A/N: Do you remember Sebastian Moran from the main fic? This is the story of "what if Joan met Moran before ever going to Bart's?" (or another failed attempt at evil John). For the sake of the timeline, Joan had been sent home a year earlier. And I went a bit wild on her background.
Also, thank you so much for the reviews, and follows & favs! :) Love you all 3
Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. You recognize it, I don't own it.
Warning: Language; Mentions of abuse.
# #
The world was grey. That's the conclusion Joan reached after the umptieth appointment with Ella. Nothing happened. Ever.
The doctor gritted her teeth and continued walking. She half-heartedly decided to go through a park to chase away some of the darkest thoughts. She wasn't very far from her objective when someone gasped behind her. She paid them no mind, there were other problems to ponder about.
Perhaps she should have bothered.
A large hand grabbed her good shoulder and yanked her into an alley. Disabled, but not untrained, Joan jerked away, striking blindly back with her cane. The attacker grunted, more in surprise than in pain, and she broke free, and far enough to actually see his face. "Moran" the ex-soldier breathed out, stunned.
The dishonourably discharged colonel sneered down at her, still massaging his stomach where the cane hit. "Watson."
Very wary of this particular man, Joan took a careful step back. Unfortunately, it meant getting farther from the main street. "Didn't expect to see you" she said conversationally, eyes darting around the narrow space in search of an escape.
He smirked back. "I was surprised when I spotted you. Can't pass up this chance."
I am so doomed, Joan had the time to think before Moran lashed out. Luckily, the close quarters were at her advantage – she was smaller, faster and armed with a metallic cane. The adrenaline shot made her forget completely about the rebellious leg, something her aggressor did not expect, after having seen the horrendous limp she sported on the street. However, the colonel was bigger, stronger and angrier. It was not an easy match.
They exchanged blows, Moran landing two hits on her right side, while Watson aimed at his stomach and throat. When he started to literally growl in rage, Joan decided that screw the fair-play and stuck forward with her cane, landing a heavy blow into the man's groin. Angry mountain of muscles or not, few could remain upright after that one. Having her opponent bent in two, she didn't hesitate a second (as if he would spare me) to bash the cane over his head, two, three times, until the man collapsed, leaving her panting in pain from the unplanned exercise.
Medical training kicked in, and Joan crouched to check his vitals. Severe concussion coming up. Possible brain swelling. Remembering full well why Moran had been discharged in the first place, she couldn't bring herself to feel guilty about his current state. The adrenaline wore off, and her leg felt like a lump of jelly. Alright, Watson. Get out. Call an ambulance. Get home.
She stumbled out of the alley, without attracting much attention despite her dishevelled appearance. Spotting a phone box, she limped towards it, cursing under her breath. "Could you please send an ambulance to Limeburner Lane? There is an unconscious man behind the restaurant." Hanging up before any questions could be asked, Joan almost jumped out of the box. Good. Now let's get home.
# #
A week went by without any highlights. She didn't talk about her little adventure to her therapist (she wasn't that crazy), but now she was literally itching to fight again. To do something. Anything. To feel her blood burn. As if to nag her about the stillness of the days, the damn leg decided to be in incessant pain. It was a dull throb most of the time, but still very annoying.
Maybe I should sign up for that shooting range, after all, Joan thought darkly, limping back to the bedsit with a small bag full of groceries. She started to bring her gun with her all the time now. It felt safer, even if Moran should have been out for the count for at least a month. A little practice wouldn't hurt. With that small decision, Joan pushed her door open and fumbled for the light.
She didn't exactly hear it, but instantly knew that someone was breathing inside. The door clicked shut, the light switched on, and green apples were rolling over the floor while Joan steadily aimed her gun at an unknown slim man in a suit who lounged on her bed.
"My, my, careful, aren't we?" he drawled with glee, black eyes assessing her without an ounce of fear.
"What are you doing in my flat?" Her voice was low, not quite menacing. There was enough threat in a loaded gun.
"You call this a flat?" the stranger snorted. "I can give you better."
"Do I have to repeat myself?" Joan growled now, shifting closer to the kitchen counter.
Black eyes flashed with anger and surprisingly more glee. "Feisty. I can see why Sebby got bashed in by you."
Sebby?... Sebastian. "You with Moran?" It didn't look good at all. She could hold her own against one man, but not a gang.
"He's one of my pets. You did quite a number on him… Joan."
Shit. Shit. This is bad. "Not sorry" she said instead.
"Gooood" he exclaimed, leaning forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Very good. He acted like an idiot, and I don't like stupid." Joan frowned in silence, gun still aimed at the stranger's head. "You look so harmless, but it's a mask, innit, Joan?"
"Wanna find out?" she quirked an eyebrow, finger tightening on the trigger.
His smile stretched forever and showed too much teeth. "I want you to work for me."
Wha… "Who are you?"
"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" He even waved a hand at her, smirking. Joan's brain froze. Moriarty. Bloody Moriarty is offering me a job. The name was well-known at her 'side' job, the man had fingers in a shit-ton of pies around the world, including bribery, extortion and assassinations. Someone she knew rather well (someone precious, a presence so dear she never really recovered from its loss) had lost his life, trying to take down a branch of Moriarty's network.
"Why?" she managed to spit out, slightly lowering her weapon. Knowing the character, she could shoot him, but a sniper would have her head the next second. Not worth the trouble.
"I read you file." Daaamn. "Occasional" - he did an air quote and winked - "MI6 agent, involved in various operations in the Middle East, while keeping up with her regular tours. Real medical degree and experience. Thrown out like a rag." His gaze was boring into her soul with sick intensity. "I can give you the fight you want."
"I'm no assassin, Mr Moriarty."
"Oh no, no, no, don't be so formal. Call me Jim." His sing-songy voice was seriously grating on her nerves. "And try another one, would you? I know what happened in August." Joan dropped her hands at her sides, staring at him in disbelief. His network is larger than we thought. "They let you down. You don't owe them anything now."
Such mind tricks might have worked on most people, but Joan Watson knew exactly where she stood in regard to Jim and his activities. If I refuse, I die. If I accept, it will be a tough game. But I could take him down. He's right, he can give me the fight I want. Just not the one he imagines I need.
"They'll come after me" she stated plainly. True enough.
"Well, there are some perks in working for me, honey!" Jim leapt up, stretching his arms over his head. "So?"
"You have a deal, Jim" Joan said, holding her hand out.
"Gooood" the man purred, shaking it with an iron grip. "Now, let's get you out of this dump."
# #
Jim brought her to a small new flat (a real one) in Central London, furnished in a modern, sober style, saying that someone would bring her things here soon. He then proceeded to plop into a leather chair and stare her down. "Well, don't just stay there, sit down."
Joan obeyed with a brief nod. After an uneasy silence, she spoke up: "What do you want me to do exactly?"
His smile was definitely unsettling. "Watch some people, intimidate some others. Kill some. The usual."
"Sounds easy enough."
"It is, right?" He leaned forward in the chair. "If you're wondering why would I need you for this kind of trivia, don't worry your pretty blond head. We'll work something out to please both of us. My pets are never bored."
"Well, isn't that a relief" Joan drawled in the most sarcastic tone she could muster.
It made Jim laugh out loud. Somehow, it sounded wrong. "I will be just upstairs if you need me." The simple statement was laden with promise of death.
She caught up on the subtext rather quickly. I am a prized toy he'll keep an eye on. "Wouldn't your other minions be jealous?"
Moriarty threw his head back in hollow laughter again. "You took out Sebby, Joan. They would not dare to touch you." She managed to smirk evilly back at him.
"Last question… Jim." Black eyes bored into her soul. "Should I keep up my routine?"
"Why, yes, Johnny" he purred. "I need you to look harmless."
# #
It had been weeks since she accepted the devil's contract. Joan never felt so dirty before. Threatening and harming people, no matter how bad or criminally compromised they were, was not something she enjoyed. She had to pretend, though. She had to keep it up.
News of her new occupation must have started to spread, so she negotiated a night off with Jim. "Have to be harmless, you said." He grinned menacingly, but let her go to the pub where Bill Murray, her field nurse during regular tours, was waiting.
They shared a couple of beers, talking about all and nothing, when Joan dropped the hint. "I do some freelancing for a guy now. He's a tough cookie."
Bill gave her a sharp glance. Apparently, he knew exactly what was going on. "How did that happen?" he asked lightly.
"Through an old acquaintance. Helped him out long time ago with his early retirement. He was very thankful."
Bill's eyes darkened. He remembered Moran well enough to get the reference. "Well, that's nice. Does it pay well?"
Joan glared at him behind her beer jug. "I'm not doing this for money. It was an opportunity… that I couldn't pass." To get deep enough and destroy it all. "Could you tell Lilly for me? She must be worried sick." Bill snorted while taking a sip, and started coughing, beer running from his nose. "Ugh, Murray…"
"Your fault" he managed to gasp, while cleaning the mess with a napkin. "Yeah, I'll let Lilly know."
The conversation steered towards safer shores after that, and they parted with promises to keep in touch. Moriarty's listeners (because of course he had her under surveillance) couldn't have picked up on anything suspicious. However, the message was out. Bill Murray had never been involved with MI6 in official capacity, but he knew enough people in the agency to be introduced to some codes and protocols. 'Lilly' was the field liaison and a prime candidate for Quarter Master, Liam Hendricks, who hated his codename with passion. Informing him would keep rogue hunters off her back for the time being and ensure a proper support in the future.
That night, Joan slept well for the first time in months.
# #
She had been doing it for a year, occasionally getting out updates through Bill. She was constantly feeling like some sort of slime was all over her skin now, and no amount of showering would get it off. In the beginning, she tried to curb the madness and avoid the needless harm but learned soon enough that disobedience hurt. Badly. And did nothing but more harm to those she tried to shield.
Her only bet was to get access to Jim's database and take him out as quickly as possible.
The madman was a genius. Such a brilliant mind drowned in malicious vengeance. He saw paths where nobody would dare to go, he launched plans too crazy to succeed and succeeded anyway. Jim Moriarty was scarily impressive.
But like all geniuses, he had blind spots. He didn't understand why some people acted outside of his schemes, though the answer was simple – these persons cared for someone else more than for themselves. But no-one, Joan included, would tell him that.
One day in September, he called her into his office and pointed at a large screen on the wall. A CCTV footage was showing a tall man in a coat talking with two policemen. It looked like a fight was about to break out between them. "What am I looking at?" she asked casually.
"Sherlock Holmes" the madman said, a wistful smile on his lips. It was creepy enough to make Joan shudder slightly.
Usually, being blunt and uninterested was the best strategy when the boss decided to play spooky. "What do you want me to do with him?"
Jim tore his eyes away from the screen to stare blankly at her. "Watch him. Keep him alive until I have everything in place." Surprised at the order, Joan nodded stiffly and walked away. Moriarty had some fixations pop up out of the blue. They didn't last very long.
She's done some research on the man. The blog, Science of Deduction, was stern-looking and populated with strange information. Perplexed, Joan run through her copy of the special forces database (the job did have its perks). There were several flags on the man, mostly surveillance and approach with caution type. He seemed to be linked to someone powerful but operating on an independent basis. A freelancer. Then she checked his blog again and corrected herself with a small smile. A consultant.
Trailing after Sherlock Holmes on her free hours was not always easy. The man could dash forward in a second or climb a roof and jump from building to building to avoid traffic. He seemed to exasperate the police force to the point of violence. Still, a grey-haired detective kept calling him in. Must be a good friend. There was a black car, appearing occasionally in his wake, with a tall man inside that exuded power. Mycroft Holmes, she recognized from glimpses of information gleaned during her service. That's the powerful connection alright.
Her reports went to Jim without any follow-up, but she kept on painstakingly typing them out. The fixation didn't seem to pass. After a few weeks, she knew exactly why Moriarty was so enamoured with Sherlock. A genius. The consultant in an expensive coat was a genius on par with the criminal mastermind she worked for. It was like a distorted mirror, similar and strikingly different at the same time. It was no wonder Jim assumed that Sherlock was merely playing around to avoid boredom. That's what he would do, after all.
But Joan saw the compassion in silver eyes when Holmes gave money and jobs to homeless people. She heard the tenderness and sometimes the veiled pain in the violin melody flowing down from his windows at night. He was different. He was better.
It was an unpleasant surprise to pass by Baker Street one night in January and see Sherlock get in the cab with one of Jim's latest pet projects, Jeff Hope. Swearing under her breath, she caught a cab of her own and followed them, arriving a bit too late at the parking. Sighing in defeat, she picked a building at random and ran. It took a long time to find the right window.
In growing horror, she watched the serial killer talk Sherlock Holmes into playing his twisted little game. Damn, what now? Jim wouldn't like it, not at all. He said to keep Sherlock alive. The gun was already out and the security off. Goodbye, Mister Hope.
She didn't stick around for the police to arrive. She had a beating to attend.
# #
In the end, Jim wasn't that cross about losing his sponsored serial killer. Just slapped her three times before congratulating on keeping 'dear Sherlock' safe. He is way too obsessed with the man, Joan thought. But then again, she started to look forward to her little spying sessions.
A week after the death of Jeff Hope, Sherlock was called on a suspicious mugging while she was watching him. Eager to see the consultant in action for once, Joan hovered with the crowd behind the police line. She caught a glimpse of the victim's face, bloodied and swollen, and cringed. It was one of low-level thugs in Moriarty's local racketeering ring.
She was about to leave when a woman burst through the line, calling for 'Alan', a young girl in tears clinging to her skirt. Wife and child. Oh god. Oh god, no, I can't, I can't…
# #
Sherlock frowned at the interruption. Distressed families were not his area of expertise, and he would have preferred to avoid them. While Donovan made herself useful (for once) and went to calm down the wife, he swept a passing glance over the gathering crowd. He didn't expect to spot anything interesting, but someone struck him as odd.
It was a blond woman in her late thirties, greying hair in a pixie cut, an oversized hoodie dangling from her lean frame. Even from the distance, the expression of absolute suffering on her face made him pause. Her eyes were glued to the family, specifically to the crying child. There were memories under the surface, ghosts shadowing age lines around her eyes, and also guilt. Interesting.
As if shaken from a dream, the woman briefly closed her eyes, and turned away, relocating to a dark corner behind a shop, slumping against the wall. Sherlock glanced at the officers around him. All eyes were riveted to the family, with various degrees of pity. Useless, he huffed, and walked away.
The stranger was attempting breathing exercises in the shadows. Familiar with flashbacks. Her back was straight as a rode, and jaw clenched in a stubborn line. Military. She heard his approach and tensed without sparing him a look. Well-trained.
"You know who killed him" he stated calmly, as if talking about the weather.
Dark blue eyes turned to him, tired and resigned. Her voice, however, came with a thick American accent and expressed nothing but blatant nonchalance: "What's that, man?"
There was a bump on her back that he identified as an automatic gun. "Don't play dumb."
"Whaaa?" She even batted eyelashes at him, without much conviction.
"I doubt they condone this behaviour in the army" he almost pouted.
The woman sighed and looked away, pushing her hands deep into her pockets. "Is it still that obvious?" The accent was pure working-class Londoner now. This one sounded natural.
Sherlock started spilling out his observations at the usual subsonic speed. "You are a career soldier, acclimatized to war zones, judging by your posture, haircut and reflexes. Given that most ongoing conflicts are happening way South of London, and you sport no suntan, you have been discharged, a year ago at least. Your phrasing - "still" - seems to collaborate this theory. You are armed, used to danger and shaken by the scene you just witnessed. It brought back a flashback from your service, but the sight of the kid shook you even more. You feel guilty. But you have not killed that man, that much is obvious. Therefore, you know who did."
The soldier blinked at him owlishly, before a soft smile graced her lips, taking years away from her. "Brilliant." Huh?! "But I already knew that." What…! "I don't know who exactly killed him, but I know why." She looked away in the distance. "Moths always get burnt by the candle. Sometimes, it is better to stay in the dark, Mister Holmes."
Sherlock was stunned speechless. Not only the mysterious she-soldier appeared on his crime scene, knowing something of importance and speaking in riddles, she also knew him by name. It could mean only one thing. Moriarty. But before he could question her some more, Lestrade was calling. He looked away impatiently, and when he turned back, the woman was gone.
# #
Next time he saw her was weeks later. He caught a glimpse of familiar short blond hair in the Starbucks and made a beeline inside. There she was, yawning her jaw off in the queue.
Feeling mischievous, he crept just behind her and said in a low sultry voice right by her ear: "Long nights?"
She tensed but didn't jump away as planned. He belatedly realized that there was a mirror behind the counter, and she could see his approach. Tired blue eyes gazed upon him, openly amused, but not mocking. "I will not talk to you."
That seemed a bit harsh. "Why not?"
"My employer forbids any direct contact with you without his express and prior permission." Oh. OH.
"Your employer?" he heard himself ask.
"You know very well who I work for" the woman smirked. Of course, I know, Sherlock wanted to snap. But his thoughts derailed to an unexpected realization - her affiliation is very obvious, yet I perceive no threat from her. Either she is exceptionally good at concealing it, or she is harmless. He looked at the enigmatic woman again, confirming his previous assessment about the military career and special training. Far from harmless. There was a faint smile playing on her lips, while she pretended to focus on the list of beverages. But she honestly wishes me no harm. Odd. Fascinating.
Her turn to order came, and she took a large latte with a blueberry scone. Finally, there was a name to put on the face.
"John" Sherlock said, following her like a duckling. No reaction. "Not a very feminine name."
"Don't get me started on the names" she grumbled, looking intently at the counter. Touché.
"So, tell me, John" – she twitched at the sound of her name – "Why so mysterious?" John sighed, picking up her order and went around him to get a table. Sherlock followed suite. Ignoring completely the fidgeting detective, she took a sip of her coffee and nipped at the pastry. "You should change you jogging route, go through a park for a change" he tried to make her react.
It earned him a half-hearted glare. "Don't show off. I know how brilliant you are, Mister Holmes. I've watched you enough for that." He felt his left eyebrow twitch at this.
"Watched me?"
"Yeah, I'm your occasional babysitter" John smirked slightly. Sherlock leaned forward, smelling a lead like a hound. "Don't start" she waved him off. "I'm not telling you anything… anymore."
"Why not?"
John finished her scone before looking him straight in the eyes. "Because you are a fool, Mister Holmes." Her gaze was steady and dead serious. "You underestimate Moriarty just because he is crazy. Believe me, this is a madman you need to tread carefully with." She stood up, towering over his stunned form on the worn coffee-house couch. "You are getting caught up in a web you are not able to untangle. Get away while you can, Sherlock."
And just like the first time, she was gone like a wind, a large latte in hand.
# #
Her words kept ringing in his head during the whole five pips case. You are a fool, Mister Holmes. It had not been a threat. A friendly warning, perhaps. A fool. Was he really? Sometimes, Sherlock felt strangely irritated by these words. Who is she to judge me? Sometimes, he was thoroughly confused. Why try to scare me away? It is not in line with Moriarty's previous actions. These doubts spoiled the fun of the chase, despite the absolute delightfulness of the case. Such elegant puzzles, such convolute messages! And yet… Who is she? What is her game?
Who is John?
# #
The events went fast, way too fast. One night she was scolding Sherlock Holmes in a coffee-house, the other night Jim was dressing up weirdly and leaving her to watch his office. The flash drive Liam had provided through Bill was burning holes in the secret compartment of her bra. Now or never, Watson.
Somehow, the copying of the entire database went undetected. Jim was far too busy with his little game, reading gleefully through reports from field operatives. He kept Joan at his side, prepping the snipers and going over exit strategies. She tried hard to not fidget in anticipation. Soon. Soon.
All the dead, innocent and guilty alike, soon I will beg your forgiveness. I will make it worth. Soon. Just a bit, wait just a little longer.
While Jim was busy supervising the abduction of a police officer, of all things, she took time to send the tip to Liam. She taped them into the radio frequency. The operation had to be silent and extremely quick. The stand-off at the pool had started.
When Sherlock showed up, Joan refrained from rolling her eyes. The idiot couldn't heed a warning. She felt sorry for the young detective and his grey-haired friend but kept repeating in her head that it will be over soon. Soon. When Jim went out in the open, Joan switched to the regular special ops frequency. "Liam" she called softly.
"We're in position, Jay" he answered immediately.
"Take out the snipers first, upper floors" she said. "Do not tick him off. There is enough C4 to level the block. Keep the lasers on the targets."
"On it." Silent shadows crept through the building, eliminating Moriarty's men. She stood in the stands, hidden from view, waiting for the update. Less than five minutes later, while Sherlock and Jim were having their crazy argument, she heard an "All done" in her ear.
"Keep up the pretence. I could not ascertain about the detonation switch."
"Noted."
Then Jim stepped out of the pool, leaving the remaining two men breathe deeply in obvious relief. "Keep your positions. There is a follow-up" she said in the radio. She didn't have to catch the order on the now silent line to know the timing. "Lasers at the two civvies."
The team complied without protest. "Sorry, boys!" Jim's cheerful voice rang through the empty pool, making Holmes and Lestrade startle. "I'm soooo changeable!" Moriarty came out, arms spread.
Joan didn't listen to the end of the scripted monologue. It was time. Soon. "Keep positions" she said into the radio before tossing it aside. Now. Gun in hand, she ran through empty corridors and to the door Jim used as his first entry point.
"Then probably my answer has crossed yours" Sherlock's deep baritone stated, and she could physically feel the tension.
Now.
# #
"No." The voice was loud and clear in the chlorine filled air. All three of them turned towards its source.
"John?" Sherlock wondered aloud, bemused. "John?" Lestrade echoed in a confused whisper - he had never even heard about this woman in Sherlock's entourage.
John, the mysterious soldier, was standing at parade rest at the other end of the pool, staring calmly at Jim Moriarty. Who looked positively livid at the moment. "Care to explain, John?" he hissed at her.
The woman moved forward, calm, non-threatening, her level voice resonating through the stuffy space. "Isn't it obvious, Jim? I've set you up. You're not the only one who's cunning." All laser dots suddenly disappeared. The sniper team had been taken out, possibly minutes ago.
"You little b itch!" Jim exploded. His attempt at attacking her was stopped by a gun (the automatic hidden under the hoodie) trained square at his head. "You think they'll take you back with this, huh, Johnny? You're over, whatever you do!"
She cocked her head to the side without changing her serene expression. "I know. I don't need redemption. And since you won't understand the sheer loyalty one could feel for their country, I'll give my own reason." Her smile was glacial. "You killed my fiancé." Apparently, it was a surprise for Jim who stepped back, eyes wide. "Burn in hell, Jim."
The shot exploded in the stuffy silence like a real bomb. Both Sherlock and Greg flinched away. The deafening crack was followed shortly by a dull trump of a body hitting the hard ground. John lowered her weapon, staring dispassionately at the dead man in front of her.
There was a small black hole between Jim's eyes.
# #
They were ushered outside by a team in bomb disposal suits. John was already there, being hugged and yelled at by a thin man with enormous glasses. "…do that again! I'm not burying another one!"
She smiled at him sheepishly, but it was full of pain and guilt. She's not planning on living much longer, Sherlock realized with a start. Disregarding the still shaky Lestrade who sputtered indignantly in his wake, he walked towards the pair. John had fished something out of her pocket and silently slipped it into the man's hand.
"Can you talk to me now?" he demanded imperiously.
The glasses-man made to stand between them, but a soft "Liam" from John stopped him. She gave Sherlock another one of her sincere and painful smiles. "Yes. What do you want to know?"
There was a ton of questions running through his mind, but he settled on the most important. "Your name?"
"John Watson" she answered without missing a beat.
"Who are you?"
"You already know that" she huffed. "A discharged soldier. A murderer."
Liam frowned, and Sherlock felt like agreeing with him. She is not a cold-blooded killer. Before he could protest, a swarm of black-suited armed men surrounded them. Sherlock startled, but John and her companion looked at them with recognition.
"Miss Watson" said a familiar voice. Mycroft. "Surrender your weapons."
John looked at the assembled bodyguards, or whatever their job title was, with strange longing. "Would you kill me if I don't?"
"John!" Liam cried out in shock, gripping her shoulder.
"Kidding" she said lightly (she isn't, Sherlock noted with a strange sinking feeling in his gut) and tossed her gun on the ground. "That's all I have, Mister Holmes."
"Allow me to verify it" the pretentious prat drawled, and a bulky agent stepped forward. The bodily check was not gentle, and Liam looked about to explode.
However, Sherlock was the first to reach the boiling point: "What is the meaning of this, Mycroft?!"
"Step away, Sherlock" the older brother pleaded patiently.
He was having none of it. "Explain yourself now!"
It was John who answered instead, handcuffs already glinting on her wrists. "I worked for Jim for over a year. It is time to pay my due."
"Nonsense!" Liam butted in. "You were on an approved undercover mission."
"The murder of James Moriarty was not approved, Agent" was Mycroft's stern response from behind his men.
"We were about to get blown to pieces!" Sherlock protested, stepping forward but being blocked by the nameless men. John was led away.
"The situation was under control, brother dear" the walking embodiment of annoyance stated, finally getting closer to them. "Didn't you notice how no sniper fired despite the change in the scenario?"
Unable to formulate a thought, Sherlock pushed his way through the human shield towards the blond soldier. "John!" He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, or why, but he simply knew that she couldn't be taken away, not like that.
She turned slightly towards him, giving a soft smile that made her look younger by decades. "Goodbye, Mister Holmes."
# #
Sherlock was busy burning holes in Mycroft's carpet by pacing in circles. His thoughts were all jumbled, but somehow, he knew with crystal clarity that John Watson was not an enemy. In those three brief and very strange encounters, she became his friend. Perhaps, he didn't designate this feeling as 'friendship', but he was intrigued, bemused, drawn to the puzzle of John Watson's existence, and extremely angry at her lack of self-preservation. It was as close to friendship as he was going to get for the moment.
Meanwhile, information slotted itself into correct boxes in Sherlock's mind. Soldier. Agent. High morals. Medically discharged. Had been misjudged and scouted by Moriarty. Accepted in order to make him fall. Traumatized by what she had to do to gain rank in the organization. Ready to die as a punishment. Doesn't hold a will to live anymore. It was not acceptable.
"You are making my head spin" Mycroft's voice droned from the door.
"Mycroft" Sherlock hissed in anger.
"Calm down, would you, brother." The older Holmes walked slowly to his chair, sat down and eyed his sibling with fond exasperation. "Why are you so upset about Miss Watson?"
Sherlock froze in place for a second. "She tried to save me" he finally said. "She was instrumental to Moriarty's downfall." And now she just wants to die. How is it fair? he wanted scream.
Mycroft sighed heavily and leaned back. "Vauxhall Cross is on the verge of a riot. Half of the field operatives swore that they would go rogue, break her out and hide her away if I even think of charging Joan Watson with treason." Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. "The other half simply promised to assassinate me instead." A smile started tugging at the younger man's lips. "Such devotion speaks highly of her character. However…" There was a tense pause before he continued. "She wants to be punished. To be jailed, or worse."
Sherlock cringed. "Such assignments do not leave people unscathed."
"They don't, indeed." The two siblings stared at each other in calculating silence. "That leaves me with a medically trained suicidal agent about to be nominated for the Victoria's Cross."
"She needs a mission." Something to live for.
Mycroft sighed again, seemingly coming to a decision. "How do you feel about a flatmate, Sherlock?"
# #
Joan stayed put in the cell, staring blankly at the ceiling. Over. It's over. Can I go now? The weight of her deeds under Jim's orders was pining her down, crashing, smothering. Can I go? It is over. Nothing mattered anymore.
The door creaked open, and she thought she was dreaming, because a tall man in a coat swept in. "How do you feel about violin?" he asked in that imperious tone of his that drew people up the wall.
Startled, she replied: "Sorry, what?"
"I play violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Would that bother you?"
What's with this…? "No, probably not" she said, staring at him from the hard bed.
"Perfect. The address is 221B, Baker Street. I expect you there at 7 tomorrow." He winked – actually winked – at her and disappeared, leaving the door open. What the hell just happened?
"This is your new assignment, Doctor Watson" said a new arrival. Mycroft Holmes. "Or a horrible punishment from hell, as all of my men could assure you. You are going to be my brother's live-in bodyguard. You are not allowed to refuse."
"You… want me to watch your brother" Joan stated slowly, to make sure it wasn't an elaborate prank.
The older Holmes nodded impatiently. "This is the most efficient solution to our problems."
Nothing matters. "Whatever."
# #
"Welcome home, John."
# #
"There are feet in the fridge. In my yoghurt."
"Well, where else was I supposed to store it?"
"Three rotting feet! Are you bloody serious?!"
# #
"John! Come along, there is a case!"
"You want me to come with you?"
"Of course! I'd be lost without my soldier."
# #
"Sherlock, please keep the slime out of the shelves!"
"But it's for science, John!"
# #
"Fantastic!"
# #
"Why are we chasing this guy again?"
"He killed two of his partners with rat poison."
"Oh, alright."
# #
"John?"
"Yes?"
"If you had a choice, would you still stay here?"
"Of course. Don't be silly, Sherlock."
# #
"I don't have friends. I've just got one."
# #
"You're a terrible liar, Sherlock Holmes."
"But…"
"Shut up and eat your carrots."
# #
A/N 2: It kinda just ends here (it is a pattern with me), because I could go on for ages with these little snippets of conversations.
Not sure what happened to Moran after the hospital, nothing good I'm afraid. Joan can pack a punch.
Keep in mind that all my insight into MI6 work comes from recent James Bond movies and that Joan's backstory here isn't what I have in mind for the main story (or do I? *mwahahaha* ... ok, getting out now).