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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.

# #

It was a miracle that no one had been seriously hurt in the explosion. The damaged building was not inhabited, and there was no one on the sidewalk at the moment of the incident. Joan quickly triaged the dazed teenagers that had been inside Speedy's, made a tour of the closest neighbors to check on them (Mrs Turner immediately tried to set up a dinner date with her son Henry. Again.) and briefed the harassed constables that arrived on the scene. Sherlock also emerged from his lair and was poking around the debris with faint interest.

After making absolutely sure that her help wasn't needed (the recently arrived paramedics looked at her a little funnily for insisting), Joan headed back to the flat, exhausted. Seeing the state of their living room made her sigh in defeat. The broom was conveniently left at the entrance, and the doctor tiredly started to sweep. A chorus of steps on the staircase made her pause. Four men in black suits appeared on the landing, looking deadly serious. "Sherlock's not here" she informed them, propping her chin on the broom's handle.

"We know, Dr Watson. We are here for the clean-up" informed the biggest one of the crew. A fifth man appeared behind them, carrying professional looking cleaning equipment.

Joan blinked at them. Twice. Ah, yes, Mycroft. It certainly takes time to get used to the big brother and his special brand of caring. "Suit yourself" she gestured at the surrounding chaos, pushed the old broom into a corner and retreated to the kitchen. She was soon joined by Sherlock who proceeded to silently glare at the people mulling around their flat from his high chair, sipping the tea she pressed into his hands.

"Dr Watson, Mister Holmes" the same man came forward after an hour or so. "We are finished. Have a nice evening."

"Thanks…" Joan called weakly after their retreating backs, while Sherlock swept into the living room to assess the presumed damage to his kingdom. Have to admit, they did a good job, the doctor thought, eyeing skeptically the make-shift planks that now covered their windows.

Feeling the toll of the unexpectedly bad day, Joan dragged herself to the sofa and with a mumbled "Just a minute" fell into a deep slumber.

# #

Sherlock watched his flatmate fall asleep on the couch, noting the signs of physical and emotional fatigue in the deep frown and the clenched fist. There was a small pang of guilt, easily dismissed, when he admitted that he had been partially responsible for it. Most of the blame is on the explosion, anyway. He settled into Joan's chair, reviewing and cataloguing the events of what had started as a very dull day. There had been some specific highlights he wanted to analyze in detail.

Fact A: John reacted badly at the gunshots.

Assumption A.1: triggered flashback. Rebuttal evidence: John is not afraid of gunfire and had fired the gun herself before (see Jefferson Hope file).

Assumption A.2: something earlier in the day made John liable to a flashback. Extracting visual archives: Shoes (mud, walked home, distance assessed at 1.4 km, starting point in Mayfair judging by the colors); Smell (antiseptic, had been to a morning shift at the clinic, spice, had been to a lunch in an Italian restaurant, not Angelo's judging by the location, perfume, expensive, not hers but had been rubbed on her wrist, like a tester maybe, by a female); Collar (rumpled, someone had given her a big hug); Face (tension lines, lips bitten (note: nervous tick confirmed), the conversation had not been all pleasant). Conclusion: John had been hugged by a woman with whom she went out for lunch. John does not usually allow physical contact, so it must have been a close relationship (family), who tends to put John on edge. Harry Watson.

Sherlock huffed in irritation. Older siblings. Ugh.

Fact B: The explosion.

Fact B.1: No casualties. Fact B.2: The building exploded just in front of his windows.

Assumption B.2.1: The explosion intended to kill / wound / scare him specifically. Evidence: The 218 building was not inhabited for two months – the owners had trouble selling the place. No alarm system in place. Anyone who wanted to get in, could have done so.

Compiling list of potential perpetrators. Filtering on individuals out of jail. Filtering on individuals confirmed in the country. Filtering on individuals with knowledge of exploding devices.

No matches.

Assumption dismissed.

Conclusion: Accidental explosion, due to neglected maintenance of gas pipes.

"Dull" he sighed, running a hand through his hair. However, it left him with nothing else to do and no gun to shoot. With a grimace of resigned distaste, he started to mentally compile the volumes of gas needed to result in such a blast and the time it needed to accumulate, trying to use unnecessarily complex formulas to pass time.

The calculations were interrupted by an increasingly labored breathing on the sofa, that transformed into a pained moan. Joan was having a nightmare. Which was to be expected after the almost flashback and the explosion. Rather unsure of how to proceed, Sherlock settled on observing, presuming it could just pass.

It had happened before, of course. There were nights where he would hear her cry out, then pace her room before going back to bed (probably without sleeping, though). There were nights where she would shuffle down the stairs, pale and wordless like a ghost, and just sit in the kitchen sipping tepid tea. Once, he found her curled in her chair, hugging a cushion and staring out of the window. Sometimes, Joan would insist on staying awake in the living room, even when her jaw was about to get dislocated from yawning. It had been the nights where he felt like playing the violin. Always eager to find unexpected correlations, Sherlock started to play more often at ungodly hours. The occurrences of nightmares decreased, even though it might have been linked to the dozen times he started just screeching his moods on the poor instrument and the ex-soldier came barreling down the stairs with murder in her eyes.

Regardless of the previous experience, it was the first time Sherlock had the opportunity to observe the bad dream 'in action'. It was an unsettling sight, even for him. Joan was tense like a coiled spring, nails scratching at the lining of their couch. She was breathing harshly, muffled pleas of "no, don't, not them, no, please" escaping her lips now and then. The vulnerable expression on her face was painful to watch.

It didn't look like the dream was going to pass.

Telling himself that his actions had nothing to do with Joan's state and were just a result of his own selfish impulses, Sherlock got up with the intention to fetch his violin from its case near the window. Suddenly, Joan turned on her back and let out a heart-wrenching cry, back arched and the right arm reaching out in a futile attempt to grasp something or someone.

He was not sure how that happened (and isn't it food for thought later on, being unsure so often in one evening), but a second later he was standing by the sofa and holding Joan's outstretched hand. The moment their hands touched though, blue eyes flew open, still unseeing. The wild look of desperation and anger cut through Sherlock like an electric shock, and then Joan jerked away. Like snow in boiling water, the dream faded and the recognition settled in.

"Oh Christ…" she breathed out and let herself fall back on cushion, hiding her upper face in her elbow. "Sorry 'bout that."

"No trouble" he answered, trying to sound as bored as possible. What is John seeing in those dreams? Who is she failing to help? Why am I interested? "Who are they?" he heard himself asking and winced. They had discussed personal space a couple of days prior, and it seemed like he just barged into it again.

Perhaps Joan had been too tired to scold him, because she answered: "They?... I talked, didn't I." He waited. "Not sure. I don't remember these things clearly, you know." Slowly, her breathing was getting back to normal. "So it could have been any group of people – my squad, my family, some random kids." Joan pushed herself up. Her gaze went everywhere but near Sherlock, who continued towering over her. "Well… yeah. I'll just go do something."

"Was it because of what Harry said?"

The sharp glare was more surprised than outraged. "If I knew what triggers this staff, I wouldn't need a therapist, would I?"

"You don't need a therapist."

"The limp wasn't the full extent of my problems, Sherlock" she smiled uncomfortably. But you still don't go to your appointments he wanted to protest. "But it's alright. I manage." Sighing heavily, Joan got up. "Dibs on the shower today." With that final piece of wisdom, she disappeared in the bathroom, latching the door. Sherlock pouted at the rapid dismissal (dammit, John, I have questions), but remembered his previous idea of playing music. Soon the flat was filled with soulful notes of a waltz.

# #

Joan spent the rest of the night upstairs, reading a random fantasy novel she discovered in her duffel bag. She vaguely remembered starting it back in Afghanistan, and some kind soul (likely Bill Murray) must have packed it up when they shipped her out. Sherlock kept on playing until three in the morning, soothing her frazzled nerves. There were light steps on the landing around five o'clock, coming up, then going away some seconds later. He must have seen the light under the door.

The fatigue got the better of her determination though, and she dozed off half-an-hour before her alarm went off. Cranky as hell, Joan changed into clean clothes and stumbled towards the promise of coffee. She was greeted by the sight of two grown men sitting across each other in mismatched chairs and engaged in what looked a lot like a staring contest. I'm not dealing with it without caffeine. Almost certain her presence had been noticed, she greeted the pair: "Morning."

"Good morning, Dr Watson" Mycroft drawled without breaking eye contact with his brother.

"Coffee anyone?" The Holmeses didn't react. "Or tea?" Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. Tea for His Highness, then. Giving the back of Mycroft's head an assessing look, she decided to prepare some for him too. Being civil never hurt.

While she was preparing the three mugs, her flatmate started plucking the strings of his instrument. Neither brother made any other noise. A little uncomfortable now Joan managed to get the tea to the two men, before coming back with her coffee and sitting at the table in silence.

"I can't" Sherlock finally said with finality.

"Can't?"

"The stuff I've got on is just too big. I can't spare the time." Joan almost choked on her coffee. You were literally shooting the wall yesterday, mate. Who are you trying to fool?

"Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

The look of utter contempt of the younger man's face was a piece of art. "How's the diet?"

"Fine." Mycroft finally deigned to look at the ex-soldier. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John."

She tried to express a polite surprise. "About what?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." That's not an answer.

Sherlock seemed to take offense in Mycroft trying indirect means of pressure. "If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?"

"No, no, no, no…" the older man tutted. He continued on, distracted by the examination of his tea mug. "I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time – not with the Korean elections so ..." There was an intrigued silence, Sherlock for once looking interested in what his brother was saying. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" Here goes my spying career, Joan thought humorlessly. "Besides, a case like this – it requires ... legwork."

"How horrible" Joan quipped dryly, exchanging a dark look with her friend.

"Did you finish that novel?" Sherlock asked all of a sudden, seemingly concentrated on his violin.

She threw him a questioning look, but before she could open her mouth to reply, Mycroft butted in again. "Clearly, she didn't, Sherlock."

"Do you have cameras in my room or something?" She was met with two different looks that stated the same sentiment of You are an idiot. "Never mind."

"What's he like to live with?" Mycroft asked her directly, making eye contact. "Hellish, I imagine." The glance at the yellow smiley on the wall was very telling.

The doctor settled for a neutral "I'm never bored."

"Good." There went the fake smile. "That's good, isn't it?" Must still be bitter about me refusing his money. How am I the bad guy in this situation?

The rest of the conversation took a turn into explaining Mycroft's problem, punctuated by irritated huffs and snorts from Sherlock. Leafing through the file (when did they compile all this since this morning?), Joan looked up at the government official. "Don't you have special teams for this kind of emergencies?"

"The less people know about the plans, the better I sleep." There was a loud mumbling from the chair along the lines of "You never sleep" that they both ignored.

"And why are you taking it to a civilian, then?" Taken aback, Mycroft remained silent a second too long.

"Because he likes to meddle" Sherlock replied in his place. Joan repressed a laugh.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"We can't take the risk of the memory stick falling into wrong hands" Mycroft tried to get back on track. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you." Sherlock appeared even more irritated than before.

"I'd like to see you try" he said with a look that promised endless vengeance in case his brother tried to act upon his threat.

"He's not on your payroll, is he?" Joan calmly asked at the same time. It was unsettling to be on the receiving end of twin Holmes stares that demanded to elaborate, but it took more than that to intimidate an experienced medical officer. "That's not how you ask for a favor" she smiled sweetly at Mycroft in lieu of an explanation.

He rolled his eyes at them, and dropped the file on the table. "Think it over." The statement was met with Sherlock starting to play an annoying tune, accompanied by a heated glare. Joan winced. Without further comments, the older Holmes left the flat. They could tell he was rolling his eyes again.

Hearing the front door close, Sherlock finally stopped abusing the violin, and glared at the door as if it had personally offended him.

"Why did you lie?" Joan asked, taking another sip of her cooling coffee.

"Hmm?" came the non-committal reply.

"You don't have a case right now. Why did you turn him down?"

Sherlock finally stopped burning holes in the door with his eyes, and turned his glare at her, albeit with less intensity. "Mycroft is more than able to deal with it himself. He just wants to keep me busy."

"I don't know whether it's thoughtful or overbearing" she offered with a small smile.

"Annoying. It is annoying." His eyes were narrowed, and he breathed loudly through the nose. Joan's mind supplied an image of a very hissy cat, ears pressed against its head, slapping away all attempts at contact. She tried to superimpose it with her flatmate, and almost choked on the last gulp of her coffee. Alright, never imagine Sherlock with whiskers and cat ears again. Ever.

"What are you doing?" inquired the said flatmate, eyebrow cocked in an elegant expression of You are still an idiot, apparently having already deduced the gist of her thoughts.

The doctor waved him off. "Daydreaming. Don't mind me." The look on Sherlock's face said that he minded very much that she was mentally comparing him to a domesticated animal, but would not admit it, and therefore would sulk to the end of days.

Before he could come up with an appropriate insult, his phone started to ring. Giving Joan a last scathing look, he fished the device out of his jacket pocket. "Sherlock Holmes." Chuckling to herself, Joan gathered the empty mugs and brought them to the sink. "Of course. How could I refuse?" Sherlock disconnected the call, and marched into the kitchen. "Lestrade. I've been summoned." How pompous, Joan thought half-focused on the shelves, trying to decide on which jam to eat with a toast. "Coming?"

Slightly surprised, she turned to the detective, who watched her expectantly. "If you want me to."

"Of course," he smirked, disappearing towards the stairs. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

# #

Maybe I should have taken the jam with me, the doctor thought forlornly while following Sherlock and Lestrade through NSY corridors. They had walked by an open space, where several officers, including Sally Donovan, scowled darkly at her flatmate. Yes, a toast with jam would be very nice right now, she decided. Lost in her breakfast musings, she almost missed a part of the conversation, but the word 'explosion' caught her attention alright. "What?"

"It was made look like one" the DI explained. "Hardly anything left of the place except a strong box – a very strong box – and inside it was this." Eyeing the envelope, Joan tried to process the new information. That's an extremely melodramatic way to get someone's attention.

Sherlock was already circling his prey. "You haven't opened it?"

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" Lestrade huffed.

After having rumbled a series of deductions under his breath (obviously, of course), Sherlock carefully opened the envelope, and with a mildly surprised expression on his face pulled out a pink phone. Joan's brain went on temporary leave. "Wait, that's… the phone, the pink lady's phone?"

Lestrade joined in the general astonishment. "What, from the study in pink?"

"Not the same one, obviously," Sherlock huffed impatiently, "but it's supposed to… The study in pink?!" He swirled to glare at Lestrade, who was now backed by Donovan. "You read her blog?"

"Course I read her blog! We all do." Joan startled. That's why the hit counter was unusually high this week. "D'you really not know that the Earth goes 'round the Sun?" The question made the doctor cringe internally, and glare covertly at the snickering Donovan. I should have thought it through before posting. But bloody Scotland Yard wasn't supposed to read it. Wait… they read the first posts too, didn't they? Oh hell… The carefully constructed blank expression on Sherlock's face didn't help the matters. At least, Sally took the cue to leave, having no reason to stay around.

"It isn't the same phone" he stated coldly. "This one's brand new. Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." Joan repressed the urge to rub her neck in embarrassment at the accusatory glare sent her way.

The moment was cut short by a voice alert – "You have one new message" – followed by five pips.

"Is that it?" she asked incredulously. Someone blew up a building for… this?

"No, that's not it" Sherlock snapped back, showing the picture of an empty room to her and Lestrade. It was as bland and impossible to identify as you can get.

"What the hell are we supposed to make of that? An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!" It appeared the DI shared her bemusement at the whole situation.

Not Sherlock, though. "It's a warning" he stated almost dreamily. Here he goes…

"A warning" she sighed, mentally readying herself for a long and not-boring investigation.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's gonna happen again." He gave the picture another passing glance, before taking off. "And I've seen this place before."

Joan trailed after him. "Wait a… what's going to happen again?"

The man twirled around, not even stopping walking, raising his hands in an universal sign for explosion: "Boom!" Well, that's reassuring. It's not like I had my fill in bombs in the army. Joan's internal voice continued to grumble in her head during the whole trip back to Baker Street, while Lestrade tried to coax Sherlock into giving more information, without much success.