Hi folks! Sorry about the long wait... life happened. We're going for the home stretch now. This was originally one long chapter, but I've decided to dispense it in two doses to build the suspense. (Cruel!)

Warning: psychopathic badassery.

Chapter 23

The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water,if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror's temperature is always at zero. Its camera is an X-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.

Reflections - R. S. Thomas

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a nice spot for a vacation. A pleasant shingle beach sloped up to the village. Little boats with names like Barbara Ann and Dolce Miel were tied to fluorescent orange buoys at the quay. Ice cream kiosks and gift emporiums were stuffed to the rafters, like shrines to cheap plastic toys from China. Seagulls stole chips from the few remaining sojourners who were crazy enough to take a seaside holiday this time of year.

The breeze ruffled Sherlock's hair as he looked out to sea one last time, his nose wrinkling at the salty tang in the air. He locked the rented Land Rover and slung the black bag over his shoulder. Checking the GPS on his phone, he made his way along the coast path and away from civilisation.

Half a mile from the village stood an abandoned shipyard and chandlery. A slipway lead up from the muddy estuary shore to a rusty hundred-foot-or-so tall corrugated steel warehouse. Grass and tufts of pink scabious had infiltrated the cracks in the concrete car-park. The fence was a bit ramshackle, but the gate had new padlocks on it, not unlike the ones they'd found at the farm, indicating that it had been used recently if not frequently. A forest green tarpaulined artic lorry stood inert at the other side of the enclosure and in the middle, the only incongruous piece of evidence - the only thing that shouldn't have been there - confirmed everything to him. An MD Explorer Helicopter. Sherlock knew for sure then, that this was the location that the Netherlands Sumatra Company had been bringing in its regular shipments of illicit cargo.

There was no way to pretty it up; they were slaves, pure and simple. Children sold to pay off a parent's debt. Young women tricked into the sex trade. The innocent and vulnerable treated like products for sale in a market. Tagged, bagged and quality controlled for the consumers. It made his blood boil. He thought of Melina and the way she'd shied away from his strength and kindness, not quite believing that rescue had finally come, fighting the tenderness that she thought she didn't deserve. Then her unexpected tirade, directed at him because he should have come sooner, could have stopped it all, if he hadn't gotten caught in Serbia, hadn't messed up and failed to do his job properly. And Molly. The one person who'd kept him alive and continued to help him survive all that time, and this is how he repays her. She could have easily ended up like so many of those poor girls. Melina's friend, the poppy girl, Jane Doe…

All these deaths were on his head.

What the hell was wrong with him? He needed to get all these emotions under control. Maybe his experiences in Eastern Europe had damaged his dedication to logic more than he thought.

He kicked the dirt away at the bottom edge of the fence and, quickly realising that there was no way under, reached into the bag for the wire cutters.

Once inside the car-park, he made his way furtively toward the offices tacked onto the side of the main building, and pressed himself up against the wall next to the fire door.

It had been left slightly ajar. Footsteps and whistling were quickly approaching.

John's phone beeped with its familiar text alert. "Have a look at that will you," he said to David, not daring to take his eyes off the road.

David extracted the Samsung from the other man's jacket pocket and swiped the screen. "It's from Inspector Lestrade. It says, 'Amelia Hubbard didn't make it'."

"Aw, crap." John turned onto a B-road. A little too quickly for David's taste. It was after all his Rav4.

"Was she, um, was she a friend of yours?"

"Not exactly."

"So." David sat uncomfortably in the passenger seat. "Where is this place?"

"The Isle of Sheppey."

"Right."

"Look, David, you don't have to get involved if you don't want to. You can always stay in the car."

"And look like a bloody coward. Not likely."

"Just saying."

They remained in silence for a few minutes, John consistently breaking the speed limit, until David spoke again. "Do you think we'll make it in time?"

"We'd bloody better."

"What's going to happen if we don't?"

"Quite literally the end of the world," John said with gravity, "for London anyway."

Drip, drip, drip…

Sherlock flattened himself up against a corner in what used to be the office block and very cautiously crept toward the edge. He stuck his face out just enough to get a view of the security guard's desk in his peripheral vision. There was no other furniture, as the place had long ago been stripped of anything valuable or useful, but the presence of a guard and his station was a plausible artefact. Someone was sitting on a scuffed black leather swivel chair, sifting through paperwork. The man wore a security guard's cap but Sherlock was sure it was Maupertuis. His pulse quickened. Paint peeled off the wall under his touch. The source of the drip, a leaking central heating system, continued to pitter-patter out the rhythm. There were no other sounds.

Shirt - Size 42 Chest - Shoes – Size 11 – new – too new – brand new, in fact…

The man reached for a grimy cup of coffee sitting in front of an old CRT TV screen and VCR. There was also a box of blue powdered latex gloves on the desk.

Sherlock pulled back out of sight and tried to control his breathing. How was he g –

"Have you come to kill me, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed in dismay. He rounded the corner and stood before his foe. Maupertuis hadn't turned around yet. For some reason he continued to casually shuffle the papers. Sherlock quickly calculated the possible routes of escape, all the viable attack options. A door to the left lead out into the cavernous repair bay of the shipyard, scaffolding still visible along the edges.

"How did you - " Sherlock began, his hand creeping closer to the multi-tool knife in his thigh pocket.

"I was expecting you." Maupertuis finally turned around in the swivel chair. "Don't sound so surprise. I leave very intentional trail of direction for you. I know you cannot resist. A dog always return to its own vomit."

"Come on, be reasonable. There's no way you're going to pull off this plan now, you may as well give up and come quietly."

Maupertuis laughed, "surely you not stupid enough to involve cops. I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Listen," Sherlock moved closer, lowering his voice, appearing sympathetic, "I know that deep down you have a desire to get caught. Most psychopaths are just waiting for someone to stop their spree. You're just waiting for someone to soothe the guilt of your war- "

His adversary laughed, even louder and more sincere. "I'm not psychopath, Mr Holmes. I'm not war criminal. I'm businessman. Before that I was soldier. I was in business of taking over country. Now I take over your country. If I get rid of you; business, that all."

"What were you going to do when you caught me? I'm not just going to – "

"I take you with me." Maupertuis reached menacingly for a roll of duct tape in his desk drawer.

Sherlock took a step back again. Somehow he was going to have to get that tape off this monster. It would come in handy to gag him… once he'd gotten the handcuffs on, that is. "How's your wife?" he spat.

Maupertuis laughed again, almost like they were old friends enjoying a reunion. "She beg for mercy. Did you know that? You were right. She was banging coffin maker when I got there. I cut his throat in one go. He didn't even have time to get his pant on. Then I wrap chain round her neck. She struggle for long time, kicking and choking, but she was dead to me. It Okay; she only wife number three. Then I spit on her naked corpse. Very bad day for me. I lose my wife, I have to clean up mess and then you know what I find?"

"What?"

"I hear from bodyguards; my father murdered."

"It wasn't murder, it was mercy." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Why you break into my office?"

"Your English is great by the way, not as good as my Serbian, but not bad."

"Thank you. I learn for one year. You know what I do to people who break into my office? I torture them. Now, you are here to finish job and I'm afraid to say; I'm here to finish job too. We cannot sit around talking forever."

"So… how do you want to do this? Because – "

"You come here with no weapon – "

"I was planning to catch you with my bare hands," Sherlock said quickly "they're great hands, these. They can do lots of... unexpected things." Oh well, no time like the present. Before Maupertuis had a chance to respond, even to paint another disgusting smile on that nauseating face, Sherlock rushed forward and planted a devastating punch.

His victim sprawled backwards and the chair tipped over. But Sherlock had miscalculated the force of his attack; he was swept off his feet by the falling villain and they landed, tangled in the debris of the chair and the paperwork. Sherlock immediately tried to scramble to his feet, but Maupertuis was quick; he'd grabbed his traumatized nose with one hand and had a handful of Sherlock's hair with the other.

Sherlock yelped and elbowed him savagely in the face. It worked. Maupertuis let go and staggered to a standing position, blood gushing between his fingers. He glared at Sherlock, breathing hard. "Is that all you got?" he said, but Sherlock rushed him again, intending to tackle him low-down, sweep him off balance with a classic offensive.

Maupertuis twisted out of the way and managed to get him in a head lock. Sherlock tried to rip his forearms away and kicked him again and again in the shins, but it didn't seem to have any effect.

"Why… did… you… break… in?" Maupertuis growled in his ear, in a haunting reflection of their Serbian encounter.

He was a big man. He had at least fifty pounds more sheer muscle than Sherlock. Giving up on the lower extremities, he began to work his fingers in between the other man's grip and his own throat. He was rapidly losing oxygen. He could smell blood and sweat and frustration.

"What's… your… real… name?" Sherlock rasped, his eyes bulging.

Maupertuis seemed to be made of iron. Come on, Sherlock said to himself, this isn't like before, you're in good health, you're thinking straight, you've never lost a (sober) fight. He had to come up with something before he passed out. He used the last of his oxygen to push Maup back into the wall. They crashed into a radiator. If he could just get his arm behind his assailant's head, he could throw him in an approximation of a Tsuri-goshi. He hooked his foot behind Maup's ankle, but the other man seemed to sense what he was doing and released the choke hold, pushing Sherlock away and sending him off balance. Sherlock recovered just in time to see Maup disappear into the repair bay.

The conclusion will be posted in exactly one week.