As I meld into the darkness of the summer night, I run through approximately five possible outcomes to this course of action. All but one end in violence of one kind or another. The game is definitely on … foot.

A thousand cunning windings have brought me to this chase. The undoing of Jim Moriarty`s network has been a mighty and enormous task. Sleeping; eating; breathing in the man, and truly believing, with every arrest and collapse of an arms dealer; a money launderer; a drugs cartel – that I was one step closer to a better world. Then, here is the genius and wonder of the thing – those two years in hiatus – the `holiday` from my life – was a false dawn – a mirage or wronged horizon. All the powers of darkness that mould and maim a great city or peaceful country town are still hovering; swirling; waiting for a time to regroup and re-establish. Professor Moriarty is the highest degree of sinister in this world, and, just as he will not stop, I will not stop. I will never stop – until I have ended him.

`Sam Porlock` walks briskly and confidently through the quiet streets of Helston. Hands thrust deep in pockets and head down, he hails two passers-by (I deduce, a short-sighted fisherman from Tredannick Woollas and a forty+ year old divorcee with two children with whom he has had an brief affair) and, as I expected, turns left across the square, towards `The Life of Pie`. Ah, that sign above the door. The `bridge` above the door is obviously π, or Pi, the mathematical symbol for the ratio of a circle`s circumference to its diameter – 3.14159 (or, 3.14, as most people prefer). A clever little joke; made more amusing by the pie dish Frisbee Sommersby sent home with John Watson and myself the day before. I measured the circumference of the pie dish – it was 31.4 cm. Just an observation. I may have mentioned it to John; or Lestrade, or not.

Porlock has used his key in the front door of the bakery, but I rather think I`ll take the back way in.

John Watson annoyingly refuses to read my numerous blogs on the minutiae which make up all that is great and useful in this world. However, even he will find my blog enumerating the sixteen most efficient methods of lock-picking to be a useful one. Three clicks and I am entering the home of a criminal mastermind`s even more criminally insane (and possibly vengeful) older brother. I take a moment to reflect on Mycroft`s comment:

Oh, Sherlock, for heaven`s sake!

But only a moment.

I gently push open the same garden door we had sat inside only a day before. A heavy, dusty velvet curtain has been drawn across which I have to push to one side. Odd. A heavy velvet curtain on a light, summer evening. It is only when I have stepped inside the home of `Frisbee Sommersby` that I realise the fatal error I have made. Stupid, Sherlock – what have I told you? Fools rush in…

The dust motes float upon the air in the pale light from the moonlit evening, and I know I have breathed a rather inconvenient breath.

Within minutes, I feel hot and nauseous. I drop my jacket to the floor without a care. I feel a vague horror in the back of my mind. A black mist was swirling around my eyes, even though all logic told me it couldn`t be there. There was something sinister and horrible in that mist, waiting to spring out – an unspeakable dweller on the threshold of my imagination.

I must have fallen to my knees, since the carpet looked a lot closer and I could make out, through the swirling mist – a pair of black leather Eton lace ups – YSL? (Not now, Sherlock); then pin-stripe trouser; then Gieves and Hawkes tailoring. A far cry from chef`s checks. My hair felt like it was prickling all over my head and my tongue felt far too big for my mouth. I could only look up, up into the face of Frisbee Sommersby…

Professor Moriarty.

The voice was the same. Except, it was entirely different. Calm; smooth; quiet as dry grass swaying in the evening breeze.

"Pick him up, if you will, and sit him in the chair."

I am helpless to resist as strong, hard arms loop under my own and roughly bring me to my feet, dropping me into a nearby chair. My swimming head clears enough to see those brown eyes behind those thick glasses. Focused; sharp; hating. Hating me.

A gloved hand lifts my chin and he stares into my eyes. His brother is in his eyes and we both feel it.

"Ah, Sherlock, at last." The lizard-like head tilt too. Extraordinary.

I gather my sapped strength and tense, trying to stand.

A quiet command; "sit."

And I do.

"Listen."

And I do. I can`t do anything else. Internally, I am screaming out loud, but my actions are locked into my useless body. He is my zombie master and I am utterly helpless.

Oh, Sherlock, what a mess.

Shut up, Mycroft!

"Frisbee…Somm…ers…by." Each world is torturously slow to release from my mouth. Is this how ordinary people speak?

He smiles and sways that head again. By now he is sitting opposite me. The immaculate stillness of a man, who has the upper hand.

"Do tell me, Sherlock. I know you want to. Forgive me if the Devil`s flower has dulled you somewhat – I felt the need to administer a slightly stronger dose to you. Consider it a compliment."

I focus on his face. "Frisbee – name of a … sporting discus, but…really the Frisbie Baking Company of… Bridgeport, Connecticut, made pies that were sold to many New England… colleges. S-s-students soon discovered that the empty pie tins could be tossed and caught, providing endless hours of s-sport. Yale College has even argued that - in 1820, a Yale undergraduate named Elihu Frisbie grabbed a passing collection tray from the chapel and flung it out into the… campus, thereby… be - becoming the true inventor of the Frisbie and winning glory for Yale."

These words, a mere moment on the lips for myself in the usual circumstance, seemed to take a lifetime to get out, but he had asked me, and I had to tell.

"Sssommersby…a film re-make of the book, The Return of Martin Guerre … the story of a French… peasant of the 16th century who was at the centre of a famous case of imposture. He pretended to be s-someone else. Like you."

"Bravo – in spite of my little toxin, you really do have an excellent mind. My dear, late brother was so in love with you Sherlock – "

My face contorted in disgust and my body rebelled by attempting to stand –

"Sit." And I sit.

"With your intellect; your quaint moral code. It amused him endlessly to play with you. Give you puzzles and watch you run around, trying to piece them together. A real shame that he loved you too much to see what you were plotting, with that icy brother of yours. Sherlock…"

The Professor of my nightmares stands and walks over to my chair. He pulls my chin up again and looks into my eyes; my head…

"I am NOT my brother." I cannot move as he runs a cold, gloved finger over my cheek. "But, I do like to PLAY…" Smiling again. "Tell me how I have played with you, Sherlock."

My mind palace is operating at around 40%, but I must do as he tells me.

"You have destroyed the Hermano Cartel by using drugged couriers to bring tainted drugs to this country and ensuring high profile users died. You used me to expose the cartel and bring down Jose Hermano. The couriers p…proved to be excellent mules, since their innocence gave them the confidence and assurance to breeze through customs without much – trouble. You had become t…tired of the cartel. Hermano had proved…unreliable? He was insubordinate. He had to be punished."

The Professor looks across at his accomplice, gleeful. "Poetry, Mr Moran. What did I tell you? Didn't James find us a peach? Tell me more, Mr Holmes."

"Vulnerable p-people, like Brenda Mortimer, were lured away w…with promises of easy money. You gave them cash to – to buy artefacts. Cash infused with scolpolamine – Colombian Devil`s Breath. They carried in the cicutoxin infused cocaine and ensured it reached its t…target audience."

My audience are grinning like buffoons. I want to rip out John`s revolver and shoot them –

Oh, Sherlock! What have you done?

But the revolver is still in my pocket and I don't touch it. Because, I haven't been told to.

Professor Moriarty oscillates his reptilian head to one side and speculates.

"Humanity is a seething mass of – potential, Sherlock. When you start to care about individuals, you become much less effective in your field. I know that you care…" he makes the word sound ridiculous; obscene. "Caring has stripped you down; taken away your edge. How can you think with all those feelings for the welfare of others getting in the way? Speak."

I speak. "I do not fear death, but I fear the waste of a life. People have suffered. Innocent people have died because of you."

"And you, Sherlock. People die every day. A multitude of deaths, to make way for the new. Why shouldn't some of those deaths benefit me?"

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

Mycroft, stay out of my head!

"Sherlock, it just won`t do. You only hurt the one you love. Get up and I will show you what a clear mind does – without sentiment."

I have no option but to obey. Fight or flight? I am unable to do either.

"Now, hit my friend, Mr Moran, here."

I just have time to register the look of shocked horror on the face of Sebastian Moran before I slam a right hook into the side of his head and he falls like a redwood, crashing satisfyingly into a small nest of tables and sprawling over the carpet. I walk towards the mess of arms and legs and pull him to his feet by the collar of his jacket. He groans as I pull his left arm up, behind his back, and slam him, face first into the fireplace. His bloodied nose and rapidly blackening eye is pushed onto the wall, directly next to the painting I had noticed the day before.

Moriarty claps his hands as he surveyed the chaos of his own design and I feel sick to my stomach. As much as Moran deserves a pasting, I can be no-one`s puppet. The screaming inside my head is reaching fever pitch and I think my sadistic new acquaintance feels he has gone far enough. This time. He claps his hands.

"Release him." Moran falls to the floor again, at the feet of his master and commander. He is sore, bloodied and breathing heavily, but not one word of complaint or dissent passes his lips.

"You see, Sherlock, this man is a loyal employee. He would, unquestionably, die for me. We have seen and done some truly terrible things together and my respect for his talents are boundless. But we are not friends. We will never be friends, because, one day, I may have to lose him in this way."

He pushes me back into the chair, and I let him. I already knew the owner of "The Life of Pie" was a sadist. Upon leaving the shop the day before, I had caught up with Jessica, `Frisbee`s` assistant. Her fear of him was very real and the bleach stains on her clothes where he had made her scrub the kitchen with neat bleach were real also. There had been the circular imprint of finger tips above her elbow. The Professor was all that Mycroft had solemnly warned me about up there on the roof that day. And more.

"Did you really like my picture, Sherlock?"

"Yes. La Jeune fille a l`agneau. Painted by Jean Baptiste Greuze in the mid eighteenth century. In 1865, it fetched over one million francs at auction. Today it is worth around £1.2million. That – " I point – "painting is the original, and not the kind of thing to find on the wall of a village baker, however popular his pies may be."

I know Moriarty is enjoying all this immensely, there is truly nothing I want less. But I can`t stop. He claps gleefully.

"Tell me more, tell me more of how you tracked me down. Go and wash your face, Moran and fetch Mr Holmes a drink of water. He looks a little – wretched."

My head is pounding and my strength is weakening. I have seven theories as to how this will end. None of them include seeing my son grow to be a man or seeing Molly smile at me that way. But I have to tell. John Watson feels I may show off a little, from time to time. If he could see me now…

"In no particular order – Your mathematical clues; including the Pascal`s triangle pasties (each entry is the sum of the numbers above it). Mr Moran was driving the cart which passed Dr Watson and myself yesterday in the lane. He slipped up by calling you `professor`. Sloppy. You said you hadn`t been inside Tregennis Lodge when we first met, yet the cut at the base of your thumb was almost an exact replica of the cut John Watson acquired when unloading the dishwasher. You were obviously, very familiar with the house. The Facebook account; the stall at Marylebone market to ensure we would come if John didn't take the bait. You had all bases covered."

"Ask."

"What do you want of me? My life, I assume."

The professor stands and walks towards me. I have no free will. I have to allow this. But, he only stops and looks a little sad.

"The Russians have a word for people like you. Pochemuchka - A person who asks too many questions. You have to stop asking questions, Sherlock. I have lived here for two years. I have been a pie baker for these people and they trust me. Tomorrow I may leave, and they will miss me, but they won` t suspect me. I am known. But I am not known. Nothing can be traced. The day after tomorrow, I have the information to start a new business venture to replace the Hermano debacle. We have all the links and the contacts. No-one else knows my business. You are the only thorn. I could kill you now. But what fun would that be? You will be the end of you. I must make my way in the world, Sherlock. You would not allow my brother that privilege. He was…unstable, but I am not. I can broker with you. I have collateral. I have your – love. The people that you love. Inadvisable, Sherlock, but what can I say? You chose the humanity. Your choice. I want a world with you in it. It is more….colourful. However, if you ever cross me – it will be another story. Another high place. Another fall. There is nothing more sure. I will take everything you love, and everything you are. Then I will take you."

Professor Moriarty takes to his feet and takes my hand. I stand.

"Time to go, Sherlock. You can stand and you can wait; and you can only move when you feel – they love you right….back. Not until then, my little killer." He shakes his head and looks regretful. "You really need to pick a side, Sherlock."

I stand, sway…waiting for my next…command.

"Pick up." He points to the floor where my jacket fell.

I bend and pick it up. I pick them up. A memory stick, fallen from Moran`s jacket when I hit his disgusting face. I pick it up too. Jim Moriarty`s brother doesn't see me. He has the eyesight of a possum.

I stand. I leave. I walk and walk until I have to stop…