His phone rang. He didn't recognize the number and he answered roughly. "What?" A pause on the other end and then his brother's unctuous voice defiled his ear.
"Sherlock, that is no way to answer your phone..."
He stopped dead in his tracks, face red with anger, swallowed his rage and in a controlled tone asked, "Where is she?" His breathing belied his calm tone.
"Joan is safe and here with me."
"Let me talk to her at once, you wretched..."
"Sherlock, we are within minutes of the brownstone. We will see you there," Mycroft hung up on him.
Joan sat silent. She had not uttered more than two words since he had swept her away from the scene of her rescue. He had offered no explanation and she had asked for none, instead retreating into silence and as far away from him as she could sit in the front seat of his car.
Sherlock tore down the stairs and flung open the brownstone's door, scouring the street for any sign that they might be approaching. The black car appeared out of nowhere and came to a stop in front of the house. Sherlock was on the passenger side of the vehicle before Mycroft could get the keys out of the ignition.
He threw open the door as Watson unbuckled her seatbelt and quickly started to get out. Sherlock took her elbow and gently guided her to a standing position.
She looked at him, his eyes wild and panicked, straining to assess her condition in the dim light of the evening, "I'm alright Sherlock." She placed her hand lightly on his forearm to reassure him. Her face carried the remnants of the trauma she had just endured.
"No, you are not." He whispered at her as they stood in the street, "Did they ... did he hurt you?" He jutted his chin in the direction of Mycroft who stood on the other side of the vehicle amused at his little brother's show of affection and vulnerability.
She shook her head no and turned her head slightly to locate Mycroft. Joan took a step closer to Sherlock, "Can we please go inside?" The pleading look in her eyes was all it took. He put one careful arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him just a bit as they made their way towards the house. Mycroft moved to follow them. Joan turned quickly and spoke strongly, "I wish you wouldn't. I don't really want to be around you at the moment."
Mycroft looked slightly shocked, "But Joan, I'd like to explain to you, ... to Sherlock ..."
A determined Joan answered him, "No. I've had enough." She turned to Sherlock who was ready to charge at Mycroft with the slightest of provocation; his concern for Joan being the only restraint. "Take me inside please," again her eyes pierced him, made him wondered what she had seen, what she had been put through. Sherlock ushered her in through the front door and turned back towards Mycroft, snarling, "This isn't over!" before slamming the door. The questions and demands he had for him would come later. Watson needed help. Counter to what Joan had said, she was not alright. He could see it on her face.
She was standing in the darkened foyer, blankly staring ahead of her. Sherlock took a step towards her, "Joan?"
She quickly reacted, lifting her head and focusing on his face. "What did you just call me?" A small confused look passed on her face as he reached to almost touch her face, "Joan," he whispered.
Her face crumpled, the tears fell and she lay her forehead on Sherlock's chest. He gently placed his arms around her as she wept quietly into his chest, his own tears spilling silently onto her hair.
Joan suddenly pulled back and brushed the tears and stray her from her face, "I'm sorry. I'm alright ... I'll be fine ..."
Sherlock took her hand, and looked intently at her face, her mouth, her eyes, "Stop it. You are not alright. You may not be physically hurt ..." A small shudder ran through him at the thought that she could have been. "Come."
He led her towards the stairs. "I'll spare you my interrogation until later. I'll draw a hot bath for you, you can get into your pajamas and I'll bring you something to eat in bed. Perhaps I'll even wake Clyde and bring him up to join you." Sherlock was just nervously chatting trying to keep her from thinking, trying to keep himself from thinking. "Shall I dress him up in his butterfly cosy, hmm?"
They were half way up the stairs. She turned to look at him and the fear that was still visible on his face caught her off guard. She rushed at his neck and held on. Sherlock grabbed hold of her as tightly as he could, cradling her head under his chin, "I was so scared Watson. I thought I'd lost you... I thought I'd lost you..."
They held on to each other until the panic subsided. Their bodies relaxed and they slumped on to a stair riser. His arm remained protectively around her shoulders, she curled herself under it and bent her head in towards him. The light from the second floor landing illuminated their backs leaving their faces in shadows. They sat in silence for a while until the comfort of proximity and the quiet, darkened blanket of the brownstone gave her the courage to speak.
"I was worried about you," she said softly.
"You were kidnapped, held at gunpoint and you were worried about me?" he shook his head slightly.
"I know how you get," she whispered. "You lose control easily when your upset. You become a bit of a madman."
He gave her an incredulous look, "I do no such thing." He shrugged his shoulders, "Besides, I wasn't really that upset." He looked at her from the corners of his eyes to make sure she understood he was teasing.
Joan leaned into him a bit more and, haltingly at first, began to tell him of her ordeal. Sherlock kept quiet, trying to not react in anger. As she talked, her fingers played with the material of her jacket, his fingers eventually found hers and calmed them. She ended her story with a shuttered sigh.
Thoughts of the danger into which she had been placed, how easily she could have been hurt agitatedly ran through his head but he kept himself under control for her sake. Sherlock sat stunned, at a loss for words with which to comfort her and so chose action. He stood and took her up with him. "Come, lets get you a bath and some food and a little rest, hmm?" Joan let him guide the way. He left her in the bathroom while he went down to prepare something for her to eat. He fought the urge to make Yorkshire puddings by the dozens when he got to the kitchen and prepared her a small meal.
Sherlock stepped through the open door to Joan's room with a tray bearing vegetable soup and warm buttered rolls. He stopped in front of her bed. She was sound asleep. The food was quickly set aside. He fixed the blankets around her, turned off the light and crossed the room to his chair. Sherlock wasn't about to let her out of his sight - she might wake in the dark and need water or food or comfort ... she might need him and he would be there for her.