BANG!

The thunder of the gunshot seemed to echo strangely up here, ricocheting off slates and tiles and chimney pots. Holmes cocked the revolver again, preparing to fire another round into the air.

"Marvellous entrance, old boy," a low, grating voice drawled behind him. "Very stylish."

The detective barely kept from whirling around, pointedly taking the time to pocket the revolver before he turned and bowed. "Good evening, Colonel. So kind of you to answer my summons on such short notice."

"Don't mention it." Moran stood leaning against the next chimney along, smoking a cigarette, and looking wholly at ease in such a precarious perch. "But then you also haven't yet mentioned my sterling work on your behalf this morning." He tutted. "For shame, Holmes – surely a little gratitude wouldn't kill you?"

Holmes tried not to grind his teeth. "I'd be more grateful if I didn't know you were itching to aim Von Herder's air-gun a little more to the left. Shall we dispense with the pleasantries, Moran? Whatever game your handler is playing, I can only imagine that you must be growing as weary of all this tomfoolery as I am. We both know that the sooner you direct me to wherever Moriarty is hiding, the sooner you can put a bullet through my brain once I've told him exactly where he can put whatever offer he plans to make."

"As satisfying as that would be, Holmes..." Moran admitted with a smirk, reaching into his waistcoat pocket, "I rather think you underestimate my employer's powers of persuasion."

Holmes's breath caught in his throat, even though he'd already guessed what the Colonel was about to reveal. John's watch chain glinted wickedly in the lurid glare of the distant flames, the thimble spinning slowly around, a blood-stained corpse dangling from a silver noose...

Moran tucked the bauble away again, dropped his cigarette stub onto the tiles and slowly crushed it beneath his heel with evident relish. "Far be it from me to spoil a man's hard-earned amusement."

There was no amusement in Holmes's answering smile, the detective struggling to master the cold fury which threatened to banish every precious thought of Watson that he'd fought so hard to retrieve. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he lifted off and drifted back out over the street, drawing the revolver again as a fresh wave of gasps and screams drifted up from below.

"And no doubt you would be even more reluctant to explain to the Professor why I failed to make the rendezvous altogether." The detective's smile became a wicked grin as Moran shifted uneasily, knees bent as if preparing to spring. "I do hope you've practiced diving, old boy," he added in mock solicitude, thumbing the hammer and placing the muzzle against his temple. "Or carrying an extra person's dead weight."

If looks could kill, the Colonel's glare of pure hatred would have taken no prisoners. "You..."

"Come, come, Moran," Holmes tutted, "that's no way to get airborne. Just imagine your finger on the trigger, my head exploding like a rotten turnip... Ah, much better!" He chuckled mirthlessly as his reluctant pilot rose into the air, still glowering savagely. "After you, then, my dear sir. Oh no, I really must insist. I'd also advise you to choose your course very carefully, because if I think for a moment you're changing direction too early or too quickly, then you will – straight down."

Moran didn't deign to reply. Instead, he slowly, haughtily turned his back on Holmes, as if he hadn't noticed that the detective was even there. The Colonel fixed his gaze to the east and headed in that direction at top speed without a backward glance. Not daring to look down to see if Lestrade or Wiggins were watching from below, Holmes thrust the revolver back into his coat pocket and followed, taking care not to get too close. He didn't know if Moran had ever tried shooting at a moving target while flying, but Lestrade's experience while escaping had been a most enlightening demonstration of Newton's Third Law in action, and Holmes wasn't eager to try it for himself. Up here, it would have to be a case of who was the better flyer.

Holmes had to grudgingly admit that navigating was slightly easier with the Baker Street inferno casting its horrible orange light onto the clouds piling up ahead. A heading of due east meant that the two men were mostly flying over the Thames, the water gleaming darkly below them as it writhed across the landscape towards the North Sea. Hopefully they were going too fast now for anyone to think that they were anything more than large sea birds. Heaven only knew how Lestrade and the rest were going to deal with tales of flying men over Pall Mall! With hindsight, it might have been wiser to exit the same way as before...

As they left the mouth of the river and headed out to sea, Holmes realised with growing unease that the Colonel wasn't looking down at the water at all, but keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon. The wind was considerably stronger now, plucking at their clothes and hair with a cruel and chilly hand. As if sensing the detective's hesitation, Moran slowed and turned around, though still drifting eastward. "Last chance to turn back, Holmes!" he called, sounding much more cheerful than when they'd first set out. "Got enough dust, have you? Oh, don't look so dismayed, I'm told drowning's one of the easiest ways to go!"

Holmes clenched his teeth as he came to a halt several feet away. He couldn't fault the man for needling his opponent at such a crucial juncture, it was exactly what Holmes would have done! At least he had been right about Lestrade getting useful information out of the Coastguard, they kept careful records of all seagoing vessels. But how much further out was the ship? He had told Lestrade the truth about not knowing precisely how long the fairy dust would last... If he began to fall now, the Colonel would have little choice but to intervene, and Holmes wasn't sure which of them would be more revolted at being forced to cooperate, even in such perilous circumstances.

"Fine!" he growled at last, willing to let the man have a small victory in exchange for his earlier one. "We'll share what's left. You first."

"Most kind," Moran smirked, reaching into his waistcoat pocket with finger and thumb and pulling out the chain... then swore as the end emerged, minus the thimble! He clutched at his pocket and swore again, plunging his hand in and fishing frantically, then did the same with all his other pockets. "It's gone!" he snarled.

"How? How could you have lost it?" Holmes demanded, still keeping his distance.

"I don't know, but we'll have to go back! I'm not risking death at sea when we can hire a boat! Margate's close enough."

"Oh no, you don't!" Holmes dove after Moran as the man took off around him towards the coast, and grabbed him by the ankle, hauling him higher.

Moran yelled in alarm, kicking and flailing. "Let go, you bloody fool! I've got to land, for God's sake, it's wearing off!"

"D'you think I'm stupid?" Holmes shouted back. With Moran so far out in front, it would have been easy for him to break the thimble off and claim he'd dropped it!

"Oh, yes..." And suddenly the Colonel's hands weren't empty any more.