A carefully controlled slide delivered her to the security of the floor; the cool of the wooden door at her back brought fleeting relief to the searing pain that pulsed through her. She took a breath and winced. Broken ribs. She gripped the rotor blade and listened for any sign of her attacker's return. Nothing.

Joan closed her eyes and forced herself to think.

Sherlock would be home soon. Could she wait? Her phone was downstairs. Could she make it down the steps? ...

He'll be home soon ... he'll be home soon ... The computer in the lock room, she could crawl ... get a message out ... she took a breath and was overwhelmed with pain.

What if Michael came back ... her position here was defensible... but could she defend herself at this point ... Her head tilted back, eyes clenched shut as panic began to rise within her. ... Joan turned inward, refusing to drown in the emotion ... she focused on the sharp stabs and waves of pain, concentrating on the physical to ease the threatening emotions ...

"WATSON!" His cry shattered the spirals of panic and pain. "Watson!"

She opened her eyes and tears of relief trickled. Sherlock was there. He was there, kneeling beside her, pale fear coloring his countenance. His eyes darted, taking in the minutiae of her condition ... assessing her injuries ... all the while swallowing down his own panic.

With a sharp metallic clang, the rotor blade dropped from her hand to the floor. In one motion, his arms encircled her, carefully scooping her to him. Joan dropped into him, forgetting her pain, she burrowed into the warm niche of his neck.

"You'll be okay, you'll be okay ..." He whispered into her hair, letting his lips linger at her temple.