Sherlock and Madison sprinted through the lugubrious night, shoes making fat slapping sounds on the pavement that shimmered with recent rainfall mirroring the orange glow emitted by the streetlamps. Sherlock's scarf and coat flared out behind him, flapping like a cape and his jaw was held tight in determination, his piecing blue eyes narrowed and focused; Madison's long mousy ponytail whipped around her neck, errant waves tumbling down, giving her a wild, frenetic appearance. Her eyes were wide like a startled rabbit's, yet a certain flash of green and a fleeting coruscation showed her thrill at the night chase; never had she felt so palpably alive before, never had she lifted the chalice of danger up to her anxious, trembling lips and tasted the full-bodied essence of life and mortality than when she teared through the slumberous crepuscular streets with the blood pumping unadulterated through her feverish veins, fuelled with neat adrenaline and terror. Neither dared to look round, and Madison could barely keep up with Sherlock's pace. He never loosened his iron grip on her wrist. Her throat started to ache sharply, the cold night air rushed through her nostrils making them sore and a tight stitch had formed in her stomach, yet her legs dutifully pummelled on, working instinctively. A few times she almost stumbled as her ankle buckled in, cursing her choice to wear heels. But she still had to go on. The alternative was suicidal.

Suddenly, Sherlock turned sharply down an alley, yanking Madison with him, who stumbled, but was soon up on her feet, her knees freshly grazed. The alley was narrow and dark, and Madison's heart felt like it had just fallen off a cliff when she noticed that it was blocked of by a fence.

'Fucking hell Sherlock!' she cried painfully through frantic gasps for air. They were done for surely – the thugs would easily catch them now. The fence was about 6 foot – easy for Sherlock to climb over, but for Madison a near impossible feat, especially as there were no crevices to grab on to. Sherlock firmly gripped her around the waist, throwing her into the air. Her hands grasped the top, and with a helpful shove from Sherlock she hauled herself over, falling heavily over the other side. Her hands were now peppered with splinters and she'd bruised and cut her knees badly, but at least she'd cleared it. No sooner than she'd picked herself up, Sherlock leapt over nimbly, earning an a fleeting admiring look from Madison and grabbed her by the wrist again, heading for a metal staircase at the side of a warehouse. Madison looked around briefly, to catch the head and shoulders of a burly man emerging over the top of the fence. There were some angry shouts, and the head went back down again. This puzzled Madison – had they given up, or did they somehow know a quicker way to catch them? Nevertheless, the pair scrambled up the staircase, Sherlock taking three steps to a stride with Madison struggling and floundering behind him, being half dragged up.

The roof of the warehouse was flat, with a barrier around the outside to prevent accidents. There was a large tube with a grate over the hole one side, presumably a ventilator of some description, and a door that gave access to the rooftop from the inside – this was most likely going to serve the way up to their pursuers. Sherlock and Madison didn't stop for one second, but sprinted together across the roof – to her utmost horror, Madison soon realised that Sherlock was going to jump to the adjacent building.

With her.

I mean a death defying jump across a fair sized gap, risking a nasty fall onto concrete many meters below. She would rather face her chances with the gang of criminals – she just knew that she'd never make the jump. At the last moment, she broke Sherlock's grip on her arm, and watched him gracefully clear the jump with all the agility of a greyhound, while she remained stuck and quivering with agitation on the other side. Sherlock turned swiftly around, glaring at her.

'What are you waiting for? Now really isn't the time, if there ever is one, to be deciding you suffer from vertigo. Jump for God's sakes.' There was a distinct urgency in his voice. 'Jump. I'll catch you.'

Madison just looked into the determined eyes helplessly. She felt so pathetic, standing there all bruised and grazed, shivering , perished to the bone, knowing that her inability to jump was holding them both back, not only putting her own life in danger but Sherlock's as well. The night was quite still, but the added height of being on the roof of a tall building meant that there was a strong, wintery breeze. The rooftops of London were illuminated with an eerie glow emitted by electric lights.

'I can't Sherlock, I just can't' Madison said weakly.

The gap between the buildings was about a metre and a half, and although Madison would have easily jumped it if it was on the ground, the rational, self-preserving part of her brain was paralysing her with fear at the thought of dropping all those many feet to certain death. This was ironic really, considering how she was in more danger staying on the other side to be left to the non-existent mercy of the gang who had just tried to blow her up. For the second time that night, tears began misting her vision. She was losing hope. All the former thrill of running for her life through the streets of London had gone, to be replaced by the harsh reality of her present situation – she was without a house, all her possessions were in a pile of rubble, she was hurting all over and soon to be killed by a ruthless gang of murderers. She shivered, teetering on the precipice.

Much to Madison's surprise, Sherlock began to talk to her softly in his thick, baritone voice– it was almost as though he was an empathetic person – although the tone of resolution still remained.

'You can do it. Trust me.'

Madison nodded quickly, walked back a bit, and started a half-hearted run up. However she hesitated, wobbled a little on the brink, and promptly retreated back to safety, a familiar lump welling inside her throat.

'There's no use!' she wailed, 'I just can't do it.' She was beginning to really panic now. The sound of heavy footsteps was rapidly approaching. She was a lame rabbit, feeble, defenceless prey, being hunted by a pack of ravenous wolves, baying for blood. Tears streaked her face which was scrunched up with pain and dread. She had never felt so vulnerable in all her life

Sherlock crouched a little, holding out his arms to be ready to catch her.

'Trust me.'

The door to the roof began banging ominously, with the gang ramming it. Thankfully, it was locked, although it wouldn't hold for long. They had finally caught up. It took all of Madison's strength to gather her remaining shreds of self-control, and spurred on by an irrevocable desperation to survive, she took a final run up, and leapt.

It was as if time was suspended; her feet kicked off from the roof, and she glided in the thin air across the gap. Her eyes were fixed on Sherlock's, and she didn't move her gaze – if she looked down, she would fatally succumb to panic again. She was focused. Everything else around her became a hazy blur, she heard nothing but blood pounding through her ears and her tongue felt dry and shrivelled in her mouth; yet the other roof and Sherlock and survival was lucid, a vivid light at the end of a tunnel of helplessness. It was over in a few seconds, and her high-heeled foot reached sturdy ground.

Her other foot only managed to get halfway onto the roof however, and this completely ruined her equilibrium, causing her arms to fly backwards, clutching helpless at the air to find anything to hang on to. She felt like she'd vomit with the terror and dizziness. It is immensely difficult to convey in words exactly how she felt, but if you imagine the feeling you get when you miss a step going up a flight of stairs, and magnify that by about a million, you've got a good idea. She was drowning in panic.

Sherlock grabbed the flailing women, his strong grip removing her from the edge. The only casualty was one of her shoes, which plummeted into the urban abyss. There was no time for her to thank Sherlock or to regain her breath however, for the men had finally broken through the door. They just had to keep charging into the night, Madison now with one bare-foot being assaulted by the unforgiving concrete. The shouts of their followers seemed to get ever closer, until the night was punctuated by a blood-curdling scream, the last thing to ever pass the lips of one of their hunters who had missed his footing when jumping across to the building that Sherlock and Madison were now dashing across. Madison turned around, her white face moistened with cold sweat looking to the direction of the death scream. She was heaving with shallow, desperate breaths and her green eyes shone with shock. The men, seeing the death of one of their comrades had stopped, and were now anxious at completing the jump themselves. This reassured Madison somewhat – surely they'd leave them alone now? She was in urgent need of a break. Her naked foot was cut and bleeding, and she was choking wretchedly for air.

Still, Sherlock tugged her onwards. They were not yet clear of the danger. These men were brutal and cold-blooded; the death of their colleague would not stop them for long. But now Madison was unobliging to his yanks at her arm. She was simply physically unable to run anymore. She had given up.

Sherlock spun round to look at the pitiful, broken Madison. His eyes implored her to move – even for someone as seemingly inhuman as Sherlock, it is hard to not become a little attached to someone you have being running for your life with. He was not going let her fall prey to the thugs after all that.

'Jump onto my back.'

Madison didn't waste any time. Soon she was supported by Sherlock's strong arms, and he piggybacked her away from the swears of the men, away from the danger.

After a while, it became apparent that the men were not going to follow them. It seemed like they had given up this particular attempt on Madison's life. Sherlock carried Madison on his back down the metal stairs at the opposite side of the building they were on, and began to carry on through the spookily empty industrial estate they had found themselves in. It was a maze of warehouses, just like the ones they had just run across the roofs of- the sooner they got out of it, and into a busier area where they could catch a cab to safety, the better. Madison flinched at every shadow; a pernicious feeling of being followed by lurking figures, ready to jump out and ambush them, haunted her like a curse.

When her racing heartbeat had slowed to a near normal pace, she began to try to talk to Sherlock, the man who had saved her life – there were so many moments during the chase when he could have deserted her to ensure his own safety. But still he stayed with her.

'Err, Sherlock?'

No answer.

'Well I just wanted to say thank you.' From her perch on his back, she gave his shoulders a little squeeze to show him how much she meant it.

'If I were you, I wouldn't tax yourself with anymore proclamations of my undeniable brilliance, dynamism, intelligence, bravery, etc. etc. John reminds me every day anyway. It's not as if don't know it.'

Not the response Madison was expecting.

'Well, you really are the definition of modesty, aren't you? Actually, don't flatter yourself with the other compliments, I was only saying thank you for not leaving me. If you were really intelligent, you would have made sure I stayed near the police, out of danger.'

Sherlock was immediately on the defensive.

'Well if you'd actually listened to me, you would have done that anyway. Instead, you insisted on following me.'

'Well, if you were maybe a little more understanding and a little less arrogant, rude and downright obnoxious I would have done just that.'

'Maybe that would be possible if you were a little less moronic. I find it incredibly difficult controlling myself when I have to deal with pigeon-brained people everywhere.'

Madison just sighed in disbelief – she'd only tried to thank him, and already he was back to his rude, cold manner. She'd thought that there was perhaps more to him when she saw his loyalty and compassion while they were being chased. But it seemed that he was just a man who needed to show off, and in order to do that successfully he needed someone to see him in action, and praise his brilliance while putting up with his deprecations.

'You know what? I reckon you secretly wanted me to follow you, so you had an audience to brag to. You're like an attention-seeking five year old.'

Silence.

'Who's John?'

A long pause.

'A colleague.'

'Well I think he needs to take you down a few pegs. If I were him, I'd –'

'Well, well, well. I can't deny you've put up a good fight. But I'd say that the game is over, wouldn't you Mr Holmes?' The voice was quiet, mocking and utterly lethal. Oh, and it had a distinct Irish accent.

A smirking man, dressed in an immaculate black suit, clean shaven with short black hair sauntered out from the shadows. He looked very familiar. And then it dawned on her – it was Jeff, the mailroom delivery boy, the one who had a badly disguised crush on her. Madison was pulled off Sherlock's back by a strong balaclava wearing man, and she complied without a fuss when she felt the cold barrel of a gun pressed resolutely against her temple.

'Where's dear Johnny boy? Have you found a replacement? Well I won't deny that she's pretty.'

He giggled girlishly, and meandered closer to Madison, who was shaking, beads of sweat dripping from her brow, her heart thumping like it mighty burst from her chest. He stroked the side of her face, cupping his hand round her cheek.

'Shhhh, Shhhh. Don't cry. Sherlock does hate to see them cry.'

She looked into the manic eyes fiercely and spat in his face with venom. She didn't care about the consequences – she was already going to be shot anyway. And if she was going down, she wasn't going down without a fight. His mocking tone vanished in an instant however, and his eyes hardened like a cobra that's about to strike. He squeezed her jaw, digging his fingernails into her cheek, causing her to wince in pain.

'Be a good pet Madison, unless you want to be put down.'

He released his grip.

'Jeff, what is this about?'

'Jeff? Jeff? No sweetheart, it's Jim, Jim Moriarty. Jeff was a cameo role I played, and I must say it was awfully good fun.'

Sherlock had remained silent for all this time, another balaclava clad thug pressing a gun firmly into his back. He finally spoke.

'Are you really going to shoot us here? Really Moriarty, you're getting sloppy. You won't be able to get away in time – someone will come as soon as they've heard the shots.'

'How right you are Sherlock, how right you are. Isn't he a smart one Miss Smith? I can see why you like him. It would be very, very naughty to shoot you here. That's why I'm going to take you very far away where no one will hear, not even the birdies singing in the trees.'

At that moment, Madison felt a sharp jab of a needle in her neck. Her arms suddenly felt very heavy, and it was difficult to support the weight of her head. She said a few unintelligible phrases, and a nebulous mist descended across her vision. She felt her knees buckle and sink to the floor. And then she saw nothing, and heard nothing, and felt nothing but blackness.