Her mind was a whirr of fragmented emotions and illogical thoughts. There was too much to process, too much to understand, but one thing was clear: they had failed. They'd been failing for years and only now, in the last 16 hours, did they see it. It was too late.
She doesn't move. There are several layers of blankets, but they do little to appease the cold in her bones. She feels like crying, her throat tightening and her eyes burning, but she can't. Tears are a form of release. It is a privilege to cry. Joan does not quality for this privilege.
'You okay?'
Gregson's eyes are full of concern. He doesn't blame her and somehow that gives her a burst of strength, which she uses to shake her head.
'Not really'
She allows him to comfort her, and for a moment, she feels like she can learn to live with this guilt, as she has done with past transgressions.
But then the fear sets in.
There was too much at stake to feel the paralysing cold at the time, but suddenly the walls come tumbling down and the delayed-onset reaction hits her with the full force of a thunderstorm. She would have stumbled if she wasn't already seated and learning against the captain. She shivers, and Gregson tightens his hold on her.
'Watson.'
She pulls away from the captain and turns to see Sherlock striding quickly towards them. His footsteps and sure and confident, and his voice does not waver at all as he updates the captain. Joan sees the guilt behind his eyes, as if she were looking at the mirror. The guilt, mixed with the mind-numbing fear that had plagued the back of her mind for those 16 hours, becomes too much.
She stands, a little unsteady. 'Sherlock, can we go home?' Her voice is small and pleading, like a child. She hates it.
Sherlock takes one look at her, then glances at the captain, who nods and calls one of his cars to drop them off. Without a word, Sherlock leads her by the elbow and does not let go throughout the entire journey.
At the brownstone, he makes her tea. She drinks it slowly, savouring its warmth. Her hands are trembling less now, and she only spills a couple of drops. They do not speak, not even when she smashes her mug while she tries to wash it. She sighs, an turns to retreat upstairs.
'You did well, you know,' Sherlock calls suddenly.
Joan stops in her tracks, but does not turn around.
'I'm sorry you had to go through that,' he continues. He has his awkward, truthful voice about him. Joan turns around slowly.
'I'm all right,' she says.
Sherlock does not bother to refute her. 'Sleep well.' His voice is as soft as the pillow Joan is dreaming of right now. Suddenly, she is exhausted.
She doesn't have it in her to smile back at him, but she nods gratefully and continues up the stairs.
In the privacy of her bedroom, Joan closes her eyes and remembers the ties around her wrists, the stench of blood and those three gunshot blasts that tore through the man she tried to save. It feels as though it happened yesterday, but then suddenly, the real yesterday flashes in front of her eyes - the tape over that police officer's mouth, the terrified screams of her fellow hostages, and the haunted eyes of their captor.
When she opens her eyes again, she's rebuilt the walls. She is no longer shaking or paralysed in fear. She can't sleep either, so she drifts down the staircase to see what Sherlock is up to.