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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.

Warning: Torture (nothing too graphic, mind you...); Language.

# #

"Distraction's over, the game continues."

"Well, maybe that's over too. We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John? It's a countdown. We've only had four."

As ominous as Sherlock's prediction sounded, it didn't seem that probable now that they were seated in their flat, trying to gather some warmth despite having gaping holes instead of windows in April in London. The consulting detective was huddled in a chair, shouting at a TV show, of all things. Joan was trying to type a semblance of a blog entry while stifling laughs at the most interesting comments from her flatmate. When the topic of jeans being a sure indicator of paternity came up, she couldn't hold back: "Knew it was dangerous"

Sherlock gave back a distracted, vaguely inquisitive hum.

"Getting you into crap telly."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince."

Not distracted by the not-so-subtle change of subject, Joan made her own leap in the conversation: "Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?"

"Yep." Sherlock popped the 'p' with scorn. "He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood – again."

Unsure if she should feel affronted about the evident disregard to the honor of knighthood, Joan decided to stay on less controversial subjects: "You know, I'm still waiting." Acknowledging the confused look she was getting, she elaborated: "For you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do you any good, did it?" came the expected pout.

"Nooo, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"True." Good, he smiles at last. Sherlock had been in a deep sulk since that morning, and getting him to actually talk and react agreeably was reassuring. And made her feel less guilty about going out. Change of scenery and all that... to stop overthiking the whole case.

"I won't be in for tea" she said, closing the laptop and standing up. "I'm meeting Sarah and Karen at the bar. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge." Sherlock's response couldn't be classified as intelligible, but he seemed to get the memo. "Uh, milk, we need milk" Joan added as an after-thought, already at the door.

"I'll get some."

Wait, what? Almost certain that she had heard it wrong, Joan turned back slowly. "Really?!"

"Really" the detective retorted with a hint of annoyance.

Miracles happen. Let's test it. "And some beans, then?"

Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the telly, which should have been suspicious in itself, but the affirmative hum made alarm bells go mad in her head. Maybe she'd cut it short at the bar. This guy was clearly plotting something. Having no evidence of any mischief in the making, Joan left without further probing, feeling slightly uneasy about leaving the over-grown child alone. He's a big boy, he can handle himself for a couple of hours.

# #

In retrospective, she shouldn't have left the flat at all.

She had been walking for less than five minutes when a grey van screeched to a halt beside her, and two muscle-heads tried to get her in, coming from an adjacent alley. Acting on reflex, she managed to break the nose of the first and the wrist of the second assailant, but when she was finishing them off, someone grabbed her from behind and stuffed a chloroform imbued cloth in her face.

The world tilted sideways and went black.

# #

Joan came to her senses progressively. First, she smelled an overwhelming whiff of chlorine, which triggered a splitting headache she hadn't noticed initially. Then, her stiff back let her know that it was probably time to move from the uncomfortable position, but her brain finally caught up and signaled that there was no recollection of getting in this position, and isn't it a warning sign?

"She's awake" said a gruff voice at her right. One she didn't recognize.

"Delightful" drawled a more strident voice. Before she could react, someone yanked on her hair, to lift her head up. Her left shoulder protested violently, and she let escape a pained gasp. "Well, hello there, Miss Watson."

Joan squinted at the sight before her, trying to glean the most information from her surroundings. She was clearly bound to a very uncomfortable chair, hands in the back, with zip-ties according to the sharp pressure on her wrists. The room they were in was oppressively silent, aside from the muffled breathing of her captors (how many, can't focus) and the distant dripping sounds. Water. Chlorine. Damn, my head hurts, there must be a clue here... The light was too bright, but the visual input was necessary right now. A lean man in an expensive-looking suit was staring at her from two meters away, hands in the pockets, looking bored and politely curious for the world. His face rang a bell.

"Jim?" she squeaked. Her throat was as dry as the Afghani desert.

A pleased smile appeared on the otherwise blank face. "Oh, got it right in one. Congratulations." Shit. Hiding in plain sight indeed.

Apparently, he sensed her uprising panic as he leaned forward. "You are quicker than I thought, Johnny. Do you understand what is going on?" His eyes were black holes.

Let's keep it peaceful. Don't make him angry. "I'm the fifth pip" she croaked. Passing out from chloroform did no good for the body's hydration, and having her head forcedly tilted up didn't help either.

"Gooood" Jim smiled, showing way too many teeth. "Good pet. Sherlock trained you well." If it was intended to make her angry, it failed miserably. Joan just quirked an eyebrow, trying to communicate as much indifference as possible about her current situation. "Playing tough, are we?"

Jim nodded at the goon who was still holding her hair, and the pressure disappeared. Her head lolled a little to the side, but she kept her chin up. There was no way she was getting her guard down right now. Meanwhile, Jim produced a small bottle of water from somewhere. He unscrewed the top, making sure she saw his every movement and took a gulp. Then he walked to her chair, standing close enough to sit on her lap if he wanted, and held the bottle to her lips. "We need you in good shape for the show. Drink." His voice promised dire retribution if she decided to rebel. Luckily, it was not her intention. She drank greedily, trying not to waste a drop. A small trail of water ran down her chin. When the bottle had been emptied, Jim roughly pulled it away, but didn't move himself.

He was examining her. It made her shiver.

"We still have time before my date with dear Sherlock." Date?! "I want to know why he keeps you around."

Not thinking it through, she blurted: "I wonder why too." Jim threw his head back and laughed.

"I like my pets obedient, but I can see the appeal of a feisty one" he finally drawled in that mocking voice of his. "I have heard so much about you, Johnny-girl. I just needed to see it for myself. Don't disappoint me."

What? "What are you talking about?" she glared at him. She was being held in an unknown place, confused and bound, so be it. But she wasn't to be intimidated by a mad bomber.

Jim finally moved away from her, talking to the room at large. "You see, Johnny, it is thanks to you that I obtained one of my best snipers." He turned his icy gaze at her, then at someone behind her. "Sebby, darling, show yourself."

A tall man in combat gear walked into her field of vision. His weathered features and sun-bleached hair were enough for her to recognize him. Something cold twisted in her belly. "Moran."

"Watson" the man nodded, his eyes hungry and murderous.

# #

Lieutenant Joan Watson had been into her second tour in Afghanistan for three weeks. She was getting along quite well with the personnel at the base. But since the new Colonel had been assigned to the outpost, she had an influx of young privates, mostly women, at the infirmary. Sometimes with black eyes. Sometimes with bruises on their arms, legs, necks. They refused to talk, or even meet her eyes. They took aspirins, bandages, and practically ran to their tents.

But Joan was a good doctor. She cared. She was appreciated and respected. One of the privates, Elise, explained to her what was happening after some gentle coaxing.

Colonel Sebastian Moran, one of these men who got their rank mostly based on their lineage than their merit, had a close-minded opinion about women or cultural minorities in the army. And he endeavored to pass his point across to them, usually by calling them to his tent after shifts and explaining his perspective with some physical arguments. Despite being an utter bastard, he was quite skilled in hand-to-hand combat, and none of his victims had a chance of overpowering him.

Needless to say, Joan was furious. After discreetly talking to some of her other patients, she reported the man. It was a huge scandal, but Watson stood her ground, and more people came forward with accusations. Moran had been dishonorably discharged a month later. Not even his family could cover this up.

# #

If anyone had a grudge against her, it would be Sebastian Moran. Joan almost physically felt her chances of survival dwindle.

Jim, in the other hand, looked like he was having tremendous fun. "You don't find such ruthless and angry fighters every day." She had to silently agree with this statement. "Sebby, as promised, leave no marks." Shit. Shit. Shiiiit. The murderous look in 'Sebby''s eyes flared to an inferno as he advanced. Jim leaned back against the tiled wall, arms crossed on his chest, ready to enjoy the show.

Joan struggled to get free, almost tipping the chair off, but Moran had been faster. He grabbed her neck, and squeezed with force. His hands were huge. Dammit! While feeling her lungs strain from the lack of oxygen, she desperately tried to break her hands free by lifting arms as high as possible and slamming it back down. Come on. Her reconstructed shoulder screamed with white-hot pain. Come on! Black spots in her vision. Break, DAMMIT!

Zip ties snapped as Jim started tut-tutting something along the lines of "We need her alive". Moran had been distracted by his boss's comment and loosened his grip. With a wordless snarl that was just a little choked, Watson hurtled herself forward, hitting him in the solar plexus with her head, successfully cutting his breath.

They fell in a heap of limbs. Ignoring her body screaming in pain (shoulder, lungs, throat, head), Joan rolled off the man and immediately followed her movement with a heavy punch, then another, leaving him no room to react. She was about to land a third punch when the metallic click of a gun being cocked made her freeze.

She looked up at Jim, who nonchalantly aimed a semi-automatic at her head. There was no chance to hide from it. "Very impressive, Johnny. So, you're not just a docile pet, you're a combat dog." He smiled. It was terrifying. "Move it, girl." She slowly squatted away from the groaning Moran.

Jim continued to hold her at gunpoint until his goon came back to his senses. Joan just kept to her kneeling position on the floor, breathing heavily. Sebastian's rage didn't make itself wait. A powerful blow to the head threw her on the floor, seeing dark spots again. Soon, a foot hit her unprotected stomach, and she curled up on herself, instinctively bringing the hands to protect her middle.

"Sebby, I said no marks" echoed an empty voice over her head. No blows followed, so she seized the opportunity to take shaky breaths. Everything hurt. Sherlock. He can't be allowed to meet with these psychos. Don't come, Sherlock…

Suddenly, a hand much smaller than Moran's grabbed her much abused left shoulder in a death grip and forced her to turn. She was laying down on her back now, unforgiving LED lights making her tear up. Jim's face loomed over her, close, too close.

He ran a creepily gentle hand on her cheek. "We'll have to hide this. I need you to be a perfect gift for my date. But you also need to cooperate, Johnny-girl. Will you cooperate?" he almost sang. Weary, but feeling bravely stupid (Mycroft was right after all, damn him too), Joan shook her head weakly. Jim frowned in a mock-pout. "Too bad."

With an unsuspected force, he yanked her left arm up, over her head. Muscles, metal and bones contorted and twisted, and she couldn't help but cry out. Tears jerked from her eyes, running unbidden through her hair and to the cold floor. When the agonizing pain subdued a little, she was greeted with a grinning face of Jim Moriarty. "You don't have a choice, Watson" he informed her gleefully, grabbing her other wrist and holding both her arms up, pinning her to the floor.

Dammit.

"Sebby." She weakly tried to free her hands at this, but only managed to get pointy nails dug deeper into her skin. "You must show me why they kicked you out." Dammit. She was in no shape to attempt an escape.

# #

There was something Joan Watson learned at a very early age, while fighting off bullies and pulling her sister out of trouble. If you don't resist, the aggressor is more likely to lose interest and stop. If you don't speak up, you don't get yelled at as much. It didn't mean she applied this lesson to her daily life, but she knew how to spoil the violence when there were no other option left.

She just locked herself away and waited for an end.

Joan wasn't sure how long it lasted. She came back to the sight of Moran smugly smirking down at her, and Moriarty staring intensely at her face. "Did we break you already?" Her whole body throbbed in dull pain. That will bruise, she noted absently.

She didn't move, didn't talk, but something in her eyes must have shown the tightly controlled fury, since Jim tilted his head in delight. "I can see why he keeps you around now."

He stood up, dusting off his trousers, and snapped his fingers. Hesitant footsteps announced the arrival of another goon, less confident and surely less important than Sebastian. "Get her ready. I want everything to be perfect."

They roughly brought her back to the chair, and a sweating thin man with small beady eyes applied some make-up on her blossoming bruises. Aware of Sebastian watching her like a hawk, she didn't even flinch when the goon righted her clothes and started combing her hair (why bother, it is too short). Everything hurt, a dull continuous aching that was slowly gnawning at her self-control. I need a hot bath stated a small giggly voice in her head, the one that appeared at the worst times.

After long minutes, or maybe hours, she wasn't certain, Moriarty reappeared, followed by another man who carried a heavy parka and an effing shitload of explosives. Kill them, rip them, make them cry chanted the anger, but Joan stilled herself to appear broken and harmless. She was outnumbered, outgunned, and she was not a fool. Unless death was imminent, she would not act recklessly, as much as she wanted to tear her captors to shreds.

Apparently, all of them knew their responsibilities in this little show, as the make-up artist (as she called the beady-eyed man now) hoisted her on her feet, to allow Sebastian drape her in the explosive vest, then in the parka. Moran took his sweet time, tightening belts more than necessary and blowing his hot breath in her face intentionally.

When he was finally adjusting the jacket, she allowed herself to show her cards for a second. Her body tensed imperceptibly, features hardened, killing intent apparent in the suddenly steely blue eyes. Surprised, Moran looked up, ready to fight. Joan had always been proud to say that her anger could shut up the most stuck-up opponents. It looked like it applied to dishonorable ex-Colonels with anger-management issues as well.

"Hey Sebby" she whispered evenly, her undertone promising hell. "I will cut you up."

Before he came up with a retort or a threat, she closed off again, forcing her body to relax, appearing a meek marionette with cut strings. Jim had been too engrossed in his phone to notice the brief interaction, and Moran was left to wonder if he had just had a hallucination.

They stuffed her in a changing cubicle, with Moriarty mocking voice coming through a headset. "You know the gig, Johnny. Repeat what I say or they will be picking you up with a spoon for a week." She didn't need to respond, really. She could hear other voices on the line, Moran setting up his snipers, getting in place. Sherlock wouldn't just walk in there, would he?

"And the star is here!" chirped Jim. "In position. Johnny-girl, keep it smooth and you may even walk out alive." She didn't believe him for a second.

# #

A/N: Well, that escalated quickly...

In case it wasn't obvious, I expected much more of Moran in the show. The super badass colonel with a super advanced rifle, I wanted to see that, not a sneaky terrorist :( So Lord Moran now has a younger brother, Sebastian, that you all just met. Sebby isn't a nice guy, just like his bro. Sebby is an angry and violent guy. Let's hate Sebby together, while he's here. Rant over!