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Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
# #
Stupid, stupid, STUPID! How could he fall for such a trick again?! Of course, the murderer would be laying in wait. He wasn't quick enough to avoid the needle, too absorbed in cataloguing the military paraphilia on the walls. And now, the great Sherlock Holmes was reduced to the state of a puppet with its strings cut, slumped on the floor, only able to watch his friend face a psychotic murderer, who also managed to get hold of a gun. Well, shit.
"The tape was wrong." Tape? What tape? There is an antiquity in the corner, with a worn, often watched VHS tape on it. Is he trying to emulate some movie? Joan had glanced around too, clearly noticing the recorder. The look of unadulterated terror that painted on her face broke Sherlock's supposedly inexistent heart. Joan was always the strong one, the reliable one. Rarely fazed, always supportive. He had abused of those qualities often enough to know them. He had never seen her so panicked, not even at the bloody pool after hours of physical torture and with snipers aiming at their chests. He willed desperately his arms to move. They didn't.
But what caused that reaction? Surely not the derelict device.
Evidence: tape, contents unknown.
Fact: A recording inspired the crime spree. Evidence: "the right ending".
Assumption A: Crimes scenes were modelled after the recording.
Fact: The murder scene reminded a traumatic event to John.
Conclusion A: John knows what is on that tape.
Fact: John is terrorized by the recorded event.
Conclusion B: pending…
Joan's eyes widened impossibly, and she swayed slightly on her feet, blood leaving her face. Not good. We can't afford to have both of us incapacitated. He forced his mouth to work. "Jon…" It seemed to snap her out of the shock, and Sherlock resumed his attempts to move, until…
"You… need me."
Conclusion B: John is a protagonist of the tape. (Supporting evidence: John avoids eye contact with me.) She is trying to sacrifice herself to get the danger away from me. And the victim too.
Wait, what?! No, no, no, nononono. Out of question.
"Jn… don't...!"
She didn't listen. And the man played into her hand.
"Jo…!"
They were leaving, Joan walking in front of an armed psychopath with a death toll. In his mind, Sherlock was already ripping the man's limbs one by one, but only his fingers twitched in response to brain stimuli.
The paralytic took hours to wear off. Hours the killer had alone with Joan.
The victim, Liz?, had fallen face down on the floor, too weak from blood loss and pain. She needed medical help, and soon. Dammit. Dammit. Where is bloody Mycroft when I need him?!
Minutes ticked by, with Sherlock growing more frantic by the second. His legs started to respond a little after thirty minutes, forty-eight seconds. He briefly blessed the gods for his stint with drugs, as his resistance to common substances was exceptionally high. He managed to move his head after seventy-three minutes, eleven seconds. His hands were at 47% capacity after ninety-four minutes, fifteen seconds.
With trembling fingers and several aborted attempts, Sherlock managed to pull his phone out. It took him an unimaginable thirteen more minutes to unlock it and dial Lestrade on loud speaker.
"Sherlock? Do you have something?" He had never been so happy to hear the DI.
"Found him…" His tongue wasn't fully cooperative yet, and he slurred.
"You alright?" The voice over the line became urgent.
"Ambl… ance." Lestrade cursed. "Hurry" Sherlock added, eyeing worriedly the pale and unmoving form of Liz Burton.
"Where are you?" Somehow, he managed to communicate the address. "Hang on there. We're on the way. I'll try to reach John."
John, who is still with the killer. "He got her" Sherlock gritted through his teeth, and curses coming from his phone reached a new level of obscene.
By the time the police arrived, paramedics in tow, Sherlock recovered 81% of his moving capacities and was trying to hiss himself up and type on his phone at the same time. Lestrade rushed to his side, while people in white surrounded the fallen woman. "Sherlock! God, are you ok?"
"Was just drugged" he answered evenly despite the effort it took. "John left with him." His chest gave a painful throb at the remembered scene. "I'm trying to calculate his route."
Lestrade's horror-stricken face hardened, taking in stride the change from 'John had a panic attack and ran away' to 'John got abducted by a psychotic killer'. "Does he use a car?" At the I'm dealing with idiots glare he received, the DI coughed sheepishly. "Right. Then let's get you out at least."
Supporting himself on walls and sometimes on Lestrade, Sherlock was rather glad to flop down on a passenger seat of a car, even if it was a police vehicle. Then he remembered the look of desperate fear on Joan's face at the mention of the tape, and the helpless rage cut his breath again. She is not getting hurt by my fault again!
But she is. Right now.
NO!
The police radio crackled. "Accident reported. Black Fiat on roadside on Kingston road. Closest officer please respond."
The killer had car keys. He saw him fumble with them. Processing image. Cross-referencing to database. Keys with a Fiat logo. Sherlock sprung up, still unstable on his feet, latching on Lestrade's arm. "It's him! We need to get there! NOW!" Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn…
Used to obey the detective's most ridiculous demands in emergency situations, the DI didn't protest. Stuffing Sherlock back into the car, he tore off in the general direction of the supposed car accident, simultaneously calling for back-up.
They arrived there in record time, sirens blazing. There was indeed a black car spattered around a non-functioning light pole, with no movement in sight. Under harsh front lights of Lestrade's car, they could see the shape of airbags still inflated inside.
"Not John…" escaped Sherlock before he could stop it. Greg gave him a sharp look, while pulling out his gun.
"Stay back" he ordered, popping out of the car. Holmes would have protested, but while having mostly recovered from the paralytic agent, he was still in no shape to help. Nothing stopped him from getting out though.
# #
Lestrade progressed slowly to the silent vehicle. There was a human form slumped in the passenger seat, and he felt his heart clench in apprehension.
A branch cracked under someone's foot, and his attention snapped in that direction, ready to fire. A gasp from behind ("John!") ensured him that it was not a hallucination.
Joan Watson emerged from the shadows surrounding the scene, jacket covered in grime and blood. Her face was a stone mask marred by tearstains, and cold, cold eyes fixed on the wrecked car. Her cheek was bruised, and she held her left arm stiffly against her body but otherwise seemed in one piece.
A stumbling tornado commonly known as Sherlock stormed up to her, stopping only centimetres away. "John." The usually imperious voice was pleading, making Greg startle while re-holstering his gun. Blue eyes slowly dragged themselves to the lanky detective. "What happened?" It was a good damn question.
Joan's lips twitched in cruel amusement. "He let me drive" she said calmly.
Daring a look into the wreckage, both Lestrade and Holmes were strangely gratified to see the unconscious killer sprawled on the seat and secured with a whip for good measure.
# #
The idiot put her behind the wheel, trying to look menacing with the gun. But now that it wasn't aimed at her friend's head and that there wasn't a tortured woman on the floor sobbing, he was merely a target to her.
He gave directions, weapon wavering as he tried to keep an eye on the road. They arrived at a long straight line, with no other vehicles in sight. Perfect.
"Do you have your seatbelt on?" she inquired conversationally.
"No" came the honest and surprised reply.
"Good."
Her left hand swatted the gun away, while she stepped on the accelerator and jerked the wheel to the right. With a terrified yelp from the wannabe kidnapper, the car smashed into a light pole, which flickered and died, plunging them into the darkness. Airbags blasted to life, preventing the bastard from going through the front window, but he was well underway to there, while Joan simply got bruised ribs and a violent smack on her face from the impact. The force of it knocked her out for a minute though.
She came to the wash-up whiteness of the airbag and the smell of heated metal. Frowning (cold breeze, London, not the cave, London), she pushed herself upright. Luckily neither her belt or the door was jammed, and she spilled out, panting in pain from the bruised ribs. After minutes of merely gulping up the air, Joan got up and rounded the car. The murderer, whose name she still didn't know (his heroes were nameless, he shall remain nameless as well), moaned. His forehead was washed in dark red. Irreparable brain damage most probable. Good. The world spun a little.
There was a sports bag on the back seat and shivering with delayed shock and disgust she rummaged through it. A couple of knifes, more rope and the infamous whip.
Pain and death. Ambient smell of blood. Sand under her nails, under her skin. Rough hands. Blood-curling cries. She couldn't save them. She had avenged them. Almost. It had never been enough. They still ached on rainy days, scars she had earned during those forgotten days and bits of her forever lost in the aftermath.
A car flashed by, snapping Joan out of her dark memories. But it was only temporary, the darkness still lingered on the back of her mind, ready to lurch and grab and devour.
With professional efficiency, she handled the man back into his seat. His eyes blinked open, clouded and unseeing. She stared at him, feeling vague pity and anger. "You see, you should have watched that tape more closely" she rambled, knowing full well that he couldn't understand her anymore. "I got out. They died. And they were way stronger than you." She didn't remember tying the whip around him, but it was alright. Retribution enough.
Feeling weaker by the second, Joan meandered to the roadside, nearly falling to the ground, and propping her back against a helpful tree.
The darkness came, and she could do nothing but quietly cry.
God knows how long after, a BMW screeched to a halt near the wreck, an armed Lestrade getting out and advancing carefully to the car. A head of unruly curls climbed out the passenger side, and Joan, still hidden in the shadows, felt that she should join the party, despite the bone-crushing despair she let settle inside her heart.
Greg's face crumbled at the sore sight she presented, but before he could comment, a very much mobile and alive Sherlock nearly bowled her over, stopping only because he was unsure of what to do himself. "John. What happened?" Silver eyes cut through the haze, grounding Joan in the present.
"He let me drive." The mixed look of mock-fear and pride on Sherlock's face was a welcome change from the ambient gloom.
Sirens flashed in the distance.
# #
Joan stayed on the spot, arms wrapped around herself as if to keep the cold at bay. She didn't want to move. Police mulled around, like water running around a rock in its path, giving her nervous glances from time to time. Lestrade and Holmes were busy inspecting the car for evidence. Sherlock looked a little fidgety, but mostly alright. She'll have to run some bloodwork to be sure though. Maybe Molly could help… Her gaze wandered to the dark trees nearby and she caught herself longing for their silence.
"John?" called the low baritone, and Joan could feel silver eyes dissecting her without looking up.
"I'm fine."
"What you did was stupid" he suddenly blurted out. Stupid?!
Her eyes sharpened and focused on her clueless friend, making him gulp. "He was about to blow your brains out." Joan's voice was silk and poison, something she didn't let out often.
"But you didn't have to…"
"Are you suggesting I should have let him?"
"No, but you could have…"
"Oh reeeeally?"
Part of her (the one who held grudges) noticed that it was mildly satisfying to interrupt Sherlock I-always-have-the-last-word Holmes. The part that was a good friend reasoned that being an offensive git was Sherlock's coping mechanism. But it was the part that was still terrified and acted on pure instinct that took charge.
Leaving the consulting detective gaping after her, Joan marched to the DI. "We need to get back to that apartment. There is something I need to check."
Lestrade didn't look very convinced. "Are you sure, John? You need to go to the hospital."
"I'm a doctor, I know what I need" she retorted in a no-nonsense tone. "And right now, I need to check his room."
"What for?" the weary DI sighed, clearly coming to the conclusion that he had better chances of winning against a volcano.
Joan gave a measuring glance to the comatose man being pulled out of the wreck. "His reasons."
# #
It took more wheedling on her part to persuade Lestrade to drive back to the first crime scene. Of course, Sherlock jumped in at the last minute, and spent the trip sulking in the backseat. The building was alit with blue flashing lights now, alive. Not minding her companions, Joan marched up to the nightmarish flat, bypassing curious neighbours and busy policemen. Repressing a cringe at the bloodied floor, she made a beeline to the VHS player. The tape was labelled in a blue faded ink "mocking bird".
Damn. It really is that tape.
She absently tugged on latex gloves, thoroughly ignoring Sherlock's looming presence and Greg's worried one at her side. The telly flickered to live, and she pressed start.
"… see the price of your folly" thundered the deep voice from loudspeakers. Everyone in the room froze to look at the screen. Joan watched on, caught in a time loop.
The man, dressed in white robes, was choosing calmly his victim among the dozing prisoners on the ground. Suddenly Lestrade gasped in recognition, and Sherlock's hand was gripping her right shoulder. "John?..." His voice cracked. Don't look, she wanted to scream.
She watched as the private, Brian, his name was Brian, it was his first tour and he liked old jazz music, got killed, and once again she could do nothing to stop it. She watched as her counterpart from years ago tried to fight, and utterly failed. "Every act against us, is a slight against God. Retribution shall fall." She had unwillingly provoked them into killing another soldier, Harry, he had just become a father, a little boy, he never got to hold him. Why didn't they kill me?
Finally able to move, Joan paused the video and carefully ejected the tape. No need to show them the rest. Every pair of eyes in the room was glued to her, as she got up, the tape held loosely in her hands. "Call Mycroft, would you" she said softly, all fight and poison lost. "Someone from MI6 archives is selling classified items to the black market."
There was a tense, so tense, silence. Then the sound of the Belstaff storming out of the room and echoes of the angry baritone shouting at the unfortunate government official.
Not over yet. Face it. Face them and get out.
Briefly closing her eyes, the ex-soldier turned around to find that Lestrade had cowed his subordinates to go do their job and stop ogling her without uttering a word. He looked angry, and tired, and a little lost. "Thanks" she whispered, just for him. He nodded, a frown settling on his brow.
"Is that when… you got shot?" he asked awkwardly.
"No." There was no need to hide it. "This was during my second tour. There was a rescue mission, obviously, and then I was back on the field in about a year."
Greg stared at her, appalled. "You went back?!"
"Yeah" she shrugged. The air became heavy, and she just wanted to get out, to go sleep. Sherlock swept back in, and stopped shortly at the door, giving them a measuring stare-down. Silently, he came to Joan's side, a steady hand settling on her shoulder, and gently guiding her out of the room, out of the building. The fresh air exploded in her lungs, and for a second the soldier thought there wouldn't be another breath. The comforting hand disappeared, leaving her frozen and alone, but then Sherlock simply pulled his trademark coat around her, popping up the collar so no bystander could catch a glimpse of her ashen face. It smelled of chemicals and expensive shampoo, of all things, and Joan felt like an impenetrable bubble had been erected between her and the world. It feels nice.
She didn't stop to ponder when the self-proclaimed sociopath had become so considerate.
A black Mercedes slid to a halt at the curb. Mycroft. Ah, yes, I asked for him.
The older Holmes wasn't inside (urgent business in Hungary, apparently), but his PA was there, in the same impeccable suit as on the day she met her.
Sherlock climbed in after her, glaring at all and sundry, looking one part pouty and three parts murderous. They rode in silence, Joan concentrating on the sound of the city, London, rainy, noisy London, splashing against the steel carcass. The incessant typing from the PA stopped abruptly.
"I will take the tape" she said gently, and Joan's gaze flickered to her. The woman appeared unfazed, but her eyes were wary.
The ex-soldier didn't move an inch to give away her loot. "How did it get out in the first place?" she queried softly.
It was a very uncomfortable question, as the professional façade cracked, and the brunette fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. "It's under investigation, Doctor Watson. We will keep you informed." No, you won't.
"Mycroft will have more than just me to worry about if it gets out again" she informed the woman, finally handing over the recording. If she never saw it again, it would be too soon.
The car dropped them off at Baker Street, and Sherlock resumed his self-appointed role of a nurse until they reached the flat. She dared a glance at the detective and managed a small chuckle. He was looking bemused, and more than a little panicked. The man has no idea of what to do, ain't he?
"Tea?" she asked, wincing at the hitch in her voice. He nodded hesitantly.
The routine of brewing tea was calming, therapeutic even. She particularly relished the slow burn on her fingertips from cups filled with boiling water, just at the limit of painful. It grounded her along with the smell Sherlock's shampoo. Weirdo, a shy and fond voice echoed in her head.
Pushing the mug towards Sherlock, she could see the need for answers painted clearly on his face. Too much. "I can't talk about it, Sherlock" she sighed after a long sip of the brewage. He froze momentarily, like a toddler caught with his hand inside the cookie jar. "It's too much for me right now" she added for good measure. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes, and he tensed and relaxed at the same time. He had probably thought I referred to his clearance level. As if it ever stopped me. "Feel free to bother Mycroft, though." The glint in his eyes was very maniacal now. Should I regret this?... No, probably not.
The earlier tiff was all but forgotten. Sherlock's presence was vital, necessary to keep away ghostly voices, and that is as simple as this. Joan meandered to the couch, clutching both her mug and Sherlock's coat around her. Going upstairs appeared a tedious and potentially dangerous affair. Maybe ghosts are hidden in the closet. Just maybe.
She stayed there, sipping her lukewarm tea and staring at the wall, until a soft melody filled the flat, soothing her nerves and mending her heart. Sherlock wasn't looking at her as he played, sprawled in his armchair in a perfect embodiment of indifference, but every note he produced, every string he touched, were meant for her. She let herself drown in it, relaxing on the couch, unfinished tea on the coffee table. The melody twirled around, gentle, worried, understanding. Ghosts fled from it, unable to resist the bright colours of life it represented.
While her neck and back were loudly protesting her sleeping arrangements in the morning, no nightmare came to bother her rest that night.
# #
Sherlock left Baker Street around noon, after ensuring that his flatmate and friend was feeling good enough to occupy herself without his supervision. He caught a cab and rushed to Diogenes club, anger simmering under the cold veneer. It only grew when the doorman made him wait and reached new heights when his brother wasn't already waiting for him in the Strangers' Room.
Mycroft entered an hour later, dark smudges under his eyes he didn't bother to conceal, which didn't escape the younger Holmes' notice. "Long nights, brother mine?"
"Are you sure it is wise to leave John alone?" The question was condescending and infuriating, but Sherlock swallowed his anger in favour of obtaining information.
"Mrs Hudson takes care of her." They stared at each other in hostile silence. "I want to see that tape" Sherlock finally said, voice bearing no argument.
"That is not wise" Mycroft sighed, lowering himself into his chair.
"Pray tell why" the younger man hissed.
"Because, brother dear" - came the drawled response from behind steepled fingers – "the only thing you could do with that knowledge is making things worse." At the heated glare radiating from the opposite chair, he elaborated. "Your reaction would be devastating to the only person that bears to live with you. I am not quite ready to lose that asset yet."
"John is not an asset, Mycroft" Sherlock growled, leaning forward in his chair, like a feline ready to pounce on his pray. "She is under my protection, and she was hurt because of your minions. You will show me that tape."
"Don't you have enough on your plate to worry about?" The attempt at distraction was pathetically weak, and Sherlock knew that he had won. Mycroft sighed. "Fine… On your head, be it." A couple of clicks later, and a portion of the wall slid aside, revealing a flat screen. "I am not particularly fond of this footage, so you will excuse me, brother." Slowly extracting himself from behind the desk, the 'minor' government official gave Sherlock a hard stare before tossing a remote control at him. He left the room without another word.
Alone with his doubts and anger, Sherlock eyed the remote as if it could bite him. From the little clip they had all seen on the crime scene, he was sure that the experience would not be enjoyable. John lived through it. Jaw set in a stubborn line, Sherlock switched on the screen and fumbled to find the relevant file.
Forty minutes later, he was sitting stone-faced and in deep shock in the same chair, the screen projecting only static for some time already. It was not what he had expected. It was worse. The door opened silently, letting in Mycroft and his PA. They both looked at the unmoving detective with veiled pity. "Sherlock" the brother called out. A finger twitched in response. "I warned you." Another twitch.
When the older man was about to give up on getting a reaction, Sherlock spoke up in an emotionless tone: "What did you expect me to do, exactly? Rage and scream like some dramatic hero?"
"The thought had occurred" Mycroft replied, eyeing the detective's back calculatingly.
"I am no fool" the younger brother stated. He pushed himself up from the chair, adjusted the coat's collar and faced his little audience with a tense not-quite-a-smile. "She made sure of it." Without any further comments (but with a lot of flair and coat swirling), he left the room, thoughts flashing through his mind erratically.
Fact: I am angry. Fact: I can't change what happened. Fact: John does not want pity.
Scenario assessment. Impact on self estimated. Retention of all faculties improbable.
Fact: John is strong.
Suggested course of action… pending.
He didn't register the cab ride home, nor the following hours. The next thing he knew, he was seated in his chair, a steaming mug of excellent tea in his hands. Joan, looking a little peaky, was sipping her own tea while leafing through a medical journal, comfortably sprawled in the other chair. Fact: John didn't change her behaviour. Fact: John is good with people. Suggested course of action: Imitate.
"There are biscuits in the cupboard, if you want them" she said without looking up from her reading.
Sherlock gave the puzzling woman a long measuring look, before asking matter-of-factly: "Are there any scones?"
There was a fleeting smile on her lips. "Nah, but feel free to pester Mrs H for them. I'm sure there are still some left from the breakfast."
# #
Joan dropped the journal on her lap once Sherlock's light steps faded down the stairs. Her heart was beating like crazy. Why is it so hard to act normal? She felt frozen to the bone, lonely, and confused. Though the only thought of someone crying or yelling over her plight made her hiss in disgust. No pity. No more. She had a good idea about where her flatmate disappeared to and what made him go 'off-line' for the afternoon. She also knew from the panicked look caught on his face last night that the man wouldn't fathom an adequate response to the whole situation. I need normal. I need a routine to cling to. And I need it now. So, she made tea, and pretended to read and to act generally unaware of anything important.
Her phone vibrated with an incoming message. "Where are you?" She pressed the heels of her hands against the eyes, before typing out a weary "I'm fine."
The man on the other side of the text disagreed. "I'm coming."
"Don't you dare." He had gotten her out last time, but it had been late, too late for the others, the ones who kept blaming her for living on. They would be oh so angry if he showed up again. She still remembered vividly the feeling of falling into a puddle of someone else's blood. The ghosts promised to make her relive the experience for as long as they could.
"You are not living through this alone ever again."
"I'm not alone, Sev." She wasn't certain whether she meant the detective downstairs or her hallucinations. There were no further messages after that, and no worried old friends busting through doors or windows. Small victories, huh.
Dry whispers of faded ghosts kept scratching at the back of her mind, but she pushed them away, like always. I'm sorry. I can't come with you, she told them softly. They screamed their outrage. Until they calmed down and she recovered some more, sleeping pills would be much needed.
# #
Disclaimer 2: The whole plot is inspired by 'Survivor's Guilt' by Aneeta Potter.
A/N: And we're done with this part. It appears that I really like making Sherlock helplessly worry. Irene will be back for the next chapter. I apologize in advance if it takes months to update again... :(