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

Warning: Language. This one is kinda dark.

# #

Days, and especially nights, after the release from the hospital hadn't been easy. As her body mended itself (it was dumb luck that the bullet struck a rib and didn't actually do much damage), her mind struggled with the constant knowledge that Moran was out there, free to roam the world and free to threaten her and hers again. It gave birth to particularly nasty nightmares, that only quelled when Sherlock took up playing soothing pieces on his violin every night after dinner. He clearly deduced that she didn't spent six hours having drinks with army buddies, but he couldn't possibly know every detail of what had happened. And Joan simply refused to talk about it.

But it couldn't go on like this. She needed closure.

And she knew exactly who could help her get it.

# #

"How's it going, Sev?"

"Same old, same old. And you?"

"Oh, the usual too."

"You don't say, Jay." She could hear the smile in his voice. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Are you in town?"

"Maybe."

"I need a favor."

"Anything."

# #

Sebastian Moran didn't make it that far in life by being a mindless brute. He was violent, yes, but his cunning and self-preserving instincts were greater than his need for destruction. When he disobeyed Moriarty's direct orders and took the shot, he knew that he would be hunted. But the vengeance was too sweet to pass up. And he had long ago prepared for the eventuality of being on the run.

He had left the country as soon as possible, changing flights and trains for several days, never staying for more than a few hours in one place. He wasn't Jim's priority, and when things calmed down, maybe he could get back into the good graces of the crazy bastard. His skillset was unique enough to have a fighting chance.

His only regret was not killing Watson or her snotty detective friend.

Living on the edge for days could take a tall on a body. So he settled on taking a day to unwind in New Zealand, in a sufficiently secluded place to feel safe for several hours. Moran crashed on his bed, not even bothering taking off his shoes.

He awoke to a faint rustling somewhere in the room. Shit.

Very slowly, trying not to betray his awareness, his hand slid to the gun tucked into his belt. An amused snort came from the darkness, and he jerked up in one fluid movement, taking aim at the shadowy figure.

A dry click near his temple informed Moran that he underestimated his opponents. There were two of them. And he was screwed.

The light flicked on, and Sebastian had the unpleasant surprise to discover one Captain Joan Watson leaning casually against the wall, measuring him with a dispassionate scowl. The shock must have shown on his face, as she smirked coldly: "Surprise, Sebby."

There was a light prick on his neck. Drugs. He continued to glare heatedly at Watson until the dizziness overtook his mind.

# #

Once the ex-sniper was out for the count, Joan dropped her icy front and sagged a little. "Nice injection."

"Your crash course stuck" answered her companion, a tall blond man dressed entirely in black, eyeing the fallen enemy with scorn. "What's the program?" Joan waited for him to look her in the eyes.

"Seven. Are you with me no matter what?"

"All the way, Jay." She sighed at the readiness of his answer. Of course, he is. If I wanted to be stopped, I'd have called Hendricks.

"Get him on the table and secure him so that he wouldn't move. At all. I have a promise to keep. I'll check his luggage for anything interesting when I'm ready."

While Seven was grunting under the weight of a grown man, Doctor Watson swung into action, pulling a fully furnished medical case from a dark corner. She had smuggled it all the way to the end of the world, and she was going to use it.

After half-an-hour, Moran started coming back to himself. Joan nodded to her friend to stay vigil, tossed him the sniper's laptop, and slipped into her predatory persona. "Rise and shine" she sing-sang. It had the merit of making 'Sebby' jerk against his restraints.

"Watson" he grunted hatefully.

"Moran" she answered, still watching him down her nose.

"How did you find me?"

"Does it matter, Sebby? No one else will find you now… alive, that is" she drawled.

"You don't have the balls" he growled in a self-assured bravado.

A lizard smile crawled on her face, seeding doubt in Moran's mind. She leant over him, almost touching his nose with hers. She didn't fear a head-butt, Seven had secured the neck as well, and the man really couldn't do more than grunt and sputter. "I know your opinions about women having balls, Sebby" she purred. Taking wry pleasure in the unsettled look on his crude face, she continued, still hovering over him like a spectre of doom. "But do you remember? I promised to cut you up." Now he was scared alright. "I may be... what did you call me back then, when you got kicked out of the army? A vile b itch? And maybe I am. But I'm not a liar."

She straightened up, a cold smirk frozen on her face. "Anesthetics first, of course. We're not barbarians, right? Well, I have some doubts about you, but we certainly aren't."

The man jerked violently against his restraints, in vain, sweat gathering on his brow. He looked terrified. Good.

"Tell me about Jim" she asked absently, while making quite a show of preparing the syringe.

"Go to hell" the idiot hissed.

"After you, then." The operation took about an hour (could have finished it in under twenty minutes, but Joan took her sweet time). At the end of it, Moran was just a shivering stinky mess of a man, who stubbornly refused to spill any secrets. Joan observed her job, rolling her shoulders to crack the neck. The bastard had it coming. And his silence is absolutely useless, since we can crack his laptop. Seven hadn't moved from his post, watching the procedure with grim satisfaction.

"Well, it is well done, I'd say" Watson commented, dropping the by-product of the operation in the garbage bin. "You had no use for it anyway." A shuddering breath escaped Moran. He wasn't in pain, the anesthetic effects had no time to dissipate yet. However, the running commentary Joan kept going during the operation might have broken him a bit. She looked him in the eyes, to see the unaltered hate and mind-sucking fear. "I could let you live like that, you know. You could function normally… unless you catch an infection here. Can't say it was very sanitary, and all."

She pulled off disposable gloves and tucked them in a specifically prepared container. They weren't leaving any DNA behind.

"But I remember every kid that came for treatment after spending some 'private' time with you. I remember the bombs, the one you set off in an apartment complex." She consciously omitted her own time with him and that dear Jim. There were plenty of reasons besides that one. "I remember the name on the bullet you shot in the pool." She finally let him see her own hate, her blazing fury. He isn't going anywhere near Sherlock. Ever. Of that, I can make sure. "Living would be too easy for you."

The scalpel was light as usual in her hand. Being a doctor gave one a plethora of choices for granting death.

"So, I'll just let you bleed out like a pig you are." She made two small incisions on both thighs, on femoral arteries. "Enjoy, Sebby."

The man started to struggle violently, gurgling insults and threats. She watched in silence as the feared sniper succumbed slowly to blood-loss. Seven stood by her, silent support to her bloody revenge. Always there, but never enough to save me from myself.

"I don't want it on my file" she said quietly. "You should take credit."

"As you wish" he answered evenly.

# #

They had parted at Heathrow three days later. Seven grabbed her bag from the conveyer, gave her a bear hug, kissed her on the cheek and disappeared in the crowd without a word. His face and posture didn't betray anything, but she knew how to read his cues. He had been furious at Moran, and hated himself for not preventing the whole ordeal in the first place (how exactly was he supposed to do that?). He was rather satisfied with what they've done, but somewhat guilty about letting her do it. And of course, he didn't want her to find out, making the internal struggle even more obvious. Idiot... I am surrounded by idiots.

The laptop had been cracked and combed through before they even headed back. Seven had copied the info for her, and took the prize back to the office. Moran had been a high-ranking lieutenant in Moriarty's network, and some documents he kept as safeguards were priceless.

Joan sighed heavily and made her way to the taxi waiting line. The ride back to Baker Street was silent. Silence before the storm. There was no way to tell whether Sherlock would notice the lie by omission - she had simply announced one day that a friend was inviting her to a vacation in New Zealand and left the same evening. And it had been a friendly trip overall... except that one night where they tortured and killed an internationally wanted rogue sniper. Just the usual, nothing to see, pass along. Yeah, I can see how that will work out.

At some level, the doctor knew she should be horrified at what they've done. But years of tough decisions and horrible mistakes taught her that some people just had to be eliminated. When an enemy is shooting at your squad, you don't think about a fair trial - you shoot back. In a twisted way (and she recognized that normal folks would be appalled), it made sense to her, to Seven, to all of their clique.

Baker Street greeted her with sounds of vials clinging in the kitchen and something hissing. It'd better not be acids in a pan. Joan dropped her duffel bag by the stairs and peeked inside. Sherlock was glued to a microscope, jolting down notes with one hand. "Hey" she said loud enough for him to hear.

There was a passing glance, only a few seconds, but he must have catalogued every crease in her shirt. "How was the trip?" he asked, as if she had just popped out to get groceries. He was frowning slightly, something the doctor wouldn't have noticed a month prior. He had been worried.

"Relaxing" Joan smiled back. With Moran gone, she knew she'd be able to sleep again. Sherlock huffed, and turned back to his analysis, barely noticeable tension draining from his shoulders. "Do we have milk?"

# #

A/N: I wasn't entirely sure about including this whole sub-plot, but couldn't have Sebby re-emerge at an inconvenient time, and it ties up nicely with something I planned for much later.

I won't clarify what exactly Joan did to Moran here. First, because I'm not quite sure myself. Second, because I'm not a medical professional, so better keep it vague. Third... let's just leave the level of goriness to your imaginations, ok? Turns out Joan has a cruel streak. But then again, she spent years in a war zone, it can change a person. It's not that far from shooting the cabbie in terms of the moral ground, I'd say (ok, it's much more messed up, but the baseline idea is the same - eliminate the dangerous element asap).

And yeah, Sev = Seven. Not very helpful, I know :)