It took a bit longer than expected. Sorry! Enjoy :)

Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.

# #

The first night back home after Baskerville, Joan took sleeping pills because she could feel the nightmares coming. She startled awake around five in the morning, covered in sweat, and spent the rest of the wee hours catching up on a novel she had started reading before Christmas.

When she finally came down to the kitchen, she was greeted by the once-in-a-lifetime vision of Sherlock Holmes doing dishes from the last night take-out. "Morning" the doctor said as neutrally as possible, afraid to spook the apparition.

Sherlock turned around, drying his hands on a towel, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "Good morning, John" he smiled brightly. Oh, this is suspicious as hell.

"What's going on?" she asked, stepping further into the kitchen and expecting a slimy and smelly experiment sprang up at any moment.

"What do you mean?" he frowned in a perfectly believable confusion.

Joan raised an eyebrow. "You. Dishes. Explain."

"Well, you always complain about my lack of participation in the household chores…" the man shrugged.

"Sherlock" the doctor sighed heavily. "What am I going to find inside the fridge this time?"

Holmes sniffed, seemingly offended. "Nothing dubious."

"Really?" Joan didn't buy into this sham for a second.

"Really."

Seeing is believing, she decided in the end, and made a beeline to the fridge. It was, indeed, void of anything that needed a biohazard disposal team to clean up. "Hmm." She closed the door and narrowed her eyes at the still pretending to be innocent flatmate. "Do you have a fever?"

"Why can't I just be helpful for once?" he finally started to lose patience.

Joan crossed her arms sternly. "Because you never do that. It's fishy."

The detective looked like he was about to say something, opened and closed his mouth twice without uttering a word, then threw the towel on the counter with a frustrated "Oh, whatever!" and stomped away to his room, leaving a very confused Joan to contemplate the empty sink.

The second night, she forgot to take the pills, lulled into a false sense of security by delicious scones and a rather uneventful day (aside from the dishes incident) of catching up on unread emails and skyping with her little brother. She had purposely avoided thinking about Baskerville, since Sherlock had been out all day, and it came back to bite her, harsh.

She woke up mid-scream, already sitting upright on the bed, gasping for air in the dark. Before the lack of light could send her spiralling into a panic attack, there was ruckus on the stairs and the door flew open to let in the much-needed illumination and a dishevelled Sherlock.

They stared at each other wide-eyed for about three seconds, before both visibly sagged in relief. "Did I wake you up?" Joan asked, avoiding his gaze and wincing inwardly at the dryness of her throat How long have I screamed?

"Wasn't sleeping" he answered mildly. The rumpled pyjamas begged to state otherwise.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize." They stayed in silence for a moment, and Joan started to fiddle with a stray thread on her bedsheet. "Tea?" Sherlock suddenly offered.

Watson was so surprised that she was about to accept (god, yes), then her brain caught up to who was offering what. Gods, no, not after that coffee. The whole thought process must have appeared clear as day on her face, as Sherlock's expression went from hopeful to defeated in a matter of seconds, making her feel even worse. He's trying, right? "I'll make it" she finally offered a compromise.

And that's how they ended up sipping scalding tea in the badly lit kitchen at one in the morning. Joan tried very hard not to notice the subdued attitude of her flatmate. Her thoughts were just calming down a little after the nightmare (green eyes, sand, fire, my fault…), and she didn't want to do anything to rile them up again.

"Do you want to talk about it?" The baritone, usually so confident and loud, was strangely quiet this time.

The doctor gave him a quizzical look over the mug. "About sentiment?"

"If you need it."

It made her freeze. He is trying. "Sherlock… You don't have to force yourself to do anything to earn my forgiveness. That's not the point."

He put his mug back on the table a bit forcefully and the hot liquid splashed on his fingers. He didn't seem to notice. "Then what is?"

Joan sighed and rubbed her neck with one hand. "Boundaries. Lines not to cross." It was difficult to put into words. She had been hurt, badly, by what Sherlock did in Baskerville, including his words and the 'experiment'. But she also chose to believe his apology, and to not completely ignore the fourteen months they had shared a flat together (and all that came in between – cases, giggles, gunshots and bombs alike). Despite the consultant being a difficult person to live with, Watson had rarely had such an easy understanding with another person, including people in her family and in her squad. There were fights, there was cold pasta for breakfast, packs of cigarettes hidden in sock drawers, sentences they finished for each other to annoy Anderson and texting about groceries instead of talking when being on opposite sides of the couch. Somehow these small things made it easier to give this friendship another chance – very cautiously, one step at a time, but still.

Joan had arrived at this conclusion while staring blankly at a book's page, not even seeing the words on it, while waiting for the alarm to go off last morning. She was also more equipped than Sherlock to process and deal with this kind of situation. She was not, however, good at unravelling emotional tangles like that in the middle of the night.

"What are those lines?" Sherlock demanded after the silence went on for a bit too long.

"Gosh, I d…"

"Because" – he interrupted abruptly – "I keep missing them. And if I keep crossing them, you will leave."

The doctor blinked at him, stunned. "I'd say drugging your friends is one of them" she finally stated.

"Already noted. What else?"

Of course, he'll be bossy about it. That's the most arrogant attempt at being humble I've ever seen. Joan snorted at the absurdity of it all. "This isn't science."

"There must be some rules!" He looked very intent on prying the secret of how to be a good friend out of her, leaning forward on the table, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles were white.

"Alright, stop!" She couldn't deal with it any longer and he reeled back in surprise. "There aren't any tenets set in stone, but as a rule of thumb, it would be nice to avoid putting people into knowingly harmful situations. That said" – he was about to interrupt again, but Joan was set on saying her piece and glared him into silence – "what you did back there was a breach of trust. You put me through something terrible, without even informing me, while there were other options to test your theory. This one was just less dull than the others." The guilt flashing briefly in his eyes confirmed Joan's guess. She shook her head to dispel the ache raising in her chest at the thought. "I am staying because I want to believe that everything we lived through was not a fluke. That you just royally messed up this time. But I will need time and space. You, searching for a magical solution to fix your mistakes will not help."

Sherlock's face, already naturally pale, lost the few colours it had. "Then what can I do?" he asked quietly, even shyly, like a child suddenly thrown into the adult world.

Joan paused to carefully choose her next words. "Please take a few more seconds to think things through, next time you're considering pulling this kind of stunt." She took up the lukewarm mug and took a drink. "Being disposable is not pleasant. If it happens again, there might not be anything left to salvage between us."

# #

The thirty-two hours, fourteen minutes since their return from Devon had been an exercise in patience for Sherlock. Once his body eliminated the drug and his brain fully processed, categorized and analysed the happenings of the case, he spiralled into a quiet panic. He had managed to alienate Joan not once, but twice in as many days, to the point where she admitted not being able to fully trust him anymore. Despite never having identified the need of being trusted by Watson before, the detective suddenly came to the conclusion that it was in fact a vital necessity for his continuous peace of mind.

Joan acted normally around him so far, and they had small talk, they ate dinner together, but she remained slightly distant for now, like she had been at the beginning of their flatshare. A polite, friendly distance that hadn't bothered him at the time but drove him up the walls now.

The worst thing, Sherlock admitted to himself glumly, was that the current situation it was indisputably his own fault. And while he could somewhat justify to himself the verbal lashing out at the inn (and I had properly apologized for that), he could not even begin to defend his decision to use Joan as a test subject for an unknown hallucinogenic. The idea seemed totally fine at the time – lab conditions, as he had already mentioned, no risk of physical injury, and the potential for finally identifying the cause of all abnormalities encountered. These arguments became less convincing once he realized that the drug sent his soldier into a violent flashback, and completely shattered in face of her distress later that evening.

It reminded him painfully how he failed at being a friend, again and again. It was shaping out to be the same disaster as his experiment in socializing in uni, except this time someone was actually willing to spend time with him and he single-handedly kept undermining all efforts without a second thought.

It is not acceptable anymore.

Driven by the sudden urge to be on his best behaviour, Sherlock dug into his mental archives and struck gold with Mrs Hudson's advices from last summer, when he had also said and done some hurtful things and almost got Joan to move out in the process. Cleaning would be appreciated. Unfortunately, cleaning had also become so out of norm that it turned suspicious, and he had to storm out of the flat to brood over new ideas for the day.

He occupied a couple of hours by poking around a fungi culture in the Bart's lab, until Mike Stamford gently threw him out (they needed the lab for an exam). Molly was not at the morgue (day off) and her replacement was not as amenable to share body parts as she was. Sherlock looked at the grey sky, shivering in the wind outside of the hospital. He was running short of ideas and the world seemed to work against him.

He came home late, the lights were out, and he didn't bother to turn them on.

# #

The pent-up frustration of the past hours spilled out like a shaken can of cola, leaving Sherlock feeling numb and void with helplessness. As always, Joan was there to tidy up the mess, with calm words and steady hands that made tea for both of them.

Her ultimatum was given in a carefully measured voice, not too angry, not too friendly, meaning that she was probably a bit of both. "You are far from disposable, John" he whispered in response when she turned to wash the mugs, knowing she wouldn't hear it anyway behind the noise of running water.

# #

Lestrade dropped by just as Joan stepped out for groceries. "Is there a case?" Sherlock perked up immediately at the sight of the DI, even looking up from the laptop.

"Erm… No." Greg shuffled awkwardly at the door, eyeing warily the chaos inside the flat. "Just checking up on you two."

"Oh" the consulting detective visibly deflated.

"So…" the older man stepped in the living room and slowly made his way to Joan's chair. "Have you two talked?"

"Despite popular belief, I am not unable to do small talk, inspector" Sherlock huffed indignantly.

"Not that, you git!" The DI looked like he was seriously restraining himself from throwing a cushion. "Watson was pissed at you. Have you talked about that?"

Holmes clapped the laptop shut and pinned the policeman under a calculating stare. When the poor man started to nervously fidget, he dropped his hands flat on the table and sighed. "We might have breached the subject."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Go on."

"She is understandably unhappy with my actions at Baskerville but would not accept any form of apology." His nails scratched lightly on the wooden surface. "I am uncertain whether the experience would have a long-term negative impact on our friendship."

Greg blinked owlishly at him, trying to translate the two sentences into something less convoluted. "She rejected your attempts at apology? And you're afraid she'd leave?" he prodded. The look of startled guilt on Sherlock's face answered the questions. "Listen… I don't know the details, but you messed up, bad. The fact that John hadn't packed her bags yet is a good sign, though. Just don't be an idiot again and give it time." Sherlock grumbled something under his breath, all the while scowling fiercely at the opposite wall. "What was that?"

"That's what she said. Give her time and space."

"Sounds about right." Lestrade leaned forward, trying to catch the younger man's attention. "You pair are one hell of a miracle, you know? Bloody improbable but working despite all odds." While he didn't stop his stare down with the wall, Sherlock's mouth twitched in a not-quite-a-smile, indicating that he was, in fact, listening. "And it's clear – at least to me – that you care about each other, more than even some families would. And I think that sometimes, like in Devon, you get carried away and forget that." The deep frown was back. Greg didn't quite grasp what point he was trying to get across to the thick-headed genius, but he felt like he was bound to try his best. "She knows you, Sherlock, better than most. So, trust her and follow her lead, for once. It'll be alright." There was something painfully fragile in Sherlock's expression for a second, when he finally looked his guest in the eyes. Just for a second, then it switched to the usual barely polite indifference.

"I am not a child who needs comforting" the git enunciated neutrally, with a hint of arrogant disdain. It said something about Lestrade's understanding of Holmes-talk (vastly improved by Watson's off-hand comments during the last few months) that he took it as the 'thank you' it was intended to be.

"Anytime" he smirked, to Sherlock's surprise. He got up, wincing at the creak in his right knee (I'm too old for this) and headed towards the door when a small detail caught his attention. "You should throw these cigarettes, by the way." The pack had been carefully stashed inside a slipper that was strategically hung high enough (almost near the damn ceiling) for Joan to miss the white piece of carton peeking out. The surprised intake of breath was enough to put the DI in a good mood for the day (feels good to surprise him for once!) and he left Baker Street chuckling.

When he got back to his office, there was an email waiting for him from a crypted sender: "Well done, Detective Inspector. MH"

# #

At times, she had wondered if her words had any impact on the man. Damn, sometimes she even doubted he heard her talking. But not this once.

Sherlock resumed his normal smelly / explosive / corrosive activities in the flat, but there was a permanent sense of restraint to his actions. He asked for permission when using some of her stuff and warned about the slime cultivating in the microwave. He didn't pout when she asked him to eat. When he played the violin at night, it was never the maddening screeching of his churning thoughts, but always a soothing tune that eased good dreams.

Joan made an effort as well – she magnanimously allowed the use of their plates in the ceramic paint experiment (the resulting new look was hideous, not that she would say so out loud) and did not pester the man to eat or drink or sleep until he was finished with whatever he was busy with at the time. She made him tea, as always, and did not put peas that he detested in the rice salad she made for dinner.

When a haggard-looking student showed up at their door, saying that his girlfriend had disappeared two days ago and no one would look for her, they accepted without much hesitation. Joan took notes, then ran after her flatmate on a mad hunt for clues around the city. Within a day, they broke into a dormitory and rummaged through closets, stalked social media accounts and hacked into the national birth records database, somehow managed to track down the girl's former best friend and Sherlock even gave the most vicious dressing down to the Sergeant who had refused to file the missing person's report (something about 'she's an adult, she doesn't have to tell you where she goes'). By midnight, Joan found herself creeping up an alleyway of a townhouse, trying to distinguish Sherlock's lean frame ahead. The man refused to wait for the police to arrive and she had no choice but to follow.

To her immense surprise, Holmes stopped by the back door, giving her an expectant look that just screamed 'hurry up, would you'. The street lights cast orange-hued shadows on their faces, transforming his familiar traits into alien ones. Joan didn't know why it made her smile briefly, before she nodded and stepped forward, communicating with hand signs their entry strategy. Sherlock let her lead, not rushing in carelessly or protesting silently every little decision with furious eye rolls and flailing hands, as he usually would. The empowering feeling of being in charge had become a faint memory at this point, but Watson greeted it like an old friend with a sharp nod and a hand tightening on the weapon.

They glided through the dark hallway, drawing closer to the light and muffled voices filtering from under an oak door. There were two men, definitely, arguing loudly. Joan frowned – there was no indication of the missing woman being there so far – but Sherlock squeezed her shoulder. He's certain of his conclusions. A shout: "Sign it, dammit!" and a pained gasp – female. Person in danger. Grounds for entry.

They exchanged a couple of meaningful glances before Watson tucked the weapon in the small of her back and knocked on the closed door. The voices cut off abruptly. Hesitant steps coming near, and finally the door creaked open, lighting a strip of the hallway (Sherlock remained safely in the shadows). Joan offered a bright fake smile to the utterly confused man in his mid-twenties. "Hello then." He gaped for long seconds before attempting to slam the door. Too late.

The former soldier quickly stepped forward, making him recoil away, and followed the advance by a solid right hook to the man's jaw. He stumbled backwards with a whine and was immediately put in a hold by Watson, one arm bent just painfully enough behind the back. "What the hell!" the supposed abductor yelled.

"Who are you?!" seconded the second man in the room, the accomplice, while putting a safe distance between himself and the soldier (namely, getting on the other side of the large table). Joan just gave the most contemptuous eye roll she could muster before Sherlock swept into the light.

"Oh my, the door was opened, we just wanted to check everything is alright" he drawled, not sounding concerned at all. His eyes scanned the space in a matter of a few blinks, noting the dishevelled and clearly beaten up girl frozen shocked in a high chair, the scattered papers on the table and the bespoken suits of the two men. "You don't mind, do you?" he pressed, focusing his laser glare on the accomplice, who fumbled for words.

"This is my house!" the guy Joan was holding shouted.

"Is it now?" the consulting detective asked conversationally, circling around the table towards the girl. "Then why do you need Miss Forton here to sign off the ownership to you?" Holmes rounded the corner and picked up a page. "Hmm. An inheritance, at that. Disrespecting your father's last will." While he perused the document, the second man inched towards the glass door to the terrace. "And your solicitor is on it as well" Sherlock continued without even looking. "His license will be revoked, don't you agree, John?"

"Certainly" she smirked before glaring at the now pale solicitor. "Wouldn't even try running, if I were you."

"I can recommend an excellent lawyer who would take your case pro bono, Miss Forton." Sherlock tossed the papers back on the table and towered over the shaking girl. "He hates spoilt brats like your half-brother."

Slowly, as if only then realizing that her predicament was over, Jenny Forton nodded. There were bruises on her face, and some peeking from under the sleeves, but she had that stubborn glint in her eyes that promised hell to her wayward relative.

"It's mine by right!" the brother tried to struggle in Joan's grip.

"Nope" Watson quipped and tightened the hold. "I'm quite sure abduction and physical assault disqualifies you from any rights to your father's estate." While he sputtered indignantly, someone knocked loudly on the front door.

"Ah, that'd be the cavalry" Sherlock purred and disappeared for a moment to let in two puzzled constables.

The rest followed the standard routine. Jenny quickly shook off her daze and spoke to the police, occasionally glaring daggers at her abductors, who were cuffed and placed at the back of a car. The brother was already trying to bribe everyone in sight and the solicitor was visibly shaking, on the verge of a mental breakdown. Joan couldn't quite bring herself to care.

They stood to the side on the lawn, observing the rapidly growing police activity. "That was a good plan" Sherlock deigned to comment after long minutes of silent observation.

She glanced at him briefly, noticing his pointedly neutral expression, the gaze fixed on something distant and hands clasped behind the back. Waiting for something. She thought about how he went along with her orders without a hint of disagreement. Trust. Ah, so that's what it is… "Thank you" she smiled softly, fixing her eyes on the arriving ambulance. He shifted by her side in surprise, ready to ask questions, but she just chuckled and started to walk away from the crime scene. "Hungry?"

Soon enough, his steps matched her own pace. "Starving" he admitted with barely hidden excitement peeking through the cold veneer. Oh well, Watson thought, it might be foolish, but I'm coming to trust him again.

# #

Joan had just gotten back from Speedy's, after an awkward interaction with Mr Chatterjee. Sherlock was properly dressed, for once, and busy perusing one of her old copies of the Lancet. "He gave me a chocolate muffin for Mrs Hudson. Again" the doctor announced, throwing the bag of sandwiches on the table.

"Persistent" Sherlock hummed.

"How many wives does he have already?"

"Three, last I counted."

"This is ridiculous" she sighed, sagging onto her chair. "I'm not helping him add our landlady to his harem."

Holmes finally abandoned the journal in favour of picking through the sandwiches. "Nor should you" he said absently, removing pickles from the tuna one.

Joan cracked her knuckles. "Maybe it's time for some well-intended discussion."

The detective gave her a sharp look before nodding. "I like the way you think, Watson." They stayed stone-faced for another three seconds before starting giggling. "I have to admit" Sherlock finally shared, "I never had the opportunity to give this kind of speeches before. I'll have to document the procedure."

"Live and learn, mate! I had to deal with Harry's girlfriends all too often." Joan smirked at the memories.

"Do you normally bring a gun to this kind of conversation?"

"What? No!"

"Pity."

Their plotting against the womanizing shop manager was cut short by rapid footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock immediately frowned, not in a good way. "Donovan?"

The Sergeant was breathing heavily on their doorstep, seemingly alone. She nodded curtly in greetings and announced without preamble: "You need to come."

# #

The tension in the room was palpable. It was a small mercy that Sgt Donovan had been busy dealing with distraught parents in another room. Her usual acerbic remarks wouldn't have helped.

Joan was busy skimming through case files with Lestrade, hoping to match a mugshot with the CCTV grainy image of the potential kidnapper. Sherlock went into thinking mode an hour prior and was making random gestures from time to time to ease the process. At another time, she would have been fascinated and wondering what he was seeing, but there was a five-years-old girl missing and they were out of time.

She ran a hand through her hair, which had gotten too long for her taste (need to cut it soon), messing the ponytail. It had been literally hours, and they were nowhere near the solution.

"It's not enough!" Sherlock suddenly shouted, slamming his hands on the table, and startling them all. "There is something more, and we don't have enough information."

"That's all we got" protested Lestrade.

"Then what is the motive, detective?" He looked frightening, silver eyes ablaze. "Not ransom, obviously, we would have heard from them now, not vengeance, this family is appallingly good and boring, and not successful enough to arouse such toxic jealousy. There are no dark family secrets to be unearthed, no money to extort. This kidnapping is meaningless."

"Or he could be interested in the kid herself" Joan voiced the possibility no one wanted to consider yet.

"The modus operandi doesn't match" Sherlock rebuked instantly, to her relief. "Statistically speaking, criminals with divergent tendencies are cowards. They don't snatch kids from the street. They coerce them to come. They try to hide their tracks. This one… he was a professional." He paused. "Did you recover samples from tire tracks?" he addressed the DI.

"Yes, of course…"

"I'll need them."

# #

Greg forbade him to even entering the forensics lab, to avoid another scene with Anderson, but brought out the sample nevertheless. With barely a nod, Sherlock swept off, leaving Joan to promise instant updates and generally keeping an eye on things. Now, the man was engrossed in some analysis, vital no doubt, but that left little place for Joan to help. It was driving her crazy.

"Sherlock" she dared to call out from the far side of the kitchen. "What can I do to help? I want to help." I need to help.

"You are doing all you can, John" came the muffled reply from behind the microscope.

Feeling utterly useless and hurt, Joan tiptoed out of the kitchen and slid the door closed. It was the five-pips-investigation all over again, except now the consulting detective wasn't having fun. He was desperate to find any clue about the kid's whereabouts, she could see it in the tense set of his shoulders and she refused to interfere with his proceedings, even if she felt like dirt. What good am I, anyway?

Her phone vibrated on the dining table, and she picked it up absently.

"Hello, Dr Watson" was the message from an unknown number. She frowned.

"I have a deal for you." An ice-cold feeling gripped her stomach, while the texts continued. She switched off the vibrate to avoid distracting Sherlock.

"I'll give you an address. You come alone. I let them find the kid." Shit. Why contacting me? Sherlock or the NSY would have been a more logical choice. The next message was an image. A photo of the missing girl, sitting snugly on a perused chair, watching something on a tablet. She looked tired and had tear-tracks on her round cheeks, but she did not seem scared. There was a newspaper propped near her, dated from that same evening. Her eyes darted to the kitchen door, but… "Tell your friend, and she dies."

"What do you want?" she furiously typed back.

"Come. And I'll let the door open for the neighbours to find her." He kept the kid in an apartment then. If only she screamed… but he seemed to have convinced her to stay calm.

"If you refuse, I'll just kill her right now. Small children have such tender necks." Dammit. She couldn't risk it. She was confident that Sherlock would eventually find the kid, but it would be no good if she was dead.

"Where" she sent, sliding into her chair, suddenly breathless. The phone blinked with an address she didn't recognize in central London.

"Good girl. Make sure no one follows."

The blood was pounding in her ears. How can I justify going there without back-up? How can I not go? In any case, she was useless here. She got up, reaching for the gun tucked in her belt. It was better to leave it to Sherlock, rather than lose it to a madman. Snatching her vest, she passed a head into the kitchen: "I'll go to the Yard, maybe I can help there." The hunched back remained silent. Please look at me. Please notice.

After a few seconds of being ignored, she slid the door closed again, and left.

# #

The address was a beauty salon, of all things. Thoroughly confused, she checked the message again. A new one arrived at the same time: "That's the place. Come on in." She had a fleeting doubt about all this – maybe a very elaborate prank – but the photo of the girl had been real.

A smiling woman welcomed her at the door: "Miss Watson, we were waiting for you. Please, follow me." What followed was worse than any make-over torture Harry had submitted her to in their younger years. Only the thought of large hands snapping the kid's neck if she dared to stand up and leave, stopped her from doing just that. This is insane. I'm getting a make-over in exchange for a kidnapped child. What twisted game is it?

It took a little over an hour for the beauticians to finish. She almost tripped when they led her to a full-height mirror, mainly because of the high heels, but also with a realization. Game. Oh. It's his game.

Meanwhile, she could admire the result. The long dark blue dress with a golden sash was clinging to her like a second skin. It left her right shoulder and arm exposed, but the left one was covered by an ample sleeve. Her hair had been washed, brushed and set up to look as artfully natural as possible, falling on her shoulders and upper back in small waves. The make-up… let's just say she had no hope to ever reproduce this smoky-eyes effect. She looked like these rich girls going to a gala and getting photographed for Closer. She hated it.

"You definitely clean up good" drawled someone at her left. Her blood ran cold, but there was no denying that the mirror showed a nice picture.

"Hi, Jim" she intoned as evenly as possible, turning to look at the most insane and dangerous and evil man she had ever met. He was wearing Westwood again, leaning casually against the doorframe, and almost devouring her with his black dead eyes. Why is he out? Did Mycroft let him go?! Does Sherlock know? Why didn't these idiots tell me?! All these questions ran through her head on a speed rivalled only by Sherlock on a deductive rant. But out loud, she settled on a polite: "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Oh, I needed a date." There were many things she could have said, but a politely raised eyebrow seemed like the safest course of action. He just typed something on his phone, then turned the screen to her. It was a life-feed of a poorly lit room. The missing girl was sleeping in the same chair, and in the farthest corner, a door was left ajar. "I keep my word… most of the time. Someone may come through that door at any moment. The who will depend on you, Johnny." The threat was rather clear. Disobedience meant a death sentence for the kid. She nodded stiffly. Jim's bored face split into a Cheshire grin. "Good. Let's go."

If I die tonight, I'll die with class, Joan decided darkly. And if I survive, I'll kill the Holmes brothers myself for being secretive bastards. Swallowing back her pride, fear and survival instincts, she smiled coyly, and locked her arm at his elbow. "I'm all yours" she purred.

This had the merit of making him bark a laugh (humourless, hollow). "You are a well of surprises, Joan." It was the first time he hadn't used any nickname. She wasn't sure how she felt about it. He led her to a slick black car outside, reminiscent of the transport Mycroft used, and isn't it telling that the two most powerful men I know have similar tastes in cars. In a way, she felt less terrified than during the Pool events. Yes, she was still at the mercy of a madman with a penchant for explosives, but a – she was not tied to a chair, nor an actual bomb, and b – there was no violent vengeful goon out for her blood anymore. When it came to the worst, she had freedom of movement, and she could fight. The ride had been spent in silence, with Joan sitting rode straight in her seat, staring at nothing, and Jim gleefully texting away, slumped and almost offensively relaxed.

She couldn't help herself when they arrived at a very grand and very public hotel, with luxury cars waltzing through the driveway and dressed-up couples and singles converging to the entrance. "You brought me to an actual gala?"

"Told you I needed a date" he smirked, while offering her an elbow. They slowly walked up the stairs, and Jim tugged her towards the reception room. For one mad moment, Joan held a wild hope that Mycroft would be in attendance, it is his sort of events after all, but Moriarty wouldn't do such a rookie mistake. He had noticed her train of thought, though, as he leaned close and hissed in a mock whisper: "Don't be brave, Joan." She repressed a shudder.

# #

The next couple of hours had been a blur. Moriarty dragged her from table to table, staring her into eating and drinking (she forced herself to not choke), while idly chattering, or giving veiled threats in some instances, with the attendees. People looked at her curiously, but didn't try to engage her into meaningless conversations, clearly wary of her 'date'. From time to time, Jim elbowed her in the ribs with a hissed "Smile, Joan", and she complied with a very convincing grimace that made her look particularly dumb. Her feet hurt horribly, she was really not used to wearing heels anymore.

At some point, her captor must have finished his official business, and just loitered near the bar, keeping an eye on her. Joan felt the stress piling up but kept up the sham of being an idiotic date to a wealthy man. And Sherlock was doubting my acting talents. "I must say, I'm impressed you held up that long" Jim mirrored her thoughts, a colourful drink in his hand.

"I have an incentive" she replied, trying not to meet his eyes.

"Here's your reward then." He shoved his phone in her hands, the life-feed open again on the screen. She could see the girl was still sleeping and wondered if they had used drugs to keep her subdued. The door opened slowly, admitting a cautious DI Lestrade, gun out, into the room, followed closely by a scowling Sally Donovan, and another sergeant she couldn't quite place. They secured the perimeter while Greg made a beeline to the child, visibly sagging in relief. Sherlock made his majestic entrance as soon as the apartment was declared clear, looking disgruntled and intrigued at the same time. Did he notice I'm missing yet? Does he care? There was no sound, obviously, and Joan was left watching, enraptured, as Sally rushed the kid out of the room, likely to the awaiting ambulance, and Sherlock and Greg argued about something. Then the younger man's eyes spotted the camera, and he stopped mid-phrase, lunging to it in full deductive mode.

"There you have it." The high-pitched voice made her startle. Jim snatched the phone back. "They found the kid." She gazed at him thoughtfully. It was never about the kid. It was about bait, bad enough to get me here. It was a game to catch me. The guilt of having been the cause of such ordeal for a small child prickled under her skin. But the child was never in any danger, supplied a more calculating part of her mind. You would have complied anyway. And Sherlock was on the case. Small mercies, indeed.

"What's next then?" she asked as calmly as she could.

The Cheshire grin made a reappearance. "Let's get somewhere less… noisy."

He marched her out of the reception room, into the subdued quietness of the entry hall. There was no security guards and no random goons in sight, but it didn't mean they weren't around either. The uncertainty was weighing Joan down. As Jim had called the elevator, she decided to draw the line. "I'm not going to a hotel room with you." He stared at her blankly, with these dreadful empty eyes. She didn't flinch away, just continued matter-of-factly: "Do you think I'm that stupid?"

"Do you need another incentive, then?" He looked somewhat disappointed now.

Feeling her insides twist with foreboding, she pushed on because what else there is to do: "And a good one."

Jim smirked. "You are such an entertainment, Joan. I understand why he keeps you around. Even if your little moral principles can be such a boooore."

"Well, not sorry for that."

"There is a sniper poised to execute Sherlock Holmes at a moment notice from me." His tone was all business. "Do you still want to walk away?"

The elevator's door opened with a small ping, and Jim strolled in. She was frozen in place with mind-numbing fear, until his voice trailed from the cabin. "Shall I send this text after all?"

"No" she choked out and stepped after him. He could be lying. He could be telling the truth. I can't risk it. I just can't.