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

Warning: As Jim is involved, this is going to get uncomfortable rather quickly. If you are uneasy when it gets too... psycho, you can skip the parts between (**) signs (it's not long), it shouldn't impact your understanding of the story. In any case, I absolutely do not caution the messed up things Jim does.

# #

To Joan's mild surprise, Jim didn't bring her to a suite or a lavish apartment, just a regular room. It was wide enough to squish two of her infamous bedsits in it, but still not a suite. Damn, given a choice, I would have preferred to be eviscerated in a room that costs more than everything I ever owned. After not-so-gently pushing her inside, Moriarty locked the door, and tugged at his tie. "Peace at last" he drawled, standing right behind her. She could feel the steady warmth of his body with her back. I would have bet he'd be as cold as a reptile.

Joan was somewhat shell-shocked by the threat and operating on a semi-autopilot. All brain energy was diverted towards the sole objective of 'not making him kill Sherlock'.

Strong hands grabbed her waist and forced her to turn. She staggered, disbalanced by these ridiculous shoes, and would have fallen backwards if not for a desk to lean on. Jim's dead eyes bored into hers, and she couldn't say for the life of her what he wanted. "You're not afraid" he stated emotionlessly.

And she kinda wasn't. Not really.

"You don't seem very afraid." - "You don't seem very frightening." echoed in her memories.

All slights he could inflict upon her paled before his previous threat. If he didn't act on it, she could bear it all. Fight now, break later. "I'm not particularly sensitive to torture. You will hardly do anything new to me." As always, the snarky attitude made a guest appearance at the worst time possible.

He watched her for long seconds, before bursting out laughing. It was a dark and scary sound. "I can't believe I missed it at first! You are soooo much more interesting than the rest of them!" He moved to the mini-bar, leaving Joan gasping for air in his wake. He popped a candy into his mouth before grabbing a can from the fridge. "You just don't break." I am already dust, flashed a nameless quote through her mind. "I thought you'd run away after the reunion with Sebby, but you went and got revenge." She froze momentarily at that. Not even Mycroft hinted at knowing anything about the expedition in New Zealand. But then again, Jim must have been close on their heels during the chase. "Then that whole affair with Adler. I did not expect you two to cooperate. And very few people manage to surprise me like that, Joan." He took a large drink of cola and hummed. "You know how to be bad, you know your darkness, and you hide it all under such boooring existence." He took another drink and pinned her with a dead stare again. "I could give you more."

Oh god, is he trying to recruit me? ME? "I like boring" she managed weakly, trying not to think about how well this psychopath seemed to understand some parts of her.

"I get whatever I want, Joan."

Joan was tired. Tired of walking on the edge, tired of games, snipers and high heels. If we can just skip the conversation and go straight to physical torture, it would be a relief. Regretfully detaching herself from the supporting desk, she went to sit on the bed, trying to relax her sore muscles. "What do you want?"

The cola can was promptly crushed and dropped into the bin. "I wonder" he drawled. Moving like a cat, he circled the bed, eyes not straying away from her. She braced herself for an attack, but he just swirled on his feet and fell on his back on the mattress, adopting an air of utter exhaustion that didn't fool anyone. She watched him warily from her corner of the queen-sized bed. "Kiss me."

WHAT?!

Black bottomless eyes, eyes of the devil, observed her distress dispassionately. "Looking for novelty?" she heard herself say. Blame the shock for it.

He sighed, apparently annoyed, and unexpectedly started explaining: "I don't bother with people. I collect pieces on my board. Loot to conquer. Like you." That's an interesting metaphor, Joan thought numbly. "Kiss me. Or would you like to redecorate your living room with dear Sherlock's brains?"

The image was sickening. There was a morbid curiosity in his eyes, a cat playing with a mouse before killing it. He wants to know how far I'll go before breaking. How far he needs to push before I stop caring. Fighting the gag reflex, Joan pulled herself entirely on the bed. Go to hell, Jim. As Moriarty didn't look like he was going to move anywhere, she bent over his prone form. It would be so easy to kill him now. But what tells me he doesn't have a back-up plan? Judging by the faint amusement on his face, he knew exactly what she was thinking about. "I hate you" she stated. She hated this man, creature, more than anything before. Is he going to burn all but fear out of me?

Her hair falling on one side, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and crushed her lips on his. It lasted three seconds and left her with a taste of mint and cold cola, and a deeply seated disgust. "Happy now?"

Jim appeared to be considering, licking his lips thoughtfully. "No."

(**)

She didn't notice when his arms sneaked around her, but then they were gripping her waist and hair, pulling her to him, making her lose the balance and literally fall into his iron embrace. How come he's so strong? There was a flurry of movement, and no time to understand or to resist. In a matter of seconds, she was sprawled on her back across the bed, hands pinned at her sides, the suit-clad figure of Jim Moriarty looming over her with a toothy smile. Some fine soldier you make, Watson.

"Much better" he smirked.

His kiss was rough, forceful. He kept clutching her right arm while holding her chin, stopping her from turning away. It was all teeth and powerplay, and bruises, and suffocation, and seemed to have no end. At some point, his mouth slid down her jaw to the exposed neck, letting her take large desperate gulps of air. He bit hard on her skin, eliciting a pained gasp. She jerked up, but he pinned her down with his weight, sucking, biting, still holding her chin up with one hand. She felt boneless, void, and numb.

Then his weight disappeared, and she was staring blankly at his smug terrifying face again. His hands came to support him, sinking in the mattress mere centimetres from her head. "You are mine now" he purred.

Yours? Yours, Jimmy? The rage instilled by his words flared like a volcano. Burn, burn, burn, see if I care! During times of intense stress, it made her act recklessly. Joan tilted her head, as if to get a better look. "You want all or nothing." He narrowed his eyes in silent question. She let her normalcy slip away, showing the part of her that sliced throats and broke spines, the face Moran saw before bleeding out, her own blue eyes darkening over a feral smile. "I refuse."

It was her turn to sneak her arms around him, pulling him down, lunging up, slamming their mouths together, and biting his lower lip until she tasted iron. Then she slumped down, boneless again, with a little satisfied smile. "Much better" she mimicked his earlier statement.

(**)

The rage receded at the sight of blood and let the numbness settle in. If she hadn't slipped so deep into shock, she would have laughed out loud at his face. For the first time, she had seen Moriarty display a real emotion – a worrying mix of surprise and delight. He sat back, rolling off the bed, with an amused chuckle. "Oh, Joan, you just upped the stakes." He got up, tidying his suit and popping another candy into his mouth. "But that's plenty excitement for the first date. You can get your things back from the reception, but I would bin them if I were you. You look stunning in a dress, my dear."

Joan didn't move from her sprawl, even when it became clear that the 'fun' part was over. She had just enough energy to maintain an arrogant smirk and a cold glare. It didn't seem to faze Jim in the slightest. "Ciao, Joan Watson" he sing-sang, in a reminiscent manner of what he said to Sherlock at the pool, before shutting the door and leaving her alone.

A choked sob wrecked her body, making her curl up on herself. That was close. What… what… oh god.

She stayed there, curled in a ball, shaking with silent and tearless sobs, gathering the courage to get up, get down, get out. She didn't want to think of what happened, of what could have happened or how she would explain this to her all-seeing friend.

It was all a blur, a hazy nauseating blur.

Joan remembered curious glances from the receptionist who handed her the bag with her clothes and phone (switched off, of course). She remembered the pain from the high heels while she limped to the nearest park and found a bench. Feeling the night cold on her exposed skin, she shrugged on a cardigan, noting absently deep bruising on her wrists, then her vest. Her hands didn't shake when she removed the thrice-damned shoes, and the sigh of relief when she put on her sneakers was liberating. She looked like hell, in muddy sneakers, a long ball dress peaking under a fake-leather vest, hair flying in the wind. It was time to go home.

# #

Usually, Sherlock tried to avoid cases involving children. Not that he would transform into a soppy mess at the scene, but it always rattled him on a level he didn't want to consider. A missing child with a chance of live rescue, however, he couldn't let it pass in good conscience. Especially when said conscience stuck with him through venomous glares from the less enlightened Yarders during the briefing and was currently going over mugshots with Lestrade.

This kidnapping made no sense though. It could have passed as a work of a deranged individual, but the execution was too effortless. He was missing a piece of the puzzle. The priority was to locate the girl, however. Hopefully, the forensic team didn't mess up too much on the sample collection, even though Anderson's presence was a definite indication of the contrary.

# #

He had been too busy with the mud analysis to pay attention to what Joan was saying. He remembered giving a vaguely reassuring comment at her pestering (I am about to get a breakthrough) and noted her leaving to the NSY (perhaps for the better, I can finally work in peace). In the end, it had been seventy-nine minutes, fifteen seconds before he made any progress. Certain now of the road the kidnapper had taken, he took time to text the address to Lestrade and to Joan before rushing outside.

Holmes was lying in wait mere meters away from the offending vehicle when he saw sirens flashing in the distance. Idiots! He'd have thought Joan would try to calm their ardour, but maybe the combined stupidity of Anderson and Donovan was too much even for her to quell. He darted to the main road, practically jumping in front of the DI's car. Tires screeched, and Greg shot out of the car: "Sherlock! What the hell?"

Unflappable as always, he gave the DI a cold glare. "Are you trying to spook the kidnapper with your little light show?" The grey-haired man had the grace to appear apologetic. The police force was spilling out of their cars, mercifully turning off red and blue lights. There was someone missing. "Where's John?"

Lestrade frowned. "Don't know. Shouldn't she be with you?"

"She went to the Yard to help you out." Strange.

"Maybe we missed each other? When was it?"

Sherlock frowned. He was quite sure that Joan left at least an hour before he discovered anything, plenty of time to reach the Yard, but he tended to delete minor disturbances during his work. It was possible that Joan got his text on the road and was stuck in the traffic or Tube without network coverage to alert them. He really needed to work on that glitch in his situational awareness. "Doesn't matter" he finally said. "She'll join us later."

# #

The suspect had been suspiciously easy to track. He marched to the car already flagged as the one used for the kidnapping, without concealing his face, soon after the police arrived in the vicinity. He drove it for two kilometres, not even checking for tails. It clashed with his professional demeanour during the kidnapping. Men who snatch kids from crowded streets don't drive around leisurely. He wants us to follow him.

He said that much to Lestrade, who muttered more instructions into the radio. After a moment's consideration, he also sent a text to Joan: "Found the kidnapper. He's leading us to a trap. Need assistance." Usually, she would rapidly respond by a brief affirmative. But this time, five minutes passed with no answer. "John?"

Before he could start reflecting on his blogger's silence, Sally came over. "We need to go in. The girl might be there."

"Are you ready to risk the lives of your team and the child on a rash decision, Sergeant?" Sherlock bit out coldly. She turned around, ready to descend upon him like a harpy, but Lestrade thankfully intervened.

"Enough. Sally, we're working on an operation plan. We can't afford to scare him into cutting his losses."

But it had been worked out rather quickly, and the police force moved inside, leaving a brooding Sherlock in their wake ("You're not going anywhere without protection. Wait until it's clear."). He texted Joan again, with no success. Something wasn't right. Something kept nagging at him. Antsy, he followed the last policeman into the building.

# #

The kid was found asleep in an empty room on the third floor. The door was left ajar in invitation, the suspect nowhere in sight (left by the fire escape while we were 'preparing'). The girl had been drugged, but nothing lasting or damaging, judging by her skin colour and steady breathing. She looked relatively unhurt, considering the ordeal she'd been through.

"I told you to wait outside" Lestrade sighed heavily.

"Something's not right" he voiced his concern, taking in the room.

"The suspect escaped, yes."

"Obviously, but it's more than this. This man is a professional. The only reason we're here is because he wanted us to. The kid was only a bait. But there is nothing in here, no deadly traps, no messages. Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense!"

"You're overthinking it, Sherlock…"

"There must be something else, something more import…." he stopped abruptly, eyes catching a faint glint of a lens on the farthest wall. A camera. A red light blinked. It's recording. Transmitting.

He lunged towards it, just in time to see the transmitter blink for the last time. Whatever the person on the other side was looking for, it had happened or had lost any chance of fulfilment. But what?

"Is that a camera?" asked Lestrade unhelpfully.

"Fine observation skills, inspector" he retorted tartly. "Why go to all the trouble to abduct a child? Just to bring us all here, and not do anything. What possible motive is there?" Bring us all here… Oh. Oh. Suddenly, it was hard to breath. "Where is John?" he whispered.

"You said she's on her way…"

"Call her. Find her NOW!" Sherlock roared, startling the entire room.

He was dialling her number already, but it went straight to voicemail. It doesn't make sense. Why John? "Sherlock, what's going on?" Lestrade's voice was urgent. His own face lost the few colours it had after two all-nighters. His hands shook slightly when he disconnected the call.

"The child was a bait all along. For John."

# #

Sherlock was pacing the living room like a caged beast. CCTV footage did them no good, as it only showed Joan leaving the house and disappearing in the evening crowd. Her phone was turned off, impossible to trace. Any data on the last known location could take days to acquire from the phone company. Joan Watson had vanished from Baker Street five hours ago, and he, the World's Only Consulting Detective, couldn't find a clue about her whereabouts.

He had been aggravating the whole NSY, until Lestrade dragged him out and drove him back to the flat. "We'll be working on it. You should stay here in case she comes back." They would do no good. Well, maybe Lestrade would, but the rest of his team are bumbling idiots.

He paced around the living room, unable to channel all the nervous energy. Finally, he noticed the gun on the dinner table, which made him freeze, battling a feeling of growing horror in his stomach. Fact: John went out alone without her trusted weapon. Fact: She left it visible, possibly in an attempt to alert me. Fact: I missed it before going out. "Shit!"

Limited in his options, he mulled over the available information while steadily pulling on his hair.

i) The whole kidnapping had been orchestrated in order to divert my attention (Evidence: the missing child was practically dropped on our lap).

ii) John wouldn't blindly go into danger without informing anyone… Amendment: Unless it meant saving someone's life.

Intermediary Conclusion A: The kidnapper threatened to kill the girl if John didn't comply with his demands. Assumption a: The deal somehow included keeping silent and going to an unknown location alone and unarmed.

Extracting archive: "I'll go to the Yard, maybe I can help there." Voice fluctuation – tense. Initially attributed to the case's nature. Final assessment – delaying tactic.

iii) The girl had been released (in a way) four hours after John had left the flat.

Intermediary Conclusion B1: John had accomplished what the kidnapper demanded.

Assumption b: if John was indeed captive, the kidnapper wouldn't have left her alone long enough to pick up the police tail and lead us to the kid. Possible implication: John was killed and/or unable to escape due to injuries. DELETE.

Intermediary Conclusion B2: John had accomplished what the kidnapper demanded, and the kidnapper proved his good faith by releasing the kid (Evidence: the transmitting camera).

Final Conclusion: The man who snatched the girl and led us to the apartment was indeed a hired hand. A professional, as expected. The mastermind stayed with John all along and has something else planned for her.

"Damn it!" he barked, slamming his hands on the table. It didn't explain why or who. He tried to list all criminal elements he might have slighted recently, bold enough to pull this and still roaming free. It was a gratifyingly short list, but the sheer magnitude of the operation was beyond any of them. The trap was specifically designed for Joan Watson.

If he didn't know any better, he would have assumed it was one of Mycroft's plots. Who else could orchestrate an abduction at such a scale?

Oh hell. How could I forget?!

Jim was back.

# #

Joan walked unsteadily through empty streets. It was a wonder someone didn't approach her to check if she was drunk, because she certainly felt dizzy enough. She wasn't sure how she arrived at Baker Street, or opened the door, or climbed the seventeen stairs, but one moment it was all cold and dark, then she was standing at the edge of the warm light, gripping at the door, with Sherlock slouched on the table, his back to the entrance.

# #

Sherlock's brain was in overdrive, an alarm bell in the mind palace reaching a high-pitched continuous note. Moriarty had expressed some twisted interest in Joan during the pool confrontation, but he didn't exactly act on it, and Joan never spoke of it either. She would tell me if there was something wrong, right? His game was with Sherlock, his equal, his playmate. Was it the beginning of the promised pyre for his heart?

In that case, John would be already… DELETE. DELETE. DELETE.

He was gasping for air, leaning on the table for support, when he heard tentative steps on stairs. Either a female client (did I not lock the front door?) or Molly (did I recently steal some body parts?). Both were unwelcome. "I'm busy. Go away" he growled, not even looking at the visitor.

A sharp intake of breath (Shocked. Good.), then a weak "Understood" and wobbling steps towards upstairs. It took him an unforgivable six seconds to recognize the voice.

"JOHN!"

He caught a sight of dishevelled blond hair taking excruciatingly slow steps on the staircase, and almost teleported himself across the room, grabbing her arm in a desperate attempt to reassure himself that Joan was really there, not a hallucination, that she was alright. It made her freeze.

He caught a whiff of unfamiliar hair product and pricy perfume. Her hair appeared to be done professionally at some point but was in disarray now. Was it always that long? Under the usual vest and cardigan, she wore a dress. An actual gown even, of a dark blue colour that complimented her eyes nicely. The fresh dirt on her sneakers told him that she had been walking for about thirty minutes before arriving. He absently noticed a paper bag filled with clothes abandoned carelessly near the door. "Where have you been?" he demanded urgently, still shaky with both worry and relief.

"Nowhere" she whispered, before shrugging his hand off and taking a steadier step up. That won't do.

He swiftly passed her and settled himself three stairs ahead, effectively blocking the way. She looked up, resigned. It was the first time he'd seen her wearing make-up, aside from the very occasional mascara she put on for work. It certainly changed a face, turning his friend into a person he didn't quite recognize. Still, she looked tired, exhausted even. "What happened, John?"

"Nothing." Sherlock frowned, confused. Usually, he could read Joan like an open book, but not now. Is it the make-up? He reached out instinctively, thinking of wiping away some of it. It made her flinch violently, and she stepped back, forgetting that they were on a flight of stairs. Luckily, Sherlock had seen it coming, and grabbed her hand, pulling her right back, steadying his blogger against his chest, and getting a full scent of the perfume now. Angel by Mugler. Joan stayed frozen and tense, face hidden in his shirt, for several seconds. Then she gently pushed him away, and stumbled back into the living room, tugging on her vest to come off. She had never been averse to casual physical contact but is extremely uneasy now.

Sherlock stared after her in disbelief. Once the relief of seeing his friend alive and relatively well had passed, the anxiety he felt during the wait transformed into a righteous blind anger. Did she have to make me so worried? Keep vital information from me?

"What happened?" he repeated, more sternly now, coming after her. The vest was discarded on the floor, with Joan wavering in the middle of the room, near the coffee table. She was breathing heavily, and held both hands to her head, trying to fend off a headache.

"I don't want to talk about it right now" she muttered loud enough for him to hear. More and more irritated, he rounded up on her, and paused at something he didn't notice before. On the left side of her neck was a reddening love bite. That would explain the radio silence, the absence and the uneasiness. He ran a finger over the mark, not noticing how still and tense Joan suddenly stood, or how dead her eyes became. Going out with a lover, while on a case, and worrying me. Humans are shallow. I knew that. Why did I even consider this one trustworthy? In some part of his mind, he recognized that he was being unreasonable, and that anger dangerously clouded his judgement. But it felt good to let go some of the tension by snapping at its cause: "I wouldn't have pegged you for that, Doctor Watson."

He relished the hurt - devastated - look on her face (serves you right) before turning away, to observe her behaviour in the mirror. "Neither did I" she breathed out weakly. Her face was sallow under the artful make-up, pupils blown, mouth slightly open. She made an aborted attempt to bring her hands up to her head again. Repressed a shiver. Sherlock frowned, anger dissipating slowly, and shameful guilt settling in. He had been extremely cruel, even by his own standards, without even hearing her side of the story, and possibly hasty in his conclusions (sentiment). Whatever he was seeing, it looked a lot like shock. One explanation of some of the facts. Dammit. Meanwhile, Joan took three steps towards the window, unseeing gaze darting from the street to the vane reflection, to the floor. It isn't right, something's wrong, wrong…

The detective was about to apologize (see what you make me do, John?), when his phone beeped on the coffee table. Joan swirled on her heels, being in a prime spot to see the message. The shock dropped, and for a moment she looked intent and determined, like during a chase. Adrenaline rush, he recognized.

"Fuck" was the only thing she managed to say though.

Surprised at the language, Sherlock wanted to speak up, but Joan was already darting towards the kitchen, her legs miserably failing to support her midway and falling painfully with a gasp. She was shivering, not suppressing it anymore, and breathing seemed difficult. Too difficult. It's wrong, wrong, wrong…

"John…" he crouched near her, cautious. "What is it?"

Her eyes were unfocused when she tried to look up. "Look… phone…" she gasped out. "Poison…"

His blood did one turn at the last word. How can I be so blind? And discard my own conclusions under emotional influence? STUPID, STUPID! It had Jim's hand all over it, and of course he wouldn't let her go that easily. He was already reading the message, a single chemical formula that he recognized as a slow-acting poison, based loosely on the botulin bacteria's properties. If not counter-acted, the victim would lose mobility and finally internal organs would shut down.

He had been working on an antidote several months ago, after they had a case involving the reagent, and it should be somewhere in the bathroom, even if it had never been tested on a human subject. He turned to find Joan lying face down on the carpet, laboured breathing getting slower. No, no, nonononono…

Holmes exploded into action, lifting his flatmate like a feather and placing her gently on the couch. A mad dash to the bathroom left the medical cabinet in shambles, but he got a needle and the right chemical composite. It took him barely a minute, but he didn't know how long ago the poison had entered Joan's body, and whether there was still a chance for her to survive.

"John" he called urgently, while rolling up the jumper's sleeve, pausing in horror at the dark bruise on her wrist. Eyelids fluttered indicating a level of consciousness. "How long since the intake?" he tried to stay detached, but it proved more difficult than expected.

"What time… is it?" she croaked.

"Twelve minutes to midnight" he answered without needing to check a watch.

"More than… hour ago…" came the weak reply.

It was a long shot, but he could still make it work. Nodding to himself, he carefully but efficiently prepared the right dosage and gave the injection. Quickly disinfecting the spot, he settled for a wait. If this didn't work, nothing would, after all. DELETE.

# #

After sixteen minutes, twenty-three seconds, Joan's shivers settled, and her breathing returned to normal. Sherlock looked down at the hand he was holding during all that time. It was small, compared to his own, and clammy. He recalled that the poison was inducing high fever in some cases. The finger-shaped bruising on her wrist seemed to continuously drag his attention back to it, and its possible implications. What had Jim done to her?

He knew the signs, of course. But he didn't want it to be true. Not John.

"John" he called out.

"I'm so sorry…" she breathed out, more coherent than before, eyes still closed. He didn't know how to handle the apology.

"What for?"

"Couldn't risk the child. Sorry…" Of course, she would blame herself.

"Don't be. Who was it?" he asked tentatively.

"Jim." Her voice was painfully hollow. His grip tightened on her hand, but she remained slack and unmoving on the sofa.

"What did he do?" He wasn't even sure he wanted to know.

Her eyes finally opened, to pin him down with a veiled gaze. There was no accusation in it. Pain, guilt, fondness, but no resentment. "Not much, surprisingly. Besides poisoning me."

"John" he groaned plaintively. Now that she was not closed off by the emotional and physical shock, he could read her again. Even with make-up on. She was trying to spare him. "Tell me. Please."

"Really, he didn't do much."

"Do you think I'm blind?!" he snapped, instantly regretting it.

The exceptional being on his couch didn't appear to mind. "I'm a big girl. I can take on some rough kissing." She sighed and pushed herself up with a groan. "It is an interesting way to poison someone." Seeing his anxious face, she gave Sherlock a small smile. "Should have snapped his neck when I had the chance but wasn't sure his sniper wouldn't shoot you anyway."

Sniper?! Ah yes, he threatened my life to make her play along. "You do realize I am under constant surveillance from Mycroft?"

"And Moriarty has a history of going around it." Touché. "You alright?"

"Me? I'm not the one who…" he stopped, not knowing what to say.

"I'm here." She squeezed his hand. "You saved me."

Their eyes locked and some sort of understanding passed between them. The kind that said please never disappear, I have your back.

"You should rest at least for two days, to avoid any side-effects." She wouldn't go to the hospital anyway, he reasoned.

"Fine by me" she smiled tiredly. It took a bit more effort to get her steady on her feet, but eventually Joan shuffled up the stairs, leaving Sherlock to stare blankly at the wall, trying to process what just happened. Eventually, he shot a quick text to Lestrade, letting him know that Joan was home, and no immediate assistance was required.

# #

Sherlock crept up the stairs around six in the morning, intent on checking on his doctor. He found her snuggled under the blanket, still fully clothed, her even breathing the only noise in the small bedroom. He hovered near the bed, cataloguing the small signs (skin pale, sweaty – fever; frown – bad dream; lips bitten – stress; make-up running – will need shower – note: not use hot water). After much deliberation, he placed the gun on the bedside table as quietly as possible and retreated to the living room.

Several minutes of googling 'taking care of sick friends' later, he decided on preparing breakfast as the least tedious option. The inspection of cupboards revealed a desolate picture, with only stale sandwiches from Speedy's being somewhat edible in the whole flat. Sherlock cringed. Groceries it is.

Unfortunately, he quickly discovered that most stores were closed at half past six. Damn. He was standing on the doorstep and trying to locate at least a bakery on his phone and gradually attracting more and more attention from rare passers-by, when a black Mercedes quietly stopped in front of him.

Highly irritated, the detective was about ready to storm away from his meddling brother, when the door opened, and an unexpected guest stepped out. Sherlock froze.

"How is she?" Irene asked, gliding towards him on impossibly high heels.

"Sleeping" he answered despite his better judgement. "What are you doing here?"

The Woman shrugged, shoulders bare in her elegant dark red dress. Why was she wearing a cocktail dress at this hour was anyone's guess. "I had been pestering your brother for visitation rights for ages. He thought that you'd prefer seeing me instead of him today."

"To be fair, it would be true on any given day" Sherlock caught himself saying out loud, and immediately tried to convince himself that it was the fatigue talking.

Irene grinned knowingly but did not comment on the slip. "I brought breakfast." She clicked her fingers, and the driver hurried to their side with a paper bag that smelled delicious. As his eyes narrowed in suspicion, she added: "Mycroft personally selected the meal." Her accompanying grimace screamed of disappointment.

Reassured that there would be no surprise additives to the food (Adler had a history of drugging people, after all), Sherlock waved her inside. They had just finished setting the table when a now pyjama-clad Joan meandered into the kitchen, a greyish cardigan thrown over the shoulders. She blinked sleepily at the homely scene (Sherlock holding the kettle and Irene unpacking the pastries), shook her head as if in denial and continued to the bathroom without a single word.

# #

Lestrade chose the moment where Irene cornered Sherlock against the kitchen counter to arrive. The deep worried frown transformed into a text-book expression of 'flabbergasted' in a matter of seconds. Despite feeling like shit, Joan couldn't hide the chuckle, as the flustered consulting detective hastily disentangled himself from the smirking dominatrix (is she a special agent now?) and attempted to look completely unbothered by the whole situation.

"Morning, Greg" the doctor finally said when the silent scene stretched uncomfortably.

"John." The DI forcedly tore his eyes off the now blushing Sherlock. "What happened?"

Joan sipped her tea and considered the answer to that question. She was still running a fever, and generally felt like several elephants danced hip-hop all over her body all night long, which made processing last night events rather difficult. Her indecision had been noticed by Holmes, whose protective streak flared up again. "She is in no shape to discuss anything, Lestrade. She needs rest."

Greg was about to say something, when Irene, never one to be ignored, spoke out. "Why don't you bring the inspector up to speed, Sherlock dear? I will help John change."

They all stared at her in various degrees of bemusement, Lestrade still standing haggard at the door, Sherlock glaring at all and sundry from a safe distance, and Joan frozen mid-gesture while putting the mug down. "Sorry, what?" the doctor finally managed.

"Let the men talk" Irene purred, unperturbed. "We need to discuss this wardrobe, darling. It is an emergency."

Oh whatever… She could have picked up a less transparent excuse, at least. "Fine" Joan sighed heavily and struggled to get up. The glance Sherlock gave her when they passed him on the way screamed Are you sure it's alright? The doctor attempted a reassuring smile, but it might have come out just plain exhausted, judging by the laser glare that accompanied them upstairs.

Once in the room, Joan flopped on the bed, afraid her legs would give out soon. "I really hope it's not about my jumpers."

"Of course not" the Woman huffed, eying the half-open closet with evident distaste. "Though I can recommend a stylist, if you'd like."

"Yeah, no. Thanks."

Adler leaned against the small desk Joan used to pile on papers with a grace few could hope to recreate. "How are you feeling?"

Watson's eyebrows shot upwards. "Bad, to be honest. Why are you asking?"

"Can't I be worried?" At Joan's disbelieving look, Irene amended: "You and Sherlock are a package deal. If I can get into your good books, my chances of finally getting through him would skyrocket."

Sounds about right, I guess. "I'm really not in the mood to give you tips on how to get into my flatmate's pants."

"I am patient." Her grin was almost menacing. "However," - she quickly sobered up – "I am in your debt. Should you need anything, let me know."

"What makes you…"

"Jim." Joan's back stiffened at that, and her breathing hitched. Irene watched her with only a hint of pity. "He wants you, doesn't he? He wants you on his side. Mycroft had not realized yet, but I can see it."

She had to swallow back the rising bile before answering. "I'm a hard pawn to get."

"You are more than a pawn now" Irene said softly. "Do not forget it." Joan nodded silently in response and tightened the knit cardigan around her shoulders. The fever was rising again, and her body shook slightly. Adler sighed. "Iceman wanted me to give you a list of precautions to take, but it is rather uninspired. I'll just text you the bullet points."

"Great" the doctor quipped weakly. "Listen…"

Adler had already stepped towards the door and was typing away on her phone. "Some minions will drop by with a full report today. Take an aspirin and rest. You have to be fully operational for what comes next."

Joan didn't want to even try figuring out what she meant, and just nodded. With a parting smile, the Woman strode out, stiletto heels making a dull staccato on the wooden stairs. This is all quite ridiculous. She fell back on the rumpled bed and yawned. I need to think clearly. Thoughts were circling sluggishly in her head without any direction. Maybe tomorrow.

# #

It took her about two days to recover from the fever and four more to stop flinching at the unexpected noises. A week into the self-imposed peace and quiet, Sherlock snapped and started carving chemical formulas in the kitchen table with a pencil. Having discovered the disaster when about two thirds of the table had been covered in neat symbols, Joan shook her head and dragged them both to Scotland Yard to demand a case.

To the immense relief of everyone involved, there was indeed a murder interesting enough to save their furniture from untimely destruction. A man had been found dead, head bashed in, in a locked room. Sherlock was jumping up and down the place, measuring cracks on the wall and sniffing at barely visible traces of soil by the window, when Joan's phone rang.

"Excuse me for a sec" she mumbled before ducking to the staircase, out of earshot. Frowning at the unknown number, she answered curtly: "Watson."

"Have you considered my offer, Joan?"

Hell. The doctor shivered involuntarily at the voice. "Did you really expect my answer to be anything else than 'no'?"

"I hoped you'd be smarter than that" Jim sighed with exaggerated disappointment.

Joan's eyebrow twitched nervously. "Sorry, not interested. I prefer things being straightforward."

"Please don't tell me you consider dear Sherlock there as straightforward!" he cried out indignantly. "Your cookie points would drop dramatically."

Despite the danger of the situation, she couldn't help but snort in dark amusement. "Of course not."

"Then what's the difference, darling? He is me but with less resources."

How dare he? Joan growled in her head, but her voice came out calm as ever: "There are some things you just can't have, Jim. And that makes all the difference."

There was an ominous silence on the other end before Moriarty hissed angrily: "What would that be?"

Morals, she wanted to say, even if it would be too obvious. Sympathy. The ability to apologize – awkwardly but sincerely. The genuine smile after doing something nice. "My loyalty, for one" she said, leaning against the wall and softly knocking her head against the bricks. "I'm sure you can find all the usual points yourself. I'm on his side. Whatever you do, it will not change."

"We'll about that, Joan" he snapped coldly and disconnected the call.

She stayed still for a couple of minutes, hungrily breathing in the humid air. I am an idiot. She glanced at her hands that were clutching the phone so tightly, it was surprising the poor device didn't crack. I'll have to talk to Mycroft about this. If Jim attempts anything… Gods, this is messed up.

"John!" the imperious baritone called from the crime scene.

Later, then. "Coming!" She stuffed the phone in a pocket and hurried back.

# #

A/N: Jim was bound to do some messed up shit, so there. I'm not sure how long it'll take for the next part to be ready... Meanwhile, stay safe :)