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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.
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That evening Sherlock had successfully gotten over his undisclosed near-death experience at Miss Yao's flat (sensory file archived, recording physical effects, full analysis scheduled in forty-eight hours), and was running around the railway tracks in search of elusive yellow messages. At some point, though, he got distracted by a particularly interesting mold stain that developed on an abandoned container, and was scrapping off a sample when Joan appeared running. "Answer your phone!" the ex-soldier huffed in annoyance. Sherlock discovered quite recently that an annoyed Joan was rather amusing and displayed a fascinating wealth of unexpected vocabulary. The absence of outward reaction seemed to extend the length of her rants, so he pointedly ignored them and filed away the interesting parts. "I've been calling you!" she continued breathlessly. "I've found it."
Oh. And so he ran after her.
Too slowly, it appeared, as they came to a halt in front of a freshly repainted wall. "It's been painted over!" Pointing out the obvious was tedious, what else could have happened. In the corner of his mind Sherlock felt surprised to note that he automatically labelled "reliable" all information coming from Joan (so that's what trust is). It was not the time to ponder on the matter, the game was still on. Fact: The paint is very fresh. Fact: No unusual sensory input detected from surrounding area. Conclusion: The killer or his accomplices are either still in the area or already left.
"I saw it!"
Fact: John saw the message. Fact: The message is vital to cracking the code. "Somebody doesn't want me to see it" he muttered to himself. Fact: Average human's memory is not reliable, not over extended periods of time. Assumption: Waiting to extract data would lead to its corruption. Estimating potential risks of data extraction on field. Assessment: Current risk minimal, further security measures to consider.
Remembering light hypnosis technics he tested on himself two years ago without much success, Sherlock leapt at Joan, grabbing the sides of her head in both hands. She yelped in surprise, but thankfully didn't resist much. Hypnosis and memory extraction required sharp focus, that could be achieved by cutting the visual input. "John, concentrate, I need you to concentrate, close your eyes."
Her eyes widened instead. "What? No! Why? What are you doing?!"
Alternative procedure engaged. Sherlock's hands dropped to Joan's shoulders and he started to spin them on the spot. "I need you to maximize your visual memory. Try to picture what you saw. Can you picture it?"
"Yeah." She licked her dry lips nervously.
"Can you remember it?" Despite their close quarters, he failed to notice the confusion on Joan's face morph into slight amusement.
"Yeah, of course."
"Can you remember the pattern?"
"Yes!"
She started to struggle, so Sherlock tightened his grip. Joan glared. "How much can you remember?"
"Don't worry…" she started, trying to pluck the long fingers from her upper arm.
Imminent data extraction failure. "Because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate."
"Yeah, well, I can replicate all of it:"
Inconsistency detected. Fact: John did not manifest eidetic memory. Conclusion: Her claim is false. "Really?"
The break in the spinning allowed Joan to get away from the crowding detective, and pull her phone out of the pocket. "Yes, because I took a photograph! Jesus, have a little faith, mate…" she grumbled, passing him the device, with the picture of a wall, covered in yellow numerals clear as day.
"Oh." Never assume, Mycroft's voice echoed mockingly in his head, You knew she favoured back-up plans. He remained rather subdued during the cab ride home.
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Joan was bone tired when she got to the surgery the next morning. She napped on the sofa for most of the night, waking up sporadically through the night to answer Sherlock's inane demands (at one point, he took the effort of shaking her awake, but didn't bother to go to his own room to retrieve a notebook). But bills weren't going to pay themselves, so she dragged herself to her new job with a big cup of coffee in her hand.
Sarah eyed her skeptically and shoved the schedule of appointments in her hands. Twenty-five. Twenty-five bloody appointments on the first day. Damn. The day dragged on and on, with the monotony of patients interrupted on by coffee breaks (I will so regret it later) and one very angry middle-aged woman who wanted to be examined only by a male doctor. Why would she choose to come to a clinic with a vast majority of female staff was a mystery to them all. When the last person on her list (a little boy who needed his shots) walked out the door around four o'clock, Joan stumbled to the reception, wondering whether she should offer to help some more or just go home. Dr Sawyer smiled at her. "Good job, Joan! I have to say, when I saw you this morning, I wasn't sure you'd manage."
"Please, call me John" she answered absently. "I wasn't quite sure myself. Didn't get much sleep last night."
"You don't look like a party girl" Sarah teased good-naturedly.
"Yeah, it was more of a sports event." Understatement of the year. "Anyway, do you still need me today?"
"No, it's all fine. Can you take a shift on Saturday morning?"
"No problem." Sarah jolted it down on timetable behind the receptionist's desk.
"Perfect. Go get some sleep, John" she smiled again, finally feeling friendly with the new hire.
"Thanks, Sarah. See you on Saturday!" Joan walked out, dreading the continuation of their case while nursing a sleep deprivation coupled with a caffeine crash. That sounds promising… Luckily (or unfortunately, depending on the point of view), her body had other ideas, and she shut down on the Tube, somehow sleeping soundly until the end station. Some kind soul woke her up before she got carried off to the warehouse, and she jogged to the opposite platform while cursing half-heartedly under her breath. It was a brief respite, and Sherlock would probably hold it against her, but the energy boost it provided was worth it.
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And she clearly needed that nap, as the night shaped out to be another late stake-out, at the museum this time. Joan couldn't begin to comprehend how in the nine circles of hell did Sherlock notice the shining patterns of bloody teapots, but it ended up (as usual) being the right guess. They were sitting across a pretty girl with a not so pretty past, a girl who held the key to their case. Joan felt pity for the younger woman. It was a tough life, always looking over her shoulder, always on the run. It must have been trying on so many levels. When Soo Lin finally admitted that her own brother was going around London killing people, Joan reached out, patting her hand gently. "You did the right thing" she said reassuringly, and was rewarded with a wavering and fleeting smile.
Sherlock huffed impatiently, and shoved the photograph of the vandalized portrait and the wall towards Soo Lin. "Can you decipher these?"
Bemused, the girl pointed to the portrait. "These are numbers."
"Yes, I know. Chinese numbers. But what is the code?"
"All smugglers know it." Dark eyes looked up at Sherlock in confusion. "It's based upon a book."
Before she could elaborate, the lights went out. All three of them tensed, with Soo Lin inhaling in fear. "He's here, Zhi Zhu. He has found me."
Joan should have been faster, but Sherlock took off so suddenly, head first into danger, too fast for her to stop. "Sherlock!" she hissed urgently. "Sherlock, wait!" The idiot didn't even acknowledge her. Right. Sherlock off on his own, shadow killer in the building, and a defenseless woman is a target. Dammit.
"Come here." She grabbed Soo Lin's hand (it is so cold, so small, poor kid), and pulled her into a corner, behind a desk. They crouched down. "It's alright. I'm with you." The silence was heavy, electric, ready to crack and explode. Sliding her gun out and cocking it, Joan closed her eyes and tried to bring her breathing under control. "What book is it?" The question was more to prevent them both from outright panicking than to get an actual response.
"… London AZ" Soo Lin whispered. Glancing over the table they currently used as protection, Joan spotted the said book just a few centimeters away from them in a pile of paper (why anyone in the museum would need it was beyond her). Gun firmly held in her right hand, she grabbed it and fumbled to put the photograph of graffities in it.
She managed a crooked smile at the frightened girl at her side. "Just in case."
Distant gunshots rang through the deserted museum, making them jump. Sherlock. Her first reflex was to get up and run to the detective, to check on him, to protect him. But the chocked sob from Soo Lin brought her back to reality. This woman was a target, a civilian, and Captain Watson was not abandoning protection duty until either the danger or herself had been eliminated. "Damn" she hissed, nails biting in her left palm in order to stay calm. He's a big boy. He survived on his own until now. He knows when to duck.
The silence around them thickened. Sherlock, be safe. Please, God...
There was a rustle to their right, and Joan sprung up, gun pointed at the chest of a muscular Chinese man with cold merciless eyes and a pistol held loosely in his right hand. "Liang" Soo Lin breathed out.
"Drop it" Watson growled, aim steady. "Now." There was no outward reaction from Liang, but his sister cried out in surprise. It was too late. Damn. There are more, was Joan's last thought before a heavy blow sent her crashing head first on the tiled floor. From the pervading fog, she heard a couple of gunshots in the distance. Then another blow knocked her out for good.
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After the gunman became silent on the upper floor, Sherlock did a full tour of the balcony, ducking behind columns to throw off the opponent's aim. Nothing. The rush of the chase died down a little, and his thought process kicked back in. Fact: The killer came to cut loose ends. Fact: The target was Soo Lin. Conclusion: He was lured away from her. Fact: John stayed to protect the target. Conclusion: John was in danger. Losing his breath again, he rushed back. The lack of any further gunshots somehow reassured him about the women's safety, but they had to get out of the building and quick.
He skidded to a halt in the empty room, wind paging through stacks of documents on working benches. "John?" Silence. Did they relocate to a safer location?
Typing a quick text to Joan ("Where are you"), Sherlock took a tentative step inside. The loud buzz of a phone made him pause. No way. With long strides, the detective crossed the room, stopping in front of a strategically well-placed desk. Joan's phone was lying on the ground, the screen slowly fading to darkness. Feeling frantic, Sherlock switched on his flashlight and spun around, looking for any sign of his friend. The dull glint of metal just a few steps away attracted his attention.
Joan's gun was also lying forgotten, near a large smear of something dark. Blood.
He nearly dropped the flashlight in shock. While fumbling with it, the beam crossed over something else, that made his blood run cold. Chinese numbers of 15 and 1 were painted in bright yellow over the nearby door.
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A/N: *insert evil laughter here* ...yeah, well, not a big cliff-hanger, I admit.