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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.
# #
In the end, her walk ended at Bart's. Lost in thoughts, Joan absently greeted the nurse at the reception and headed for the forensic lab. Inside, a very embarrassed Molly Hooper was hovering with two steaming plastic cups near a very thoughtful Sherlock. The doctor instantly recognized the deep meditative state the man sometimes went into, calling it a "mind palace" of all things.
"Hullo, Molly" Watson greeted softly. The pathologist startled visibly, but thankfully didn't drop the cups.
"Oh, John… How are you?"
"Fine, ta. You should leave the coffee by his side, he'll drink it eventually, you know" she offered helpfully. Molly blushed madly before doing as suggested. She looked at a loss for words. They had a distant but friendly relationship, though the pathologist was clearly uneasy around the woman who lived with her unrequited love interest. Joan let her come around without rushing things. Dr Hooper was a sweet girl, that made the ex-army doctor want to protect her, like a younger sibling. Given that her frame of reference was Harriet Watson, it was a novel experience.
Meanwhile, Molly finally decided on a course of conversation. "He never notices, does he?"
Oh, for Christ's sake… "He does. Just doesn't realize how much it matters." The crestfallen look on the poor girl's face made her amend her statement a little. "He will understand one day."
It seemed to work, since the mousy doctor perked up a little. "You always cheer me up, John" she said with a small nod, glancing wistfully at the frozen detective again. "I should be going. Paperwork…"
"Yes, of course…" she trailed as Molly hurried out of the room.
Joan sighed heavily. Girl talk. It's still so... ugh.
"Having fun?" a deep baritone interrupted her self-pitying session.
"Absolutely" she retorted with a straight face. An amused snort was a sure sign that the detective dismissed her earlier temper tantrum without taking offense. "Did you think of anything new?"
"Yes. I know where she had been held." In a swirl of wool, the man proceeded to the exit, and Joan tagged behind him, dutiful shadow that she was.
# #
In the cab, Sherlock pretended to be deep in thought to covertly examine his partner. Joan had been tense and guarded since this morning. He didn't bring it up… yet. It was obviously related to the mysterious package, but the nervousness racked up a notch at the crime scene. Something in that storage unit struck a chord with the soldier, who was usually resilient in face of the human violence. He had watched Watson closely during their first cases, looking for signs of a break-down, but she had looked at victims of horrible crimes and felt sadness, compassion, anger on their behalf, but never fear, never revulsion. This time was different.
Personal. She had been afraid.
Howling's body almost brought a flashback. That was intriguing, since to his knowledge, Joan had never dealt with prisoners of war or abused civilians during her service. She worked in the heat of action, explosions, gunshots, not ropes and knives. The detective was sorely tempted to demand explanations, but his blogger's infamous temper kept him silent. He learnt that sometimes patience was the best option to gain favor of one Dr Watson.
Right now, she looked calm, but a slight tremor in her left hand betrayed an emotional turmoil. Truthfully, Sherlock felt lost. He had not enough data to decide on a course of action. Should he pretend it didn't matter? But it did, it unnerved him to no end. Should he confront Joan about it? She would blow up on him again.
The case kept him occupied for the time being, but he was going to get his answers, one way or another. He just hoped he would not alienate his friend while doing so.
# #
They arrived in a port district. Joan had just the time to text Lestrade with their location, before her companion swept through a hole in a fence. She followed at more leisurely pace. They stumbled between (or in Sherlock's case, gracefully swept over) deep cracks in the concrete and abandoned containers, until they arrived at the warehouse. Everything was eerily silent.
"What now?" she whispered.
"We investigate" Sherlock replied cheerfully. Riiiight…
There was nothing much to investigate, really. Dust, empty crates… Joan dutifully followed her friend, watching out for potential threats (boxes falling on his head), trying to squash the uneasy feeling rising again in her gut. It is nothing. Nothing at all.
At some point, Sherlock dropped to his knees, examining faint traces on the floor ("Dust is eloquent"). He sprang up with a triumphant shout and rushed forward and up the stairs to the second floor that once contained administrative offices. He stopped only for a second at the landing, to confirm the direction of those elusive imprints on the dust. Joan followed at a more sedate pace again and failed to crush into Sherlock's back. The man had stopped short just after the door, frozen in contemplation. "What is it?" Joan grumbled, unable to get a look because the lanky git took too much space.
"Interesting…" was the only input she got, but at least the man moved from the door, going further into the room. It was decently lit, compared to the rest of the building, with two dirty windows letting in some tentative sunlight. Shelves and crates were pushed against walls, leaving the centre bare. There was a hand-made pulley system running between two walls, with a heavy hook dangling in the middle.
Joan's eyes were instantly drawn to that hook, and the ropes hanging loosely from it. And the spatters of dried blood just under. She could picture with numbing clarity what had happened in this room.
Sherlock was circling the spatters with his signature x-ray gaze trained on the floor, unaware of his companion becoming more and more distressed. He fell into the habit of voicing his deductions, something he always did with Joan present. It helped him process the findings faster. "Hmm… traces indicate a body was laid here then moved. No, wait, first it moved on its own, then was dragged, yes, closer to the door." Something else attracted his attention before he could make Joan to move aside. "And that pattern…" Three small circular imprints in the dust, situated at equal distance from each other, had confused the detective at first, but it was short-lived. "Ah, yes. A tripod. He filmed it."
There was a small whimper from the door, and Sherlock's eyes snapped up, surprised he didn't notice a wounded animal in the building. But there was only Joan, white as a sheet, staring at the floor like she was about to be sick. "John?" It was quite an extreme reaction for an army-veteran, more so when the scene had nothing on some of the gruesome murders they had investigated. Unfocused blue eyes darted to meet his. "Are you alright?" he asked, slowly moving towards her.
"I…" her voice was deep and panicked. Sherlock reached out a hand. Bad move. Joan jerked away, gaze finally focusing on the detective. "I need to go" she breathed out, turned on her heels and ran as if hounds of hell were after her, leaving a dumbfounded Holmes behind.
# #
Run, run, run, runrunrunrunrunrun…
The smell of blood was driving her faster. Never, never, ever...
They are dead. They died, and I lived. But images from the past blended with the dreary warehouse, and it was enough to drive her insane.
She had never pretended to be mentally stable, after all.
Joan ran until she couldn't breathe anymore. She collapsed on a bench in a park, ignoring passers-by's intrigued looks. Her lungs burnt and her legs felt like jelly. The physical exhaustion managed to clear her mind a little from the fog of panic. When she could finally stand up without passing out, she started walking quickly with no destination in mind, just eager to move, to not stay in one place, pushing her body's limits. It had the added bonus to make her more difficult to trace by ever-present Holmes brothers. Boy, didn't she want to explain this episode to them.
Her stomach grumbled with hunger. She resigned to duck into a small café, to grab a pastry and a coffee, before briskly walking away, clinging to the small act of sanity. London was living, shining around her as the night fell, but Joan kept on moving, one step at a time. Ghosts of bloodied men and white-clad killers were calmly following her, just behind, just out of her peripheral vision, whispering, nagging, pleading, cursing. Their clammy hands brushed against her vest, her neck, her hair, or is it wind?
She knew that they would devour her as soon as she stopped. So, she walked, forward, forward, don't look back, until there was nothing but the constant buzz of their accusing voices in her ears, and Joan slid down a wall into blissful darkness.
# #
Lestrade arrived at the murder scene with forensics in tow, expecting to find a smug Holmes and an apologetic Watson leaving the building to run after the lead the NSY had yet to uncover. Instead, he found a very perplexed consulting detective lounging on a crate outside the presumed torture room. "Sherlock?"
Silver eyes flickered to him before going back to contemplating the opposite wall. "The scene is all yours, Lestrade."
Gesturing to his team to start working, he sat next to the tall man. "Something bothering you?"
"Nothing for you to worry about" came the clear dismissal, but the DI was determined to be a better friend. At least, the determination usually held until Sherlock started deducing his home life.
"Anything we need to know about this guy?" he tried, knowing that inviting Holmes to share his ideas was always a good way to get a lecture on tobacco ashes or something equally ridiculous but helpful. Well, almost always apparently, since the man just huffed and stayed silent. "Come on, give me something" he accompanied the prodding with lightly poking Sherlock in the ribs.
The detective swatted his hands away, a look of irritation passing on his impassable face. "The scene merely confirmed my early conclusions. I will inform you of any new developments." He stood up, popping up his collar with flourish. "I have other things to consider right now."
"You do?" Greg was surprised to hear that. Sherlock was known for staying focused on one case at a time.
"As a matter of fact, yes, Lestrade, I do have other occupations" the consulting headache snapped at him.
"Alright, alright…" He also stood up, lifting his hands in surrender. However, it reminded him of something… "Did you send John off somewhere?" Holmes glowered at him. "Well, she'd usually be with you at a scene."
There was a peculiar silence between them, during which Sherlock slowly lost his passive-aggressive stance, giving a peek at how bemused he really felt. "John had an unexpected reaction to the scene. She left, and I don't know where she is right now."
It took Greg several moments to process that titbit of information and make logical conclusions. Joan Watson had a panic attack and Sherlock let her go away on her own. Unless… "Did you fight?"
"No!" the younger man protested, hands flying up to emphasize his point. "She just said, "I need to go" and ran away. I know what it is, Lestrade, clearly a PTSD episode, but I don't know why." He was pacing in the small space of the corridor now. He was right, Watson wasn't easily fazed, that much was established soon enough in their weird-but-somehow-working flatshare (how did she stand eyes in the microwave was a mystery to them all). But the reasons for her reaction weren't a priority, God, don't I know that small innocuous things could be a trigger, had seen enough colleagues struggle with it. The problem was that the ex-soldier had been left alone with it.
"I'm putting out a search warrant for her" he informed Sherlock, pulling out the phone. "Who knows what she could do to herself or to others in that state."
Sherlock's eyes widened in realization, and Lestrade felt faintly smug to have thought of something before the man. It would have been more satisfying if it wasn't under such circumstances.
# #
Sherlock wasn't amused. He had recognized the signs but didn't have time to act on them. And now, Joan's condition and whereabouts were distracting him greatly from the case.
Fact: John was in a bad mood since the morning's anonymous letter. Fact: The case didn't improve her disposition. Fact: The recently discovered murder scene provoked a panic attack.
Calculating correlations. Insufficient data.
Tentative assumption: Something about the case strongly reminded John of a traumatic event.
But which one?!
It couldn't possibly be the army, there were no indication of military or any paramilitary groups in the current matter, nothing at all. The killer acted alone, didn't share. Perhaps filming was a clue… But no, it was clearly for personal use. What could have triggered a seasoned soldier and doctor? I am missing vital information…
"Who knows what she could do to herself or to others in that state." …and apparently my judgement had been heavily clouded by this. He had researched PTSD and its most tragic outcomes, even prior to his acquaintance with Joan (there were occasional cases where the only criminal to blame was the bad luck that irrevocably broke a person's psyche). And he let his flatmate go unsupervised in the middle of a rather bad episode.
She could hurt herself, whined a voice similar to Molly's in his head. It was true, he often attempted to destroy himself when he felt trapped inside his own head. Why would John be different?
Sherlock pulled out his own phone, texting Mycroft to urgently locate and secure Joan Watson.
# #
Joan woke up in a pastel-blue room, her entire body aching from her exceedingly long walk. She was laid on a comfortable bed, an IV drop stuck inside her elbow, but no other medical equipment in sight. When did that happen… Ghosts were still whispering, yelling, in her ears, but their voices were fainter now, more distant.
Sitting up, she noticed that the room was strangely bare of furniture or any indication of the exact location she ended up in. The wooden door in front of the bed creaked open, pulling her out of the silent threat assessment.
"Glad to see you awake, Dr Watson" said the usually arrogant voice. It sounded strangely tame this time.
"Mycroft" Joan sighed. "I suppose I should thank you."
He gave her his signature "You are beneath me, mortal" look. "You should. We picked you up passed out in the… less reputable part of London." She didn't remember much of her walk, at least not the places she'd been. Though she could remember all the things said by her panic-induced hallucinations.
"Yeah, well... Thank you." She looked around again, uneasy under the calculating gaze. "Are you restraining Sherlock from barging in to yell at me?"
"He isn't informed of your current location." That made her sit up straighter, her voice dropping down into the Captain's register.
"Meaning?" Is he committing me to an institution without my consent?
Mycroft's features unexpectedly softened. "That I presumed you would need time to gather your thoughts before a confrontation with my brother." Joan didn't quite know how to respond to that and simply blinked. "He can be rather hurtful in his concern, and you don't need an additional strain."
Her mind flashed back to the hospital, just after the pool incident, and the cold freezing, debilitating, baritone trying to push her away. Indeed. Her gaze dropped to the IV, still poking into her arm. "Am I allowed to leave?" she inquired, fiddling with the needle. The older Holmes frowned at her but said nothing. "You wouldn't want an unhinged soldier around your brother, would you?" Distant ghosts were bellowing their mocking mirth now.
To her absolute astonishment, Mycroft glided the few steps to the bed and sat at its foot. Deliberate close-quarters were usually an intimidation tactic with him, but there was not a hint of threat in the posture. Joan tensed.
"I suppose you understand what happened" he finally said. Joan nodded slowly. She'd be a fool to deny it. "I have to commend you, by the way, you do manage it rather well on daily basis." Is that a compliment?... "You should know that I am aware of what triggered your episode." Pain, blood, blood, sand, pain, where, why, please no, no, please, pain, no… There was a calming hand on her wrist, and she was clenching thin sheets, no sand, no blood. "John" called the voice, so close to Sherlock's but not quite, not him.
"I'm fine" she hissed, forcibly relaxing her fists.
"I was not in charge of these operations at the time. Believe me, it would have been handled better than this. You wouldn't have been involved at all." His eyes are darker than his brother's, hazel brown, but they usually are so icy. Not right now. Why not? Her thoughts were jumbled, twisting, turning, never ending. "My people are investigating how the perpetrator could have gotten this information." The hold on her wrist tightened before releasing it, leaving a warm imprint on her skin. Not sand, not blood, just touch.
"It wasn't supposed to happen…" she managed, her voice barely a whisper. She wasn't sure what she was talking about, the buried past or the screaming present.
Mycroft nodded, looking grave. "You should rest here for now. There is no need for you to continue this case."
Ghosts were fading into shadows in the corner of her mind. Joan felt utterly exhausted. "Maybe just a little" she agreed. She could still see the concerned tight not-quite-a-smile on Mycroft's face and him getting up, before falling back on the cushion and let the sleep claim her.
# #
She woke up in the same room, rested and clear-headed. Carefully removing the IV, she finally got out of the now rumpled bed, and took a tentative step towards the only window. It was around midday, meaning that she had slept through at least a full night. A new record. Did he put some sedatives in the drop? The door creaked again, and the recognizable steps followed. "Morning. Were you waiting just behind the door?" she greeted, not turning around, curiously observing the impressive oak tree on the other side of the glass.
"Not quite, but I was expecting you to wake up around this time."
"Where are we?" she inquired, turning to face Mycroft.
"My house. It appeared as the most appropriate location at the moment."
Joan quirked an eyebrow at this. Trust Mycroft Holmes to have a bare guest room with a saline water IV drop at his place. "Thank you."
The man appeared unperturbed, but his eyes softened slightly. He joined her at the window, giving a passing glance outside, probably ensuring the positioning of his security detail. "You can stay here, if you wish."
It was a generous offer, but Joan felt too restless to accept. The initial shock subsided, and she slowly convinced herself that it was just a coincidence. Just bad luck. The whole case made her extremely uneasy. Therefore, she couldn't just leave Sherlock deal with it alone. "I'd feel better on the field."
Mycroft sighed, seemingly resigned to deal with stubborn idiots. "While I appreciate your concern for my brother, I do not wish to force you into harm's way, John."
"No one's forcing me at all" she protested, only a blink betraying her surprise at the older man's words. He just basically declared that he cares about my well-being. Well, damn.
Another sigh. "Please call me if Sherlock becomes insufferable." The absence of a reminder about top secrecy and classified information was another tell-tale sign of Mycroft yielding to sentiment for once.
# #
The black sedan dropped her at Bart's and disappeared into traffic without a trace. Wincing at the mere thought of the shouting that would certainly ensue, Joan dragged her feet to the reception desk, where she bumped into Molly Hooper. The mousy pathologist yelped in surprise, though she managed to not drop the stack of files in her hands, then stared angrily at Joan. "Molly, hi" the ex-soldier said, arching an eyebrow at the unusual reaction.
"What are you doing here?" was the heated reply. That's new. Molly was never aggressive. Never. This shocked Joan into awkward silence, while the riled-up woman continued: "Sherlock was going spare because of you! Where have you been?!" Oh my. Sherlock had been worried and it made her jealous, innit? But she's too good of a person to stay jealous, so she's just angry now. "Well, answer me, John!"
Feeling her eyes widen in further surprise, Joan tried to placate the furious storm that had once been the shy and unassuming Molly: "I didn't intend to worry him, Molly. I was barely aware of myself most of the time, though. But I came back as fast as was possible."
The cutting glare toned down, and the woman frowned. "What happened?"
Not eager to share the story with anyone, let alone with the hospital's gossip treadmill, Joan grabbed Molly's elbow and guided her gently towards an empty corridor. "A crime scene triggered a flashback" she confided after making sure no one would overhear them. The frown dropped, and Molly's face became an interesting mixture of worry and embarrassment.
"Oh, John …"
"Don't fret" she smiled sharply. "I'm not very happy with myself either."
Brown eyes widened in concern. "Are you injured? Have you had a check-up?" It was easy to forget sometimes that Molly was a medically trained professional. But she managed to remind this fact to the world occasionally.
"I'm alright, Molly. Really." They started to walk to the lab Sherlock usually haunted. "It's not first time it happened" she finally confided. "Had been a long time since the last relapse, though."
"It's your time in the army, isn't it?" Molly asked timidly.
"Yeah. It's like an avalanche, once it goes off, I can't stop it by myself." There was no harm done in admitting this. Admitting a weakness is proof of healing, as Ella used to say. Joan knew that truth for a long time. Admitting a weakness allowed to find a way to defend against it. It didn't work that well lately, but the idea had merit.
They stopped in front of the closed door, Molly twisting her fingers nervously. "Are you sure…"
"Should be alright. I have it under control now." Joan smiled reassuringly (why am I the one doing the reassuring again?), took a deep breath, and went in.
The hospital should have really invested in lights. The lab was as dark as she remembered from her fateful visit in January, and the hunched silhouette over a microscope added to the sense of déjà-vu. "Hey."
Sherlock turned around so quickly, she could hear his neck crack. A chair cluttered to the ground, caught in the movement. He looked haggard, hair in disarray from incessant tugging and shirt unbuttoned at the collar. But his eyes were as piercing as always, and they were literally dissecting her. Joan shifted a little closer, trying hard to not appear too guilty. There was a deep frown on Sherlock's face now. "You stayed at Mycroft's" he stated coldly, his brother's name spat with unparalleled disgust. "Why didn't you come home?"
Joan's eyes snapped to him, narrowed at the implied accusation. "I wasn't thinking straight."
"Clearly." Sherlock's voice was dripping with contempt, like a poisoned dagger. "Otherwise, you would have informed me about your condition, and we would have all avoided the trouble."
"Oh my, so sorry for being a such a pscyho!" the doctor exploded, unwilling to take the abuse right now, even if it steamed from genuine worry. She took a step forward, openly glaring at the befuddled detective. "I'll just go and lock myself up somewhere for the rest of my days then!"
Sherlock flinched at the vehemence in her words and his jaw tightened. "This is not what I meant, John! You knew it was coming, you should have warned me!"
"I certainly did not expect it to happen! You think I planned this or something?!" They were shouting at each other now from different sides of a table, eyes flashing with anger.
"I don't know!" he bellowed, slamming his hands on the table. They stared at each other in the ringing silence, panting from the shouting match. Finally, Sherlock lowered his eyes. "I don't know" he repeated quietly.
I was worried, she read between the lines. Rubbing her neck in shame, Joan looked away. "Sorry."
The now awkward silence stretched for a minute. "What happened?"
Joan started to fidget with the hems of her jumper. "It… I don't know, it reminded me of something. Things that were done to hostages, back there. Things they would transmit to a local network. It just… made me snap." Snap. That's the right word. Sherlock was watching her from under his messy locks, radiating polite disbelief. I'm lying by omission, and he knows I'm lying, and he doesn't like it. "I'm fine. I can work now."
He took his sweet time to gather his words. "Another woman, Liz Burton, was reported missing last night. Lestrade was called in, since they found Jane Howling's ID in the flat." Joan sighed imperceptibly, glad to be back to business, but knowing an interrogation was coming at a later date. "He also left a coded message and a lock of the new victim's hair glued to the front door."
Hair. This is something different, his signature. "A coded message?" she asked, trying to very hard to ignore the unsettling feeling forming in her gut.
"Yes, a quite complex one at that" Sherlock droned, gesturing to a piece of paper in a plastic evidence bag. Joan hesitantly picked it up. It looked vaguely like the standard military code, which she stated immediately. "Really? I was wondering."
"It seems based on it, at least."
"Tell me." His voice commanded obedience, and Joan was just glad to get her mind off the nagging feeling that something was not right. Not a coincidence. They spent two hours going over the basics, then Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement and started writing furiously on a random notepad.
Sighing, the doctor gathered the scattered notes and photos from crime scenes. The evidence bag with a lock of hair was lying in wait by a microscope, somehow forgotten by the detective. Joan picked it up absently, meaning to store it on an evidence shelf, and froze in her tracks. No, no, it can't be right. The hair, mostly covered in glue, was tied with a rough piece of rope, very similar to what she had received in the mysterious letter. What if… he sent me the first victim's hair. No, can't be. She shook her head in denial. The whole disaster was classified. A random psycho can't know about it. Quickly dropping the evidence back on the table, she turned away, working through her breathing exercises to calm down.
"Aha!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, badly startling the ex-soldier. He didn't notice her flinch, too excited by his own success. "I got it!" He brandished a page torn from the notepad, filled with his pointy hand-writing. "Your help was invaluable, John" the consulting detective smiled happily, bad mood and worry forgotten.
Joan smiled weakly in return, reading closely the deciphered text. It contained only numbers, that resembled geographical coordinates. Dragging up her orientation training from dark recesses of memory, she frowned: "It's in London."
"Yes!" Sherlock was almost jumping in place from impatience.
A kid on a sugar high, that's what he is. "Baker Street first" she said plainly, voice no bearing no argument. "I need to collect my gun."
# #
They arrived at the apartment complex just before the sunset. Sherlock confidently strolled into the hallway, not even bothering to check it for traps, making Joan twitch nervously. He was about to do the same on the third-floor landing (thank god we took the stairs) when the ex-soldier harshly pulled him back by the elbow. "I go first" she hissed in a voice that demander obedience.
"But…" the detective protested on reflex. The glare he earned made him shut up instantly.
"He waits for us. I go first" she repeated, already cocking the gun and quietly sliding along the wall further down the corridor.
They progressed slowly, checking every door for potential threats. Joan relied on Sherlock's skills to identify the correct one: whenever she got into waiting position, the man would come, give it an assessing glance and shake his head, and then they would continue to the next door. Until they arrived at the one left ajar.
Exchanging a tense look with her companion, Joan slid into the thin opening. Behind her, Sherlock manoeuvered the door to open more widely without any noise. The flat was unlit, the eerie twilight only bothered by emergency exit signs outside and unveiled window in the small kitchen on their right, letting in the last rays of sun of the day. The door to the only room was closed, red firelights flickering under it.
Joan and Sherlock approached the door with caution, even if the blogger was convinced the only reason Holmes didn't rush inside like he owned the place was her being in the way with a loaded gun. Placing themselves on both sides of the entrance, Sherlock slowly pushed it open (because longer arms are more practical in such cases).
Peering warily inside, Joan's blood ran cold. Then she was throwing her gun into stunned Sherlock's hands and rushing in, towards the bloodied naked woman hang by her hands to the ceiling (chandelier hook?) and surrounded by dozens of candles.
Pain, pain, paindeath, painnonodontpain…
Her hands flew to check the vitals. Pulse. Thank god. The sound of Sherlock entering made her twitch again, but she was in the full medic mode and focused on the rescue. Sherlock could be trusted to watch their backs. She put her arms around the poor girl's waist, carelessly smearing blood and sweat all over her jacket, and pushed the body up and forwards. The tied hands slipped off the hook and Liz Burton collapsed.
The movement jerked her back into consciousness, and she started wailing, shaking with sobs on the floor. Joan crouched next to her, gently removing the rope biting into her wrists. "It's ok, sweetie, it's over, shush, I'm with you…"
Perhaps, she was unforgivably careless. Perhaps, she shouldn't have given in the panic and the terror of seeing the victim like this. Or trusted Sherlock with a gun. Or forget her training even for a second. But she did.
There was a grunt from behind, and a sound of a grown man falling. Sherlock. Liz sobbed harder, Joan jumped up and froze in horror.
Sherlock had slid down the wall, eyes wide and aware, but unable to move. A slender man stood over him, an empty syringe at his feet and her own gun pointed at Sherlock's head. Pearly white teeth showed when his roguish face stretched in a maniacal grin.
"What have you done?" Joan asked evenly, trying to sound calmer than she felt. Drugs, it has to be, dammit, for a former junkie Sherlock gets drugged way too frequently…
"Paralytic" the murderer informed them. Paralytic. Jane Howling died from it… no, internal bleeding, she couldn't move, for long, long hours… dammit! Her eyes snapped to Sherlock's prone form. He was desperately trying to lift his arms, judging by jittery tremors that run through them. His lips twitched, and the look of pure panic and angry determination sent shivers down her spine. Sherlock was never one thing, and often a mix of contradictory emotions at once. It gave her strength.
"Now I can do the right ending" the criminal said gleefully, devouring Joan with his eyes but gun still unwaveringly aimed at Sherlock. Ending?... "The tape was wrong." Tape?... The camera rolling. The smell of blood on dust, so much like the cave that it sent her running. The bruising, the cuts. She had thought it was a coincidence. Instead, it had been carefully designed to look like that particular nightmare, perhaps with some personal flavour of psychosis, but still...
"Jon…" Sherlock managed to mumble, tearing her from the throngs of an upcoming flashback. No time to break, Jay. Act first. Die later.
Her gaze locked on the perp. "And how do you suggest we do that?" she drawled. "The police will be there in five minutes. I always have back-up." She even smiled coldly at the man, who was now looking almost heartbroken, like a kid who lost his candy. The back-up was an absolute lie, though. She had been too out of it to keep Lestrade posted on their whereabouts.
The confusion quickly morphed into anger on the handsome face, and the maniac snarled, lifting the gun for better aim. "I can still do that."
Her heart dropped in fear, but Joan pushed through the haze. Adrenaline. Focus. Distract. "You don't want to do that" she claimed, voice clad in cold disinterest, in stark contrast to the raging storm in her head.
"Why not?" he snarled again in return.
"You want to finish the tape" she said slowly, searching for words, the right ones. That was Sherlock's forte after all, not hers. "The girls were… just training. You… need me." That's why he sent her the letter. That's why he made it easy to be found. He needed the real deal.
"Jn…don't…!" Sherlock tried to talk, but his lips were barely moving. His fingers twitched in effort, and Joan had to commend his resistance to narcotics. However, right now, he is helpless. I am not.
The murderer stared at her with awe, a mad desire burning on the surface of grey eyes. The man was sick. Doesn't make it any better. "I'll cut you a deal" she continued. "You leave these two unharmed, and I go with you without a fight."
"Jo…!" Sherlock tried again, stronger. She paid him no heed.
"Think of it. Your perfect ending." This seemed to cut it for him, as the gun switched to her.
"Deal" he said breathlessly.
# #
A/N: Just to let you know, I am now cross-posting this on ao3. I wanted to re-arrange the chapters (especially for the first ones) but couldn't do it here without losing the reviews. So, this same story on ao3 has only 15 chaps now, who are of a more consistent length.