They were close, so incredibly close. She could see Sherlock running for the exit, they were right on his heels.
Something was wrong.
This was too easy.
Her instincts blayed like an angry goat, alarm bells ringing in her head. Reaching out, she grasped Joan's upper arm and pulled her away, while screaming.
"Sherlock!"
The door was kicked in, three armed men stepping through.
He turned around, face red, breathing heavily, nodded at her, at Joan.
"Go!"
Joan tried to fight for a moment, tried to wrest her arm free.
"Just go! Keep looking for me!"
Sherlock held his hands up in surrender, and two of the men lowered their weapons, moved to apprehend him. He struck out, whirling around and smashing in one man's nose, ducking a reactionary punch from the other. More men poured in from outside, and she and Joan took off running.
They ran through the abandoned halls, sprinting toward the manhole that held their escape. They found it, moments ahead of their pursuer, and she dropped down to open the iron cover. She motioned to Joan to drop down when the man caught up to them. Watched as Joan spun around, arm raised, gun pointed.
NO.
She lunged, knocking Joan's arm down as she pulled the trigger. The man dodged, and she shoved Joan over to the hole and pushed her in, whirled around to bring up her own gun, fired.
The bullet hit her target, blood splashing across his throat. It wasn't enough to stop his momentum and the right cross that crashed into her jaw, whipped her head back.
Falling.
Black.
Irene's eyes fly open, her right hand clawed around Joan's wrist, hovering next to her head. The two stare at eachother for a moment, Irene's eyes wild, Joan's steady. Irene's breath calms, she blinks rapidly, releases Joan's hand.
"Sorry."
Joan moves back in, gently clasping Irene's head and turning it slightly to look at the purpling skin and swollen jaw. Just as gently, she let's go, and then tilt's Irene's head up, bringing up a pen light to check her eyes.
One eye, then the other. When she's done, Irene is offered a glass of water, and two tablets of ibuprofen. She swallows them gingerly, jaw protesting at having to move.
"Thanks."
Irene pushes herself up in the bed, leaning to sit and rest against the headboard. Joan brings a pillow up and holds it as Irene rests her head and back on it.
"How much longer do I have to stay in bed, doctor?"
Joan rolls her eyes, smooths out some of the sheets and sits down on the mattress. "Same answer I gave you the last three times I woke you up. Forty-eight hours after the initial trauma. You've got a whole day left to go. Just be thankful he didn't actually fracture your jaw."
"Remind me again why I can't check myself out against medical advice?"
This time Joan swats her knee and moves over to grab the dreaded bowl of lime Jell-O from the television tray standing near the bed.
"You can do whatever you want. Kill me, kill the bell boy… buy out Donald Trump. In fact, right now you can eat this."
Irene scoffs, half-hearted as her face feels as though a horse went tap-dancing on it after an ill-advised pub crawl. "Room temperature Jell-O is terrible succor for someone who just saved your life."
"No, room temperature Jell-O is perfect for the person who forced me to carry her through some of Boston's finest sewer lines."
"Does it have to be green?"
"Do you have argue about the color?"
"I prefer strawberry flavored."
Joan's eyes roll, again, and she sets the bowl back down.
"You shouldn't have stopped me."
Irene looks away, gazes as the hotel room wall and the garish red curtains over the windows. She says nothing.
"I knew the risks, coming with you. Trying to do this."
"And we'll fetch him back, without you having to do any of that."
"Irene…"
The silence hangs, awkward and pregnant, before Irene sighs and turns back to look at Joan. Typical Joan Watson, and her way of wringing out emotions from people as easily as liquid from a water-logged sponge.
"You might have to. Yes. But until we reach the point where there's no other option, I don't want you to."
"Why?"
"That's the thing about murder, Joan. Once you start, it's very easy to keep going."
"Did the great Moriarty actually show a shred of remorse?"
Irene snorts, and kicks Joan off the bed.
"Never. Besides, I need a new name now. You and Sherlock have ruined that one for me, you know."
"Such a hardship you have to endure."
Irene pulls the pillow out from behind her and lobbs it in Joan's direction. She lowers herself back down and rests on her back.
"I'm thinking of Mary, this time."
Joan picks the pillow up from the floor and places it back on the bed.
"How original of you."
"Mmm, yes. Mary Morstan, I think."
Irene hesitates a moment, willing herself to not bite her bottom lip, and holds her right arm out. She looks for all the world like she is simply stretching, but Joan's eyes flash in understanding. Joan removes the heavy hoodie she's wearing over her lighter top, and moves the sheets back, sliding in and pulling the covers up and over both of them before curling into Irene's side and laying her head against her chest. They settle in, resting against each other, and Irene wraps her arm around Joan's shoulders.
"We'll get him back."
"I know."
A few hours later, when Joan wakes her up again, Mary notices the Jell-O sitting on top of the television tray. It's red.