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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.

# #

One trip to the basement flat and a surreal phone call later, Lestrade dropped them at Bart's, rushing back to the NSY to get some guys from the tech unit and to alert bomb disposal. Sherlock occupied an empty lab like it had his name on it, almost dancing between tables with droppers and petri dishes in hands for a while. Joan stayed to the side, ready to help if needed. Finally, the detective ceased his manic activity, and sat behind a microscope, completely engrossed in the analysis of a shoe lace. Feeling the nervous energy pent up, she started pacing around the lab to avoid blowing up at an innocent bystander. I hate waiting. Waiting for the disaster to happen and do nothing. That's exactly why I went to front lines instead of sitting around in the camp hospital, tearing my hair off. She remembered the sobbing voice on the phone. Poor woman. Sherlock didn't seem to care either way about the hostage, but she couldn't help to imagine how wrong it would feel to be in her place. Not even allowed to speak up your own words. Depending entirely on someone else to save you. God, no, she cringed and glanced at her companion. "Is someone looking for her, at least?" she finally asked, coming to a stop in front of the man. A phone chimed somewhere in the room.

"Hmm?"

"The woman on the phone. Does anyone try to find her?"

"Oh, she doesn't matter, just a hostage" Sherlock mumbled absently. "No lead there."

"That's not my question!"

The outburst earned her a sharp disapproving glance. "You're not going to be much use to her."

"I'd like to know that people are looking for me, if I were in her shoes" Joan stated through her teeth.

"Well, solving the puzzle is the fastest way to find her" the detective snapped back, eyes glued to the microscope again. "Pass me my phone."

Raising an eyebrow at the evident dismissal of her concerns, Joan grudgingly looked around for the device. "Where is it?"

"Jacket." Her thought process screeched to a halt, before starting off in the direction of impending volcanic eruption. Jacket, huh. Narrowing her eyes, she marched to stand just behind Sherlock, who remained oblivious to the distinct possibility of being strangled to death by an irate war veteran. Joan eyed the man's back, pondering what would be an appropriate revenge. No violence, Watson, you're a civilized human being, remember...

On a split-second decision, she plastered herself against Sherlock's back, snaking one arm around his waist, the other going for the inside pocket of the jacket. The man jerked slightly and tensed, not expecting the full body contact. He kept his eyes trained on the microscope, but the stare became a little glazed. Smirking, Joan took her time to pull the phone out and didn't step back before whispering right into his ear: "Here it is."

The detective gave her a cold glare that screamed You are evil and you will pay for that. She responded with a barely concealed grin and a shrug. "A text from your brother" she informed him after several seconds of a staring match.

"Delete it" Holmes the younger huffed, turning back to his samples.

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now. Nothing we can do about it."

"Hmm." She took a look at the text. "Mycroft isn't convinced. He texted you eight times. Seems urgent."

She got another glare for her troubles. "Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?"

"His what?"

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk" came the logical explanation. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" Joan stared at the back of the curly mop of hair in disbelief. Delightful?! Bombings are delightful?! Fearing that she would smack her friend if the conversation continued, she gritted her teeth and resumed the silent pacing, throwing disapproving glances at the detective from time to time.

After a couple of minutes that appeared eternal to the doctor, a computer beeped with a match and as if by magic, Molly Hooper popped into the lab. "Any luck?"

For once, Sherlock appeared enthusiastic at her appearance, but it may have been the successful analysis. "Oh yes!" And here goes another episode of Sherlock being an oblivious git, Joan thought from her corner of the room.

But then a change to the usual program appeared, a thin man in a white t-shirt. "Oh sorry, I didn't…"

Molly looked unexpectedly excited at the interruption, and Joan frowned slightly. "Jim! Hi!" The tone of her voice made the situation rather clear. Oh dear. She didn't. "Come in, come in!" This is so awkward… With the biggest smile Joan had ever seen on her, Molly announced: "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." Girl, why are you introducing your date to your crash? Why, just why…?

This was when Watson realized that both Molly and Jim were looking expectantly at her, the woman starting to blush in embarrassment. Sighing, she saved the poor girl: "John Watson. Hi."

"Hi." Jim's greeting was rather absent-minded, and he quickly turned back to Sherlock. Who spared him only a fleeting glance. "So, you're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" The question was ignored.

Starting to fidget, Dr Hooper quipped: "Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." Yeah, that was rather obvious.

Sherlock clearly didn't seem to partake in the romantic vibe, as he immediately dropped a bomb – "Gay" – and didn't even look slightly apologetic about it.

Molly's face fell. "Sorry, what?" Joan sighed internally. You introduced him to Sherlock Holmes, what the hell did you expect?

"Nothing." Not convincing anyone here. "Um, hey."

"Hey" Jim said, not trying to deny anything. He was too busy smiling giddily at Sherlock to pay attention to his surroundings, and managed to knock a metallic dish off the table. This is so, so awkward… "Sorry, sorry!" They all stared at him with various degrees of disbelief. Finally sensing the tension, Jim shuffled back towards Molly. "Well, I'd better be off. I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

Molly eyed him warily. "Yeah!"

"Bye."

"Bye."

"It was nice meeting you." Sherlock thoroughly ignored him again.

Seeing as Molly was about to explode, Joan sighed again. "You too."

Once the door was closed, Dr Hooper demanded an explanation (of course), and Sherlock delivered it without a care in the world (obviously…). Joan tried to intervene, but the train wreck was well underway and there wasn't much she could do at that point. A little surprised that Holmes didn't get slapped for his troubles, Joan stared at the door that slammed behind the upset pathologist. "That was… not good" she stated thoughtfully.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?" And the man looked genuinely baffled at Molly's reaction.

"Yeah… no. That wasn't kind."

Sherlock huffed and mumbled something along the lines of "sentiment". Then he smirked and pushed one of the trainers towards her. "Go on, then."

"What?"

"You know what I do. Off you go." Joan eyed him suspiciously. That's my payback for earlier, innit.

"No."

"Go on" the git insisted.

"I'm not making a fool out of myself…"

"A second opinion is very useful to me. Truly." This is soooo my payback.

Sighing in defeat, she reached for the shoe. "Fine. You asked for it." Sherlock smiled that fake smile of his in return. Wincing at the sight, Joan reported her attention to the item in her hands. The white piece of fabric and plastic stared back at her. Damn you, Holmes. "It's… a pair of trainers. Rather well maintained, the owner took care of them. The sole is well-worn, but the outside could pass as new." Sherlock hummed in vague approval. "The size is rather big, probably a man." She looked inside. "There is a wiped trace of a name, not a very adult thing to do. So, a teen, a boy." Glancing at her tormentor, Joan was irked to see him searching something on his phone. "The design is very retro." No reaction. "Um…"

"Anything else?"

"Nope. That's it." She pushed the shoe back to Sherlock. "Now go on, tell me what I missed."

"Almost everything of importance, really" he stated calmly. "But you're still above the level of an average Yarder."

"Oh, I'm flattered" Joan deadpanned. Smirking in triumph, Holmes proceeded to show off. He is so impressive, I almost forget how callous he could be. The deductions rained until something dawned in that brilliant brain of his, and he froze, staring in to the distance.

"Carl Powers."

# #

Several nerve-wracking hours later, Joan somehow found herself in Mycroft's office, pretending to collect information on a case that didn't interest Sherlock in the slightest. She was also pretty sure Mycroft already figured out the solution, but couldn't be bothered to do the dreaded legwork. It was the main reason she didn't feel very sympathetic to his pained winces (so it really was a dental appointment after all).

"How can I help you, John?" Mycroft cringed at her.

Looking up from her chair, Joan decided to cut to the chase. "I am Sherlock's subcontractor for the case." Mycroft snorted in derision, immediately regretting the gesture. Joan smiled unapologetically. "What can you tell me about the dead man?"

The older Holmes appeared to consider her for a couple of seconds, before delivering the information: "Twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Program in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies ..." He rubbed a hand against his cheek. "Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening."

Checking the couple's address, Joan frowned in thought. "He was found at Battersea. Did he take the train?"

"No."

"No?"

"He had an Oyster card, but it hadn't been used. No ticket on the body."

"Then how…"

"That's what I'd like to know."

Joan gave him an exasperated look. "You already have an idea, don't you."

Attempting a half-smile, Mycroft finally went to sit at his desk. "Assumptions need to be supported by evidence, John. That's where my brother comes in."

"What a team you two make" she chuckled, getting up. "I'll keep you informed on this."

"Thank you." There was clear dismissal in his tone, which ticked her off.

"Take a pain killer, Mycroft. Evening." She left the office with the very satisfying image of Mycroft Holmes owlishly blinking at her.

# #

This feeling of accomplishment was one of the few positive things to keep her going for the following thirty and something hours, between hostages clad in Semtex and puzzles almost perfectly customized to Sherlock's desires. There was this unsettling feeling in the back of her head that something was very, very wrong (other than the obvious bomber playing games with them). Despite her friend's enthusiasm, she was on edge, almost snapping at Donovan at some point. Even the rush of seeing the case solved didn't alleviate the nagging worry.

Sherlock remained happily oblivious to the world outside his case, but Lestrade noticed her simmering unease while they were marching to the morgue to look at Connie Prince's body. "You alright, John?" he asked quietly while Sherlock tried to score points with Molly after the recent disaster. They could have just shown a warrant, but this was more entertaining.

She shrugged. "Yeah, just… I don't like this."

"Me neither" the DI sighed wearily. "It is beyond my competence, clearly."

"It is tailored for Sherlock" she sighed, sharing her biggest fear. "It looks so much like a trap designed just for him, and I can do nothing but watch him rush into it." Greg stared at her, speechless. Apparently, he didn't think about it in this perspective.

Suddenly, Sherlock popped back at their side. "Are you coming or what?!" Rolling their eyes, they followed the overexcited man-child.

The dead body was just that, dead. Joan examined the wound that supposedly caused the aforementioned state. This woman did no gardening, she noticed. Doesn't mean it couldn't have been a nail, though… "Do you know when she cut her hand?" she wondered out loud, expecting Greg to look it up in the report.

"Two to three days" Sherlock deadpanned almost immediately, not even looking away from his examination of the victim's forehead.

Not doubting his conclusion in the slightest, Joan straightened up. "That can't be right."

"Why not?" Lestrade chimed in.

"Tetanus takes eight to ten days to incubate. This wound can't have caused her death."

Sherlock had finished with his own ministrations and grinned proudly at her. "Good, John."

"I went to medical school, remember" she smiled back.

"So how did she die?" Lestrade intervened, mildly exasperated by the byplay.

"Symptoms are identical to tetanus…" Joan started, but was interrupted by her companion (as usual).

"The bacteria was introduced into her system by someone else. I need to confirm something." And off he went, leaving them dazed in his wake.

"Well, that was enlightening" Greg sighed again. "I better get back to the station. Let me know if anything turns up, John."

"Sure!" she called after him. I need coffee… Lots of coffee. She glanced at Connie's body. "You don't have these problems anymore, don't you?" she said humorlessly.

"I don't believe she does" said a soft voice behind her, making her almost jump out of her skin.

Instinctively, Joan went into a combat stance, before realizing who was talking. "Jesus, Molly! The morgue isn't the best place to scare people like that."

"Sorry" Dr Hooper smiled in apology. "I thought everyone left, and was surprised to see you talking to a corpse." If you put it like that…

"Yeah…" The blogger rubbed the back of her neck. "It's been a hectic couple of days." They stared at each other in awkward silence. "So… how are you?"

"Good. Fine, considering…" the mousy pathologist trailed off, frowning and blushing at the same time. She passed by Joan and started to close the bag over Prince's body, clearly to occupy herself.

"Sorry 'bout the other day" Joan blurted out suddenly. "He can be wrong sometimes, you know." To her horror, Molly's shoulders started to tremble and she sniffed. Loudly. "Oh. I'm… I'm such an idiot, I'm sorry."

"No, no…" Molly hiccupped. "Jim didn't contact me after, so… I suppose Sherlock was right." She turned to face Joan, wiping the tears. "Should be used to it."

That's a dim perspective on life. "It was his way of being helpful, I think… But you should just smack him over the head next time. He will get the point if enough people tell him."

Dr Hooper giggled through a last sniffle. "Thank you, John."

"Anytime."

# #

When she got back to Baker Street, Lestrade was there, trailing after Sherlock around the living room and pleading for leads. The detective was covertly enjoying it, and let nothing transpire. They spent several hours bugging him, but he kept on mumbling about connections and occasionally shutting off inside his head. Joan took this time to browse Andrew West's social media. There was nothing of importance to the case, though she spent a little too much time on the couple's photos. They looked happy together.

The ongoing puzzle came to a close seven hours later, after Sherlock rushed out to the Yard to get a copy of the new autopsy report. He was giddy with his success, which didn't improve Joan's mood. He's too caught up into this. It is brilliant and all, but he is getting sucked in. I don't like it, not all…

And then something went wrong.

The hostage was killed, along with a dozen of her neighbors. It made her sick even thinking about it. Lives, innocent lives lost just like that, for a game two men played. She hated games. This isn't right. She didn't sleep that night, painfully aware of nightmares that creeped up from the recesses of her mind. It was no wonder she was cranky the next morning, especially after seeing the actual damage done by the explosion on the news.

Sherlock didn't look particularly happy either. "Well, obviously I lost that round, although technically I did solve the case" he drawled, muting the TV. "He killed the old lady because she started to describe him." His features sharpened while he talked, and for a second he made her think of a majestic bird of prey. "Just once, he put himself in the firing line."

"What do you mean?"

The predatory expression was gone as soon as it came. "Well, usually, he must stay above it all. He organizes these things but no-one ever has direct contact."

Consultant, her brain supplied. "What, like an agency for customized crime?"

Sherlock propped his chin on the tips of his fingers, face alit with admiration. "Novel." Joan stared at him in growing disbelief. Geniuses. They appreciate the process, the intellectual intricacies of things. Of course, he is fascinated by this guy. She looked away, if only to stop picturing what two minds like Sherlock's could do if put together. They could create a new universe. They could utterly destroy the world. "Taking his time this time" the genius in question grumbled, checking the pink phone. He wants it. He doesn't care about the world beyond his own win or loss. A mirror. He is drawn to a mirror image of himself… She repressed a shudder, disguising it as a shrug.

"Anything on Carl Powers' old classmates?"

"Nothing, they're all clean. No connection."

"Maybe…"

"Probably not." This time, she openly glared at the interruption. You're scaring me, Sherlock. Is this puzzle really worth it?

"So, why is he doing this? Why is he playing this game with you?"

There was a smile, an actual wistful smile on his lips. "I think he wants to be distracted."

No. No, you are not the same! She wanted to yell, remembering the holes in the wall and vigourously denying any parallels with explosions, but swallowed back her comments. Without a sound, she pushed herself up and stomped towards the kitchen. The pent-up anger couldn't escape Sherlock's notice this time. "What?" he inquired, unhappy to be pulled from his musings about the delightful unidentified mass murderer.

Trying very hard not to throw anything at him, Joan turned back, jaw clenched. "There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual human lives. And right now, you don't seem to care at all."

He sniffed with disdain. "Will caring about them help save them?"

She knew exactly where this was going. "Nope."

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake." Liar. You are a liar, Sherlock Holmes. You wouldn't be solving crimes for a living if you never cared. You wouldn't be saving these lives.

Her brain-to-mouth filter decided to take a momentary leave at that point. "And you find that easy, do you?" She instantly regretted saying this, but it was too late to back down.

Sherlock's silver eyes narrowed in irritation. "Yes, very. Is that news to you?" Yes.

"No." They looked each other dead in the eyes for the longest moment.

"I've disappointed you" Sherlock finally stated, looking rather disappointed himself.

There is a line in the sand between professional detachment and heartlessness. I've never seen you cross it before, and I want you back. How hard is it to say? Too hard… "Good deduction" Joan gritted through her teeth.

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." Wrong. You are a hero to so many around you. Don't you see? Don't you see anything behind this callous armor of yours?! She was screaming in her head, but getting emotional would have only aggravated Sherlock. Joan was at a loss of what to do and about ready to call in Mycroft.

The decision was taken away from her by a text alert. Sherlock's attention switched immediately. "Excellent!" There was a new message, a new puzzle. A new life on the line for two men to play with. Joan closed her eyes briefly to try find her bearings again. "View of the Thames. South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. You check the papers; I'll look online ..." He trailed off, catching sight of her leaning forward with hands braced on the back of her chair. "Oh. You're angry with me, so you won't help. Not much cop, this caring lark."

Her head snapped up, and for a second she felt ready to hurt him, because this contemptuous voice cut into her so harshly. Stashing the burn of his words far away to cry over later, Joan sneered half-heartedly and went to the couch, pulling closer the various papers strewn on the coffee table. Sherlock's piercing gaze followed her there in silence, before focusing back on his new puzzle.