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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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Fact: John and Soo Lin were taken by the killer. Fact: John didn't fire her gun. Fact: John wouldn't have gone out without a fight. Conclusion: several attackers, they took her by surprise. Fact: Blood stains consistent with someone being dragged out of the room. Conclusion: John had been rendered at least unconscious in the struggle, possibly dying… DELETE.
Fact: Without the code, he could not find them.
Conclusion: He was stuck.
Sherlock pulled at his hair in anger. This was not acceptable. He would not fail this.
He turned back towards the phone, trying to determine what happened exactly while he was chasing after a bait. Joan brought Soo Lin behind the desk, in a corner, obviously. Basic protection, gives only one direction to cover… unless lured in the open. A first, obvious threat, and a second, hidden one, lashing out at the last moment. Simple, but effective. There was a book carelessly tossed on the ground, probably knocked off the table in action… Wrong.
Distance assessment. Simulation in progress. Fact: The book fell on the ground before the attack. Fact: Joan or Soo Lin took the book to their hiding place for some reason.
A glossy corner of a picture protruded from the pages. The code. Thank you, John.
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Sounds slowly dribbled into her foggy world. Fire cracking, people moving, someone sobbing quietly. Cracking an eyelid open, Joan found herself in a sort of an underground facility. Or place. Or something. Her head was hurting like crazy. Groaning, she tried to move her hands to shield from flickering lights, but her wrists were tied together in front of her. Something that felt suspiciously like caked blood was itching all over the right side of her face. Not good, her muddled brain recognized.
"A book is like a magic garden carried in your pocket" a feminine voice rang out. Joan tried to focus her gaze on the advancing figure, but it was difficult. Definitely a concussion. "Chinese proverb." The sobbing at her left intensified. Dropping her head to the side, she saw Soo Lin, face stained by fresh bruises and tear tracks, also tied up on a wooden chair. Bloody hell, we are in trouble.
"That's nice" she croaked, furiously trying to kick her concussed self into gear and miserably failing.
"I am Shan" said their kidnapper, raising a small pistol to her head.
Where did I hear that name again?... Ah yes. Oh shit. "You are Shan" she repeated dumbly, now understanding why Soo Lin was in such a bad shape.
The scary woman smiled down at the weakly struggling soldier. "Three times we tried to kill Sherlock Holmes and you, his companion. What does it tell you when an assassin cannot shoot straight?" Three times?! I can barely remember one. Then Joan's attention focused on the woman's finger slowly pressing the trigger.
Oh god, no, not like that. She pulled at the ropes, staring at the barrel in a far-fetched attempt to stop the bullet with a glare. The click was louder than an actual shot to her strained ears. "It tells you that they're not really trying" came the less than reassuring explanation.
In high stress situations where she felt quite helpless, Joan had an unfortunate tendency to babble. "That's rather nice of you. Care to share why?"
Black eyes stared blankly at her. "Do you have it?"
"Have what?"
"The treasure."
"I have literally no idea what you're talking about."
"Let's make sure of it." Strong hands, faceless goons, grabbed her chair and brought it to the other side of a hooded object that was looming behind Shan. She could see Soo Lin's eyes glaze over in silent despair. Joan wasn't quite sure why they even kept the former smuggler alive. Perhaps means of pressure for herself or Sherlock. Or maybe they had other priorities on hand. Anyway, it was not Watson's most pressing concern at the moment.
Shan pulled off the hood, revealing a strange device, similar to a gigantic crossbow, with a huge bolt loaded in it. It pointed at her. "Oh, bloody hell…" the ex-soldier cursed in understanding.
"Where's the hairpin?" the crime lord inquired, menace laced through her voice.
"Seriously, lady, I don't know what you mean!"
The woman glared even more fiercely, if it was possible at all. "The Empress pin valued at nine million sterling. We already had a buyer in the West; and then one of our people was greedy. He took it, brought it back to London. And Mr Holmes has been searching. So have you."
"I have certainly not!"
"Too bad for you then." That smile foreshadowed something very painful. Like the shiny knife produced from Shan's sleeve.
"What are you…" The knife pierced a sand bag that was hanging over the crossbow, and only then Joan noticed the scale. The realization of what was about to happen hit her hard, and she struggled against her bindings to no avail. "You have to listen! I don't know where your treasure is!" Panic was starting to cloud her reason.
"I don't believe you" Shan bellowed at her.
"You should, you know" echoed an unexpected voice in the tunnel. Sherlock.
The following verbal sparring was somewhat lost on her, as the sandbag was lowering slowly but surely towards her impending impalement. Damn, damn, damn! Trying to pull at least a hand out didn't appear possible, and she started to swing on the chair, trying to disbalance it. It was not an easy task, with ropes holding into place not only her hands and ankles, but also the upper body. There was the sound of familiar breathing behind her, and long fingers started to work on the knots. The sand dwindled faster. "Just get down, you idiot!" she hissed at Sherlock, eyes not leaving the arrowhead. There was a revolted grunt near her ear, and his hands moved faster. Then someone pulled him away, and she could hear the struggle. Move, Watson. Move, dammit!
Sherlock made a choked sound that did not bode well for either of them. Contorting her neck, Joan caught a glimpse of Liang the shadow killer strangling the detective with a red scarf. Daaaaammmmmmmnn.
She put more energy into the chair swinging, finally making it budge. As it was, the killer was holding Sherlock just in the line of fire, so just getting herself down wouldn't solve the whole problem. Praying for a soft ground, Joan jerked and pulled, and the chair tipped down. Falling face first again wasn't a funny thing. Though, in an unexpected twist of luck, one of the chair's legs broke, allowing her to push with more force against the ground.
Squirming like an eel, Joan got closer to the crossbow, and, disregarding completely her previous concussion, rammed the back of her head against one of its supports.
It made her see stars, but she continued, once, twice, until the contraption creaked and sagged, and the enormous arrow shot off with an ominous swish. There was a wet sound cutting through all noises around, and the thump of a body falling. Soo Lin's muffled sobs abruptly became muffled screaming that died down to pitiful whines.
Joan cracked an eyelid open, unsure of what she would see.
Liang laid on his back, the arrow protruding from his midsection. Sherlock was ripping off the red scarf, whizzing, but eyes alert and scanning their surroundings. At least someone is functional, she thought glumly, eyes closed again. The headache she got for all these troubles was monstrous.
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His breathing back to normal, Sherlock shot up, eyes immediately following the disappearing silhouette of General Shan, who suddenly decided to be smart and get out before the party even finished. His first impulse was to give chase, but the quiet crying from Soo Lin reminded him of the current company. While the young woman was in no danger and sported only superficial injuries, his doctor was lying motionless on the ground, worryingly pale under a layer of dried blood.
"John?" Now that there was no urgency, he worked efficiently on the knots, freeing her wrists and ankles in less than three minutes. Joan looked up at him, eyes narrowed in pain.
Fact: The tightness of ropes suggests probable cut of blood flow. Fact: Unsteady breathing patterns. Fact: Gash over the right ear (estimating angle of impact… attack from behind, previous assumption confirmed). Conclusion: Headache and residual muscular pain.
The doctor grumbled something unintelligible, and pushed herself up as soon as all ropes came undone. "Thanks" she said, blinking furiously against the dimming light and absently massaging her wrists.
Sherlock eyed the dried blood on her face and clothes skeptically. Fact: Concussion and blood loss are not favorable to normal motor functions. Fact: John is stubborn. "Can you stand?"
"Yeah" she grumbled, scratching her face with a grimace. It took her three attempts and some subtle help to get up, but she did stand up, eyes tightly shut, probably to control the upcoming nausea. The loss of equilibrium was not a pleasant experience in Sherlock's recollections.
He glanced wistfully in the direction the mob boss had disappeared. It was too late to follow; the trail was already cold and useless. He felt a pang of irritation creep amongst his thoughts. He would not have missed that chance if he had worked alone. But the voice of his younger self, usually ignored during investigations, reminded him gleefully that he wouldn't have solved it in time if he had worked alone – there wouldn't have been a chance. Well, two unconscious henchmen and a dead assassin still counted for something at least.
Being too busy commiserating with himself, Sherlock didn't notice when his live-in doctor shuffled towards the now silent tied-up informant. Soo Lin was staring at her brother's corpse, tears still running down her cheeks, head jerking weakly as if trying to shake away the image. Joan, good doctor that she was and used to traumatized patients, stood directly in her line of sight. "Soo Lin. It's over" she said softy, crouching down and hands starting to work on sloppy knots (they clearly applied themselves more to immobilize Watson). A couple of times her fingers slipped, eliciting a wince. The blood flow in her appendages is restored, but the blow to the head hinders proper eye-hand coordination. It finally snapped the detective from the silent observation (fascinating) and into action.
With his help, the ropes came undone rather quickly, and the petite woman collapsing forward into Joan's awkward embrace. The doctor looked taken aback for a second, then her face softened and she rubbed circles into Soo Lin's trembling back. "It's over. You're alright. It's over" she repeated gently.
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Flashing lights were doing nothing to appease her migraine. Somehow, Joan had managed to clean the grime off her face before paramedics arrived, and to successfully fake relative health in front of them. They had guided the trembling Soo Lin to one of the ambulances, with Watson trailing slowly behind, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible while occasionally leaning on walls for support. Sherlock surely noticed, but he was too busy intimidating Dimmock to comment on it.
Doctors truly are the worst patients, she thought darkly. Had it been anyone else, she would have sedated them and dragged to a hospital for at least a full night observation. But she really hated being in a hospital bed. Spending weeks with a hole in the shoulder and spiking fever had been enough. And it hadn't been a year yet.
Shivering in the night chill, Joan walked towards the small figure coated in orange shock blankets. "Hey." Dark eyes, blood-shot with tears and pain, gazed up at her. "It wasn't your fault, you know that?" she asked, since the girl would surely blame herself. Was already blaming herself for everything, even.
Joan painfully got on her knees before the young woman, a hand poised on her knee, partly in reassurance, partly to keep steady. "You've done nothing wrong." She could see the denial, the horror of seeing her brother violently killed in front of her. "He had made his choice long ago. It is terrible and unfair that he died, but would he have cried for you? He was coming to kill you." Fresh tears rained on the shock blanket. "You mourned him when you fled. You'll pull through this too."
Soo Lin inhaled a sob, but nodded weakly in response. Joan gave her a soft smile, patted her shoulder while getting up, and stumbled away, now certain there was nothing more for her to do.
"I go where you point me" she caught the end of the conversation of the pair standing near a police car.
"Exactly" Sherlock hummed smugly. It should be illegal to be that proud of yourself after getting half-strangled. The tall man seemed to notice her at last. Unfortunately, Dimmock did too. "Doctor Watson, are you alright?"
She stared at the DI, a tired frown settling in. "Yeah, just smashing."
Sherlock snorted in amusement. "We'll keep in touch, inspector." With that, he twirled his coat and swept away, clearly expecting Joan to follow. Seeing as Dimmock was growing more suspicious about smears on her collar and her general pale complexion, she hurried to do so. "Not so fast, Sherlock!"