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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

# #

They had acted normal from then on, even if the silence in the cab to the river bank was very strained. Lestrade gave her a quizzical look when they arrived, but Joan just shrugged it off. Maybe I'm worrying too much. It had been a rough week. She stopped the usual argument about seeing and observing from breaking out, and extended the metaphorical olive branch: "Sherlock? D'you wanna take us through it?" Encouraged, the man unfolded his reasoning, and the ex-soldier couldn't help but grin. No matter what, he is brilliant. "Fantastic."

Apparently, Sherlock took their earlier clash hard enough to dismiss the compliment with a cranky "Meretricious."

Joan was already wincing internally when Greg chimed in: "And a Happy New Year!" Wha… They stared at him, bemused. The DI didn't look repentant at all. "I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character" he carried on, back on track. Golem, Dzundza… Joan frowned. Sounds vaguely familiar.

"Pointless" Sherlock deadpanned. "You'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?"

"Me" grinned the maniac, and walked away with flourish.

"Hey, wait!" Joan took off after him, nodding briefly to Lestrade. Once in the cab, while Sherlock was grumbling (again) about his new playmate not calling, she tried to remember where she had heard about Golem before. Central Europe, I've never dealt with them, so someone must have mentioned the guy… Assassin. Strangulation… Sev got almost strangled a couple of years ago in Slovakia. I remember the bruises.

Sherlock was writing something in a notebook, so she took out her phone and shot a text to an unidentified number a few select people knew by heart. "Golem in London. Any info?" Meanwhile, they arrived under the Waterloo bridge, and her friend stopped the cab. Almost on autopilot, Joan followed and watched him talk with a homeless girl. "What are you doing?"

"Investing" was the only answer provided. Sure. Fine. Whatever, Mr Mysterious. "Now we go to the gallery." Her phone beeped. "Have you got any cash?" Seriously? She nodded absently, checking the new text.

"Are you sure?"

She immediately typed the reply. "Certain."

After a minute, spent in silence, with Sherlock thankfully too busy plotting (probably something ridiculously smart) to notice something as mundane as texting, she got a "Out of town. Transferred tip to Liam. A team will collect him when located."

I was under impression the guy is good at hiding. "Will let you know if we find him first." It is a distinct possibility, after all.

The new text even beeped more urgently than the last ones. "Do not get involved." Another followed seconds later: "Seriously, Watson, stay away from that guy."

At that point, they had arrived at the Gallery, and she simply sent "Will try" before tucking the phone back into a pocket. However, her exit was stopped by an imperious hand: "No, I need you to find out more about Woodbridge. Lestrade will give you an address." And with that final command, the man disappeared around the corner. Couldn't you have said so before?!

"So, where to now, Miss?" the cabbie turned towards her.

She sighed heavily. "Can you park over there, please? I need to get the address."

# #

The visit to Alex Woodbridge's apartment was a quiet and rapid thing, so she got out in barely fifteen minutes, trying to google-search Professor Cairns on her phone while walking. It was interrupted by a call from a hidden number. Sighing, Joan picked it up: "Watson."

"Sev is freaking out, you know" said a bored familiar voice over the line.

"He's freaking out about everything those days. Got anything for me, Liam?"

"Not yet. I put an assault squad on high alert. You sure it's alright?" Behind the perpetually bored veneer, her old friend sounded worried.

"I'm fine."

"You said that last time." 'Last time' was a visit in physical rehab when she couldn't walk straight or hold a pen.

"Well, I'm really fine now. Listen, can you check a Professor Cairns in London for me? Female."

A couple of minutes later, they had identified Patricia Cairns, a specialist in super-nova formations, working at the planetarium. "Why are you looking for her anyway?" Liam asked after the clatter of his keyboard stopped.

Giving a passing thought to the 'classified information' label, Joan answered honestly: "She was in touch with Golem's latest victim. You should keep an eye on her too, just in case."

The snapping of computer keys started again. "On it. Keep me posted, Watson."

"Will do, Hendricks."

She didn't have time to put away her phone after the call ended when Mycroft started texting her about the missile plans. Sighing in defeat, she headed towards the Tube.

# #

Talking with Lucy had been heart-breaking. Joan felt bad for bringing the plans into the conversation while the girl was mourning her fiancé's death. She had half-a-mind to go yell at Mycroft for putting them all in this situation, just because he couldn't get up his arse and confirm his damn theories himself. Her daily manhandling by Holmes brothers didn't stop there, though, as Sherlock put her back into a cab as soon as she got home to go to a god-forsaken place. He didn't even let her whine "But I'm hungry...", starting to spit out random information about searching techniques during the ride.

When they started to navigate among the homeless crowd settling for the night, she ended up asking: "What are we doing in this nice part of town?"

Sherlock glanced at her over his flashlight: "Homeless network – really is indispensable."

At least, he is amenable to explanations now. "Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Oh." Oh. "That's clever. So, you scratch their backs and…"

"Yes, then I disinfect myself." Joan suppressed a chuckle at this one.

No one was bothering them so far, but locals didn't appear very happy at their lights either. Some two hundred meters away, a large shadow of a man started to grow. Joan's vision narrowed at it immediately. He heard us. He's going to run. She took off without a warning, hand reaching behind the back to pluck out the gun.

# #

Sherlock did not expect this outcome for the evening. It was supposed to be a reconnaissance mission, maybe a good chase. You don't catch international assassins every day, after all. He didn't expect Joan to rush into Golem's path, gun in hand, as soon as she spotted his shadow. It was probably the best course of action, since the man's (extremely) long legs would have taken him out of their range in five seconds sharp. The suspicious car taking off in the distance confirmed that they would have lost the target if Joan hadn't acted as quickly as she did.

Nevertheless, it was fairly impressive to see the petite soldier skid to a halt, mere centimeters in front of the giant killer who came to an abrupt stop at the feeling of a cold muzzle pressing under his chin. The whole action took barely thirty seconds. Dzundza was towering over Joan, enormous hands unfurling and clenching uselessly at his sides. In response to the murderous rage in his eyes, the doctor clicked off the safety with deliberate slowness. It made the loudest noise in the sudden silence that surrounded the scene. Joan was standing firmly on her feet, looking sternly top-down at Golem, steady hands raised over her head to keep aim.

"Down" she growled after ten seconds of the stand-off. The assassin seemed to deliberate, but there was something steely in the tilt of Watson's head, an ice-cold sharpness in her eyes that Sherlock didn't notice before. "Now" the very dangerous woman intoned, and surprisingly Golem obeyed. She will shoot and won't miss, supplied Sherlock's mind, and he knows it. He has better chances trying to escape custody later on.

The man got on his knees, glaring daggers at Joan, whose gun followed his descent to rest against his forehead. The ex-soldier took three steps back, clearly getting out of range of sudden grab, and glanced briefly at the stunned detective, who had cautiously approached them from the shadows. "Sherlock, do you mind cuffing him?" she said in her normal voice. "Wrists and ankles would be better."

She stood immobile, weapon aimed at the assassin's head, until Sherlock had finished slapping cuffs on Dzundza. He had to tinker with them a little, to adjust the size. The man was glowering at them both in silence, but the dull glint of the gun seemed to dissuade him from acting out. Once his limbs were secured, Sherlock unwillingly glanced at Joan for further instructions. Her eyes didn't leave Golem for a second. "Lay down" came the command, and after a long moment, the assassin complied. The cold promise of death on Watson's face didn't bode well for anyone disobeying her orders.

The gun lowered, and Joan's posture relaxed slightly. "Well, that went well" she said, finally looking at Sherlock with a sheepish smile, only a shadow of danger remaining in her laugh lines.

# #

The police arrived after all local inhabitants had enough time to scramble away from the trouble. She stood guard unwaveringly, eyes straying every so often back to the large man hissing threats on the ground. Sherlock was circling their prey, thankfully not getting too close, but clearly itching to go through the pockets. Joan rolled her shoulders with a wince. Her left arm was not supposed to go up at this angle, and a dull throb settled in. She had not done any serious damage to it (yet), but it shifted the scarred muscles and metal pins in a very uncomfortable way. My physician is going to kill me. Harry is going to kill me. I think Jen would join in too. Sev and Liam are going to obliterate me. Joan looked back at the captured assassin and grinned. Best night ever.

When the reinforcements finally arrived, she allowed herself to relax and step back. Lestrade, looking drained and slightly murderous, started scolding an unrepentant Sherlock about "keeping me informed, dammit!" At least, he's not coming after me… yet.

During that time, Sally was busy yelling at two confused constables who tried to hiss the assassin upright and get him into a car. Considering the man's height, it was not an easy task, and he really wasn't eager to comply. They tried to remove the cuffs on his ankles, but luckily Donovan got there first to prevent the disaster. The sergeant had some common sense when it didn't concern Sherlock Holmes.

While they were dragging the Golem towards patrol cars, he sent Joan one last glare that promised life-long revenge. The doctor shrugged it off, completely unfazed. Scarier people had glared at her.

She was about ready to call it a night, but Sherlock dragged both Lestrade and her to the Hickman's Gallery, somehow managing to bring in the manager too with a couple of texts. Ensued the most nerve-wrecking experience of the week so far (these moments just kept escalating), with a kid counting down to the explosion on the phone and Sherlock enjoying himself way too much given the situation. Joan thought her legs would give out when the young voice said "Ten…" How Sherlock managed to keep his thought process going after barely a half-a-second of shock was a mystery to her, and she was infinitely grateful for it, despite the constant irritation (fear) that settled in days ago.

In the end, the answer was staring them right in the face all along ("The Van Buren Supernova!"). Woodbridge has seen it, she recalled belatedly, while dragging her feet behind Sherlock (who was barely hiding his smug smile) and Mrs Wenceslas (who stopped being outraged and started looking scared). Lestrade had rushed ahead to call the bomb disposal squad and organize the rescue, but he slowed down at the NSY entrance, even more harassed than before.

They were headed towards a meeting room (not a stern interrogation one, for some reason), when Joan grabbed Sherlock by the elbow. "Do you need me in there?"

He gave her an assessing look and seemed to come to a logical conclusion. "We'll manage. Go get some sleep."

That was exactly what she needed to hear. Nodding in thanks, the ex-soldier walked slowly towards the staff room and its couches. However, she did not intend to sleep immediately. After checking for potential eavesdroppers, Joan took out her phone.

"Hendricks" answered Liam after three rings.

"Golem is in Scotland Yard's custody. Thought you'd like to know" Joan said quietly.

There was a stunned silence, then… "You bloody didn't. John, honestly…!"

She cringed at the accusation. "Relax, I'm fine. Not even a scratch."

"You're informing Sev all by yourself. I'm not paid enough for this."

"On it then. Meet you up for a pint sometime?"

Liam sighed tiredly, as always when dealing with her. "Sure. I'll ring you when I'm available."

Without further ado, he disconnected the call. Well, that went better than expected. Liam had helped her out big time four years prior, and she had returned the favor several times already. Somewhere along the line their relationship switched from cordial professionalism to friendship without anyone noticing. Since he was always stuck as support, the man worried too much for his own good and tended to sulk for months once the danger passed, but everyone was used to it and paid his dark moods no mind. Stretching out on the couch in the empty staff room, Joan glanced longingly at the coffee machine. Nah, let's get this over with first. With a heavy sigh, she dialed the number.

"Yes."

"Don't freak out" she shot immediately.

There was a couple of seconds of silence. "I'm going to kill you, Watson." His voice expressed an interesting range of emotions, going from absolute weariness to helpless anger.

"It was easier than expected, you know" she tried to placate him.

"You took on an international hitman! Alone!" Not exactly… "I almost got done in by him in Slovakia! How am I supposed to not freak out?!" Sev was not quite shouting, but she could hear him pacing around and kicking various furniture.

"You should bring a bloody gun to work sometimes, it worked well enough for me!" she grumbled, irked by his reaction. "Or stop flirting around. Maybe then you'd notice a giant bald assassin stalking you."

"I'm not…" he started but cut himself to take several deep breaths. "That was dangerous."

"Yep" Joan chirped gleefully.

"You're going to be the death of me."

"You sounded just like my sis, right now."

Sev snorted indignantly. He had the misfortune of meeting Harry once, and never quite recovered after that. "Certainly not!"

Joan smiled at the ceiling. "Feeling better now?"

"…yes. Thanks." He sighed in apparent defeat. "And John? Good job." He disconnected quickly after the last statement. Joan smirked and closed her eyes, phone still in hand. My back-ups are informed. The bad guy got caught. Time for a nap.

# #

The nap-time was cut short by an irate text from Mycroft. "My patience is wearing thin. MH" Joan frowned thoughtfully and ran through several options of scathing replies. She ended up picking a simple "Noted. JW" that was sure to irritate the hell out of the older Holmes. Finally looking around the staff room, she was rather surprised to find Sherlock, in full thinking mode, snuggled on the other couch. He… waited for me. This is surprisingly thoughtful. A glance to the wall clock indicated that it was barely six o'clock in the morning. I need a shower before starting the day.

"Sherlock?" The man didn't even twitch in response. "Let's get back home, shall we?" No reaction. Well, I'm not waiting for him to re-emerge. Joan stood up, stretching and wincing at the creaks her bones made. There was a notepad abandoned on the worn dining table. She tore a page from it and scrawled "Let me know when you get back. John", then carefully placed it on his knees so he wouldn't miss the note when waking up. Sherlock remained unresponsive throughout it all. That's some concentration alright… Joan sighed internally while navigating through silent corridors.

# #

She managed to get to Battersea just as the guard shifts changed, and catch the man who found Andrew West's body on the tracks. Grumbling, since he was about to head home, the guy threw a fluorescent jacket at her and gestured to follow.

"You gonna be long?" he asked when they were finally at the place.

"Might be" Joan shrugged noncommittedly.

After some small talk and an interesting insight on suicides, Joan pulled out on her phone a photo of the scene from the morning West was discovered. "Did it rain that night? That would have cleaned off the blood."

"Nah, not a drop. There wasn't that much blood either."

That can't be right. The doctor glanced suspiciously at the guard. "His head was smashed in."

"Sure, but there wasn't much blood." Joan hummed in thought, attention back on the lines. Head injury that severe would bleed abundantly. "Well, I'll leave you to it then." The man looked impatient. His shift had ended twenty minutes ago, of course he's impatient, John. "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right, thanks."

She stood at the intersection, frowning at the lines stretching before her. The cause of death was definitely the head injury. It must have bled a lot. Enough to pool around the body. But there was no blood here. Then… then how did his dead bloodless body get here? There was a loud clang at her right where the points changed for the incoming engine.

"Points" said a baritone behind her.

It was extremely lucky that she recognized it before her fight reflex kicked in. Instead of punching the grinning menace, she just whirled around with an involuntary exclamation: "Yes!"

"Knew you'd get there eventually" Sherlock offered smugly in guise of explanation.

Joan tried to quirk an eyebrow at him. "Thought you weren't interested. How long have you been following me?"

The detective smirked. "Since the start. And I wouldn't give up such a case just to spite my brother, you know." Joan was quite sure her face expressed clearly the Oh, really now, you wouldn't? but Sherlock ignored it completely. "Took you long enough. Let's go!"

Wondering how this had become her life, the doctor trailed behind him without protest. They rode the cab in silence for mere ten minutes before arriving in a quiet neighborhood. Sherlock led the way through the streets while explaining: "The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know" Joan confirmed absent-mindedly. "I've met them." She almost bit her tongue – how am I supposed to explain now – but thankfully Sherlock assumed she was talking about Mycroft and his minions and just continued.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it. My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" she asked in confusion.

Their destination ended up being a small flat on the first floor, belonging to Joe Harrison. The future brother-in-law. Oh god, poor Lucy… After a token protest, Joan was quick to disregard the break-in. She was angry. Really angry. When the guy showed up, she didn't feel bad at all for intimidating him into spilling the beans. A greedy idiot. He ruined his sister's happiness, and had the gall to show his face to her. When Joe finished his story, Joan glared at him from above. "You are going to talk to your sister before getting arrested. She deserves to know." The man shrank on the sofa, looking miserable as hell. "Don't you agree?" she drawled with a coldness usually reserved for war criminals. The wannabe spy nodded reluctantly. "Do you still have it, the memory stick?" He nodded again, eyes glued to the ground in shame.

"Fetch it for me, if you wouldn't mind" Sherlock intervened, sounding bored as hell... again.

# #

A/N: Behold the BAMF! :)

Sev and Liam are original characters that will reappear at some point. And no, Sev is not Severus Snape. Sorry.

I was always perplexed by how John didn't have his gun on the case in the series (you know, Sherlock gives it to him at Vauxhall Arches). So I took the liberty to correct this oversight :p