't question why.

What he wouldn't give for a pill right now, to dull his senses and his nerves, raw with the state of hyperawareness he's been existing in since John went missing, he can't afford to drop it now, not until John is out of danger and maybe not even then, but oh the relief would be so sweet…

Sherlock remains with John in the bed until it's almost light out, by which time the doctor is awake and coherent, able to keep his body temperature stable, and off the IV.

"Sherlock, I just need some sleep – real sleep – and I'll be completely fine," John tells him, even though he hasn't said a word. "And you do too, by the way. Why don't you go get cleaned up and have a rest? I'm okay here. Really. Don't worry."

Reluctantly, Sherlock goes to find a shower and fresh clothes, intending upon returning immediately to John's side. Victor stops him in the hall.

"He'll be okay, then?"

"Eventually," Sherlock says grimly.

Victor nods, relieved. "Look, I'm sorry I brought you up here, just for some silly old rocks. What happened to John… it's not worth it. You should go home, as soon as he can travel. A couple of blocks, even this whole building, don't matter in the grand scheme. I never thought it would lead to this. I don't want anyone else getting hurt."

"I plan to send John back to London immediately," Sherlock tells him. "I will stay until the case is solved."

"It's too dangerous, looks what's happened already!"

"What's happened already is why I'm not leaving until it's finished," Sherlock says grimly and Victor is smart enough not to argue.

When he returns, John is deeply asleep, snoring gently. Sherlock finds the snores, combined with the soft, healthy pulsing glow of warmth around him, deeply reassuring. John sleeps for hours and Sherlock sits silently beside him, trying to keep his mind from going to bad places, such as what might have happened or where Victor would have hidden the opiates.

Before he'd met John he'd hardly known fear, the rare times he had it had been fear of losing or dying without an answer to a puzzle, almost never for his safety or for another's, now he feel it on an almost weekly basis, fear for John, fear for himself if something happened to John, fear for John if something happened for him, he'd tried to suppress it, it's dangerous, clouds his judgement, makes it more likely to get one of them killed, but he can't seem to stop it, he's thought about leaving John for both their sakes but how much worse would it be if he wasn't there to know what was happening to him…

It's late afternoon when John wakes again and he smiles up at Sherlock. "You're still here."

"Yes."

"All right?"

"I'm not the one who spent most of the night in a cold, damp well after falling six metres on to stone."

John frowns. "Sherlock. You know what I mean. Are you all right?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, wishing John's concern would go away. He doesn't answer.

"Sherlock… you're trembling."

His body's betrayed him and he goes to move away but John catches both of his hands. "Hey, you have to talk to me. Remember? We agreed on it. You can't do that thing anymore."

Sherlock looks away from John, unable to stand seeing his eyes right now. "You were… lost…" he says finally.

"Yes, and you found me. We always find each other, right?"

Sherlock nods uncertainly. "But you were lost. Really lost. I couldn't see you at all."

John lets out a long breath. "Not at all? And you thought I was…?"

"Yes. It's never been like that before. I thought of all the ways it could have happened, what would it be like, how long I could bear it before…"

He trails off, knowing that finishing that sentence would be very Not Good, but John seems to have figured it out anyway and gasps.

"Sherlock, no. You have to promise me that no matter what happens to me you won't do that!"

"I can't promise you that, John." He finally looks at his friend, whose eyes are nearly grey with exhaustion and wide with worry. "I would if I could, but I… I'm not being sentimental. I don't think it's romantic. But the thought of long-term survival in such a scenario make an unsolvable equation. I can promise to try, to exist with the irrationality for as long possible, but that's…that's all I can do."

It's not like he'd plan it, hang himself from a rafter or throw himself into the Thames, it would just happen, somehow, it was as inevitable as gravity, his foot would slip on a rooftop chase, Moriarty would return and best him terminally, an experiment would explode in his face, he'd lose a knife fight, and it would be over and he'd be grateful…

John inhales slowly and deeply, forcing himself not to argue against Sherlock right now. "Well, then I guess I have an incentive to take care of myself," he says at last, voice quavering just a bit.

Sherlock nods again but doesn't say anything, still stiff in his chair and shaking against his will. John pulls his hands closer, until he is forced out of his seat and kneeling on the floor.

John cups his hands around Sherlock's face. "This isn't your fault. I chose this. This is what we do. That's why I'm yours – because no else understands that." He leans forward and kisses him on the lips, firm and soft and definitive. It's the warmth and taste of his friend that finally breaks through Sherlock's defensive system.

Slowly the tension drains out of him, his stiff posture relaxing into weariness, his emotionless mask slipping to allow John to see the barest remnants of his fear and confusion. For a moment, he sees himself reflected in John's eyes and is surprised that he looks more lost than John had seemed during the whole ordeal.

"I'm still yours," he tells John in barely a whisper.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's neck. "I know you are. And I shouldn't have run after a ghost like that, not when it was dark and I didn't know the ground, without a light or a way to tell you where I'd gone. It was foolish. I'm sorry."

Sherlock swallows and pulls himself together, easing out of John's embrace and straightening his clothes. "How's your back?"

No more thinking about the end right now, it has all come out right, that's only thing that matters, isn't it…

"It hurts," John admits. "But not like the first time. I think I can probably walk with a little help. Do you mind? I don't want to get too accustomed to laying about!"

Sherlock helps him sit up and swing his legs off the bed, then sits beside and puts an arm around him. John winces audibly when pulled to his feet, but finds his balance and limps along next to Sherlock in a slow circuit of the room.

"There? See? It's not so bad. I mean, it hurts like a motherfucker, but it gets easier once I'm moving. Here, let me try on my own for a moment. Ahhh, okay…ouch…"

John balances on his own and takes a few halting steps. Sherlock can see how much pain he's in, despite his falsely cheerful grin – which he may have learnt from Sherlock himself – and has to physically restrain himself from assisting. John hobbles around for a few moments and his steps improve until he's walking almost normally, if not without extreme discomfort.

"Aaaand… I think we're done for now," he says at last, collapsing gingerly back onto the bed. "Now, what does an injured man have to do to get some proper dinner around here?"

Victor brings a tray for John, as well as food for himself and Sherlock. Sherlock can feel the guilt pouring off him around John, but he tries not to show it and remains, on the surface, his ebullient self. He excuses himself after eating, leaving Sherlock and John alone again. It's getting late, but John's not sleepy. He does another few laps around the room unassisted, stronger this time, claiming he doesn't want to stiffen up, and then lets Sherlock read to him until it starts to once again grow dark.

"Do you think they'll strike tonight?" John asks. "It's overcast again."

Sherlock shrugs. "If so, we have no way of stopping them. I'll have to reformulate the plan again. Can you tell me anything about the light you saw, where it might have gone?"

John shakes his head. "I would swear it disappeared right where the well was. But when I got there, there was nothing down there and at the bottom… you saw how it was. No entrances, nothing. Maybe it was just a hinkypunk... it was kind of marshy over there."

"Perhaps…" Sherlock mutters. Something's not right. John opens his mouth but Sherlock shushes him, shutting his eyes tight and putting his hands to his head.

He's at the bottom of the well, without John this time, reconstructed perfectly in three dimensions from the random sweeps of his light last night, each stone and crack crystal clear, he scans around himself, high and low, the floor, the walls, the masonry…

Suddenly it jumps out at him in high definition and he gasps, yanked out of his mind palace suddenly back to the room, John staring at him with fascination.

"You've got it, haven't you?" John asks. He throws back the covers and struggles out of bed. "Ahh…Just let me get some proper clothes on, then we can leave right away!"

Sherlock frowns. "You're not coming, John."

John snorts, fumbling for his shirt. "Then you are not going!"

"How exactly do you plan to stop me?"

"I'll tell Victor. See how far you get on your own then. If you want to do this without interference, then you're bringing me with."

"John, you can't help me," Sherlock says cruelly. "You'll only slow me down."

John is unaffected. "All the more reason to start at once. Unless you think you'll go faster once Victor calls the police and has them muck about around all your evidence." He sighs. "If we've learned anything, I think it's that bad things happen when one of us goes running off on a lead alone."

Sherlock acquiesces with severe bad grace. Once they are both bundled up and armed, they slink out through the kitchen exit, using Victor's secret pantry passage to avoid any questions, and Sherlock sets them on a course right back towards John's well.

"You're not serious!" John exclaimed. "You saw that place. There's nothing there."

"Nothing indeed." Sherlock tries to remember to maintain a slow pace for John's sake, but the lure of the answer is too strong and he continually speeds up without realising. John keeps up shockingly well, even considering the larger-than-recommended dose of ocycodone he swallowed before they left. Sherlock wouldn't have thought he'd even be conscious after that, but isn't surprised he's managing to ignore his pain.

He'll pay for it later, Sherlock knows from experience, but it's worth it to John, he won't be left behind, Sherlock would have done the same, John's earned the right to be here even if it will make things ten times worse for him in the morning…

When they reach the well, there is something hanging off it.

"A chain ladder… I'll be buggered!" John exclaims.

"Elementary. I saw the marks on the edge from its hooks when we climbed out, fresh scratches. There was other evidence too, I just didn't have time to process it immediately."

They climb down into the well, John biting his lip the whole way. With the exception of the ladder it looks exactly the same as their previous visit.

"Now what?"

Sherlock waves him quiet and begins methodically examining the protruding stones of the wall at chest level. He's about three quarters of the way around when he cries, "Yes! I knew it! Completely clean of slime and algae. It's been touched repeatedly and recently." He pushes down on the stone like a lever and a crack appears in the wall. A little door, only about a metre high.

"Okay, that was impressive," John admits. "I can't believe you noticed all that. Especially considering…"

Sherlock straightens at the praise and feels that finally, all is right again. "After you," he says, pushing the door open all the way and motioning John through ahead of him.

They find themselves in a packed dirt tunnel, with both wood and stone supports, just tall enough for John to stand straight. Sherlock has to duck.

"So you think this goes…all the way back to the castle?"

"It must. Perhaps it was built as an escape for inhabitants in case of a siege. They wouldn't want to come out where their enemies could still see them or it would be useless. In any case, it's being put to a different use now. We follow this…"

"…we find our thieves," John finishes. He grins at Sherlock. "Glad my adventure ended up being useful."

Useful, if there was one thing John always managed to be it was useful, even when Sherlock grumbles about his lack of intellect, his slowness, he still manages to be the epitome of usefulness, at least for Sherlock's purposes…

"Indeed," Sherlock agrees. "We must be as silent as possible, if we are to get the advantage. We'll have to turn off the torches too and go by feel."

John rummages in his pocket. "Here, we can use this to help see a little." He hands Sherlock a little keychain that, when pressed, emits a low green light for the purposes of helping one find the keyhole in a door at night.

Sherlock creeps forward, almost inhumanly quiet and John follows, behind and on the other side of the tunnel. It seems like they are underground for hours, although in reality it is only about thirty minutes, before they glimpse a light in the distance.

"That must be the chamber under the foundation, where they're working," John whispers. They slink more carefully now, flattening themselves as much as possible against the walls of the tunnel. They pause at the entrance to the lighted room, both straining for any sound and not hearing anything. At last, weapons drawn, they carefully enter, blinking both at the light and at the scene before them.

The chamber is cavernous, but oddly shaped. There is a wall before them that seems to be at least part of the underground foundations of Corvin castle. There are strange pipes and tools every where, and the chamber stretches away from them in either direction at a ninety-degree angle.

"We must be under the northeast corner," Sherlock whispers. "Look above us…those are the stones that make up the outer side of the foundation. This chamber undercuts it, while leaving enough to keep the building stable. The outer stones bear almost no weight. Brilliant. And there, see? Our missing property."

Sherlock had expected a primitive job, based on brute strength and maybe some simple levers, but he was seeing a sophisticated set-up here, no mere henchmen, a bright mind had planned and executed this, he hoped to meet this person, he or she was worthy at least of a conversation…

There is one of the missing foundation stones a few metres beyond them, and they approach it carefully. "Look, hydraulics… that's how they've been moving them so quietly. Ahh, see here we are…" On the top of the stone there is a hole, about eight centimetres in diameter, drilled deep into the block. Sherlock shines his torch down there. "Whatever was in there has already been removed. But someone's been here tonight, and unless they left the lights on and forgot their ladder, they either still are or are coming back soon. We should search, try to locate the other missing stones, and if we find nothing, hide until their return."

John agrees but no sooner have they set foot down the left passage of the chamber, what would be the eastern wall of the castle, than they hear a click behind them and freeze.

"None o' that will be necessary," a gruff voice says. "Now, you boys should put your nice guns down very slowly and kick them away. I would hate to cause trouble by killing guests of Sir Victor, but I will if I have to."