A/N: A little something while I keep struggling with the Hound.

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

Warning: A lot of triggering staff. Self-harm, child abuse, questionable morals. Also, Sherlock might be slighly OOC.

# #

It started as another attempt to slow down the advancement of mind-shattering boredom. Sherlock bullied Lestrade into providing some cold case files. Joan had somehow gotten roped in a silly school project for her little brother and could not entertain the consultant or save the DI from said consultant.

In the fourth file, something caught his attention. The victim, Arthur Smith, 45, a failing door-to-door salesman, had been found dead in his flat in Kensington in late 2009. The death would have been ruled natural causes (apparent heart attack), if only he didn't have the roman numeral IV carved pre-mortem into his bare back then covered with a white shirt. Sherlock recalled a similar pattern in a publicized murder in early 2000's. The case hadn't interested him much at the time (perhaps the cocaine was to blame), but now… Now it was fascinating.

He stole the file and left Lestrade sorting through his illegible notes on the other cases.

Extended research using Joan's laptop dragged up old articles on the other case. Roberta McDougal, 59, housewife and mother of three, had been found dead in her spotless kitchen in Croydon in August 2001. Apparent heart failure, Mrs McDougal had a family history of cardiac problems. However, she had the number II slashed into her back under the tasteless flowery dress. The investigation slowly died after a few years and the sordid murder faded from the frontlines.

It was way too similar to Smith's death.

Sherlock frowned. If Smith was the fourth, and McDougal the second… at least two more victims were out there. He had to find them.

# #

Joan came home late (these open doors days were exhausting, and Michael trying to introduce her to all his teachers didn't help), dreaming of a hot bath and a cuppa. She was so tired, she didn't even acknowledge the still form of her flatmate in his chair beyond the casual "Hey". He didn't respond, so the doctor decided it was fair game to not engage in conversation and headed straight to the bathroom.

The hot water, to the limit of boiling, was divine for her sore muscles. Joan even dumped the lavender-scented bath bomb into it for good measure, something she had been holding on for exactly this kind of occasion. Feeling much better despite having spent the last six hours in the company of excitable teenagers and harried teachers, then some in a crowded train, she pulled on a fluffy bathrobe and made her way to the kitchen.

Sherlock had not moved from his thinking position.

The tea-making process took about five minutes, including washing the mugs (surprisingly void of any acids) and verifying that the milk had not been replaced by some obscure compound. Joan tightened the robe, grabbed the two steaming mugs and meandered into the living room. Once Sherlock's cup had been safely installed by his side, she dropped into her own chair, relishing the first sip of the beverage. She finally glanced at the fireplace mirror, once again transformed into an evidence board. There were copies of old police reports with highlighted passages, printed news articles and some photos of mangled bodies. Her eyes skimmed through the information absently until they fell on the close up of victims' backs.

Oh crap.

Luckily, she did not startle, saving herself from second degree burns with scalding tea. Suddenly very alert, Joan focused on the cases strewn across the mirror. Oh hell. How did he even find this?

"Sherlock?" The man remained silent, but his nose twitched, indicating an acceptable level of awareness. "What's that about?" she gestured towards the assembled documents.

The detective took a deep breath and looked her in the eyes. "I came across something interesting in Lestrade's cold cases." Oh dammit, of course it would be classified as Sherlock-worthy. A wide grin slowly creeped on his face. "We have a serial killer, John!"

"Yay" she cheered unenthusiastically. "It's Christmas."

He didn't even notice the sarcasm, jumping up and pointing to the photos: "I have so far identified three victims, but there is certainly a fourth one, possibly more. The modus operandi suggests that they respond to certain criteria, but I have yet to isolate the exact details that trigger the killing." The lack of response from his small audience did not deter further monologue. "At first glance, they have nothing in common, neither their age, occupation, not even social standing. But they had all died the same way, and their deaths would have all been ruled out as natural cause, if not for the abrasions on their backs." He twirled around, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Now, that's the interesting part. The use of roman numerals suggests an educated killer, someone with a flair for drama. The victims are numbered, counted, part of a list. The time lapse between the murders can only mean that this list had been prepared in advance, and the killer will follow it meticulously, no matter how long it takes. It is personal, it is an obsession."

Joan watched him pace the room, the tea growing cold in her hands. "Can it be a message?" she offered in a shaky voice, because she was expected to contribute something.

Sherlock stared at her for a second before grinning again. "Of course! It must be, a message to the rest of the hit list, something along the lines of You're next! A sure method to instil fear. The victims must know each other." He frowned at the documents. "I need to think." He plopped back into his chair, absently grabbing the lukewarm mug and downing it in one gulp.

"So…" Joan started uncertainly. The man did not react. "Ok. Not going out tonight then." She finished her own tea, washed the dishes and went upstairs in a daze. The door closed softly behind her and she slid down the wall into a heap on the floor.

I'm in so much trouble.

# #

There was a small metal box that Joan had left at her father's place during her deployment. She had kept the key with her though, all these years, even if the box was really easy to break in. It was, after all, just a box that a ten-year-old found in a dumpster. She had taken it back a couple of months ago, once she was certain that Sherlock had gone through her things several times and found it boring enough to never repeat the experience.

Inside the box, there was a yellowed journal, three old photos of smiling kids, a dried flower from a funeral wreath and a contract written painstakingly in a child's scrawl, signed with three names (one of which was J.H. Watson) in a suspiciously dark red ink.

There was also a torn page from a notebook, where a list of the names had been compiled over the years of snooping and lying and researching. Three of the five names were pinned to the crime scene photos downstairs.

# #

The third victim had been easy to track. Patrick Stanley, 39, a somewhat famous art dealer at the time, was found in July 2004 in Soho, the roman numeral III cut into his back. There was still no apparent connection between the victims, aside from their demise. Fascinating.

As Joan had suggested, the markings were a message as much to the police as to the other victims. Knowing what put these people on a killing list would certainly lead him to the killer himself (male, statistically more likely). Therefore, he had to find that missing link between them. And the first victim. First victims were always the most telling. Given the timeline, the first murder had occurred in late 1990's, the records had yet to be digitalized… probably.

Sherlock growled.

Then he was back to square one. He needed to find the common denominator to narrow down the potential victims' pool and work from there to track the first murder. Tedious. Maybe Joan could help with the research.

# #

Joan had been extremely surprised that she managed to remain calm and composed through the morning. Sherlock was too busy blabbering excitedly about his new serial killer to notice the tension while they ate breakfast (he was even too busy to notice that he actually ate). The ordeal ended with the detective bullying the doctor into her coat and sending her to Scotland Yard Archives in search for the first victim. "It is crucial that you find the first one, John!"

"But there must be thousands of cases out there!" she protested weakly.

"Charm the record keeper then. Find it" he waved a dismissive hand and ducked towards a laptop. She wasn't sure whose laptop it was at this point of their cohabitation and it barely bothered her anymore, so she just sighed and left.

She must have looked utterly miserable, because Greg didn't ask twice before getting her a free pass to the archives. "That bad?" he whispered while they were waiting for the archivist to show up at her desk.

"He wants me to find a murder victim from the nineties. No gender, no approximate date, it's not even sure that the murder had taken place in London. Just the way it's done." Joan sounded bitter and resigned at the same time.

Lestrade winced. "That's rough. I can check the database for you, maybe it hadbeen scanned already?"

"You'd be a life-saviour" she answered honestly.

The DI left after a while, and the archivist dropped her in the middle of a row full of dusty boxes. "Enjoy" she said drily and disappeared soundlessly behind the shelves like a ghost.

Joan looked at the boxes and decided that she'd take another bullet any time instead of this punishment. Better get it over with. She scanned the labels, trying to understand the index. It took her at least half-an-hour to find the one she was looking for.

Alistair Falcone, 39, unemployed. Investigated in relation to the human trafficking ring at the time. Found dead in a warehouse his cousin owned in early 1997. Apparent heart failure. Roman numeral I craved into his back by an inexperienced hand.

Joan leafed through the file, noting that prime suspects were Falcone's partners. The Yard worked on a lead involving trafficking victims' relatives, but it went nowhere. The case went cold long ago, and would have probably remained so…

But Sherlock… No one ever counted on Sherlock bloody Holmes investigating a cold case. And she had no doubt he would be able to solve it.

Joan pulled out her phone and dialled a non-registered number. It answered after a couple of rings. "Hemlick."

"Hi, Blake. It's John."

There was a long silence on the other side before he spoke again. She patiently waited. "It's been a while."

"Listen, I know what we agreed on… but I wanted to give you a heads-up."

"On what?"

"The police linked them and is working all cases. Right now."

Blake muffled a curse. "Are you sure?"

Joan sighed and leant against a nearby shelf. "My flatmate consults for the Yard. He sent me to look for Falcone's file, which I have half-a-mind to 'not find', but he'll probably know if I lie."

"They have found nothing in fourteen years. What can they do now?"

"If anyone could solve it, it's Sherlock. So we either move up the last one or stop all this and lay low."

"We can't stop!" he hissed vehemently before trailing off. "Wait, Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, you read my blog too, didn't you?"

Blake cursed again. "Figured. And how on earth did he stumble upon this mess?" There was a bitter undertone to his voice now and Joan frowned.

"If you think I dropped a hint, think again. We can't stop trusting each other now, Blake."

"Yeah, I…" She could hear him rub his face. "I'm sorry. It's unexpected."

"I feel ya here. I almost fainted when I saw their names on the evidence board."

"Let me think about it, John. I'll call you later."

"Sure. Be careful." The call disconnected, leaving Joan alone again in a dusty space. Dammit. She glared at Alistair's mug shot that smirked back at her from the coffee-stained pages. It's all your fault, Al, and you can't even pay for it anymore. After some thought she closed the file and slipped it between random boxes three shelves down from its original place. These things happen, after all. Then she sat cross-legged on the floor and launched a Candy Crush game to calm her nerves.

# #

Sherlock was using two laptops now to compile the data. He had to trace the victims' lives at least fifteen years back. Hacking into Mycroft's records had been rather helpful, but he kept it low-profile despite the temptation to snoop around. With a bit of luck, the big brother wouldn't even notice the incursion.

So far, he managed to link dead men 3 and 4. They had gone to high school together. Mrs McDougal didn't fit into the picture though, so he growled in frustration and kept looking.

His phone chimed with a text. "I'm grabbing a sandwich. You should too. Anything to help me narrow down the search? JW".

Sherlock huffed indignantly. Transport. "Keep looking. SH".

# #

Joan pretended to look for the rest of the day. On the plus side, she caught up on some sleep. On the down side, she worked herself up thinking about what would come from Sherlock's investigation. So when she showed up at Baker Street, grumpy and jumpy, the resident headache chalked it up to the day spent going through folders without much success.

The doctor did not try to persuade him otherwise. "Do you even realize how many boxes are stored there?"

"Probably, yes" Sherlock answered absently, too busy filling in the spreadsheet. "Did you find it?"

"Of course not!" she tried to sound convincingly exasperated. "It would be nothing short of a miracle if I found anything with that little information!"

"Pity." He clicked 'save' and turned towards her. "I haven't found the common link yet."

Thank God. "So, bad day for both of us."

"The data gathering is rather tedious, indeed."

Joan eyed the beginning of a massive sulk, wondering whether she should ask leading questions or leave it at that. I need to know how far he'll go. "And what if there isn't a link? What if they were random victims that just caught the attention of some random psycho?"

Sherlock scowled at her in a way that screamed Don't be daft. "It is personal. He wouldn't wait years to hunt the next victim."

"Alright" she abdicated that line of thought. "What is killing them then? Pre-existing heart conditions?"

"Of course not. My bet is on potassium chloride." Joan blinked at the accuracy of his guess. "The most discreet way to imitate a heart attack, don't you think?"

She blinked owlishly again. "Can't disagree, yeah."

Sherlock briefly made that small self-depreciating smile he sometimes used in casual conversation. "I'm glad your medical opinion concurs with my conclusions."

Is that Holmes-speak for 'cool, I'm right'? "This compound is not uncommon, though" she offered instead. "Anyone could get their hands on it."

"Indeed. Knowing how they were killed does not advance the investigation any further at this stage." His eyes strayed back to the evidence display. "I'm also looking into accessing the victims' personal effects. Unlikely that anything of importance had remained from the early ones, but we might have a shot with Smith's widow."

"Oh" Joan breathed out and had to quickly smile to hide her shock. "That's a good lead." Alistair's notes. We never found them, neither did the police. One of them must have taken it. Damn.

# #

Bella Smith had been a beautiful woman in her younger days, and she was trying desperately to upkeep her fading looks. Despite her best efforts, however, the grey roots were apparent in her dark hair and the poor-quality make-up didn't conceal as much as she certainly expected. She was also having an allergic reaction to something, her eyes constantly watery and red blotches creeping up her neck.

Joan winced in sympathy when Bella sneezed for the tenth time in as many minutes. Sherlock huffed impatiently.

"I don't understand" the widow repeated, tightening her hand-knitted dark green cardigan around her. "Who are you exactly?"

"We consult with Scotland Yard" Joan firmly interrupted the undoubtedly insulting rant that was coming. "We have reason to believe that your late husband's death is related to other similar incidents and would like to ask you a few questions."

Bella stared dubiously at the pair sitting on her couch. "Alright. Ask away."

"How long have you known Arthur?"

"Oh, we met at that conference… in April 2004… no, 05!" she smiled wistfully. "It was a lightning fast romance. We were married by the end of that year." Her face darkened slightly. "I was so surprised that he'd never been married, I mean, at our age, you'd expect at least one divorce and a couple of kids."

Joan muttered a vague agreement, trying not to make parallels with her own disastrous love life. Luckily, Sherlock chose that moment to lose patience and pull out the ID photos of the other known victims. "Have your husband ever mentioned these people to you?"

"Huh…" Her brow furrowed, trying to remember. "I've seen this man on a couple of photos with Arthur" she finally said, pointing at Patrick Stanley. "School friends, but he had passed away before we met."

"Do you still have these photos?" Sherlock's eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"I kept his albums. You want to have a look?"

"Yes, please" Joan said, giving her companion a warning glance. While Bella went to search for the albums, they had a silent conversation that could be summarized as Be nice! – I'm always nice! – You're not. Behave.

"Here" the Smith widow returned with two heavy-looking books. Sherlock had to restrain himself from snatching them from her hands.

"Thank you."

The photos were organized by date and place, which simplified the task. They leafed to Arthur's school years, in early 1980s. The first clue came on the class photo, where Smith and Stanley, young and bright, stood together grinning at the camera. Joan had to look closely to recognize them among other students, but Sherlock didn't have that problem. He hummed appreciatively, put the shot aside and continued the inspection of other pictures from that period.

Unsurprisingly to Watson, Stanley appeared in other shots as well, quite often even. They were best friends, did everything together, she remembered. It continued for over a decade, but starting 1997, Patrick and Arthur seemed to drift apart. There was only a couple of photos of them together after that year. They were scared, she thought with grim satisfaction.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed, pulling another photo.

It showed Smith in a new shiny red car in the driveway of someone's house. "What's special about this one?" she asked curiously.

The detective pointed at the barely readable name on the wall behind the car. "McDougal?" Damn.

"We already have a link between three of the four victims" Sherlock crowed happily. He pushed the album towards Bella, who had been observing them in silence. "Mrs Smith, I need you to write down the names of anyone you recognize from the photographs prior to 1997." He got the date as well. Damn.

"It won't be much" the widow said with doubt. She still picked up a piece of paper and a pencil.

"Better than nothing, trust me." Holmes offered one of his actually polite smiles, then turned to Joan with a look of rare intensity. "John, you need to go back to the archives. The first murder had taken place in 1997. Find it."

She groaned and got up. "Easy for you to say. Do you know how many murders there are in London every year?"

"153.3 on average" he answered without missing a beat.

"Show-off" Joan sighed. "Mrs Smith, thank you for your help. Don't hesitate to hit him with a pan if he doesn't behave."

Bella blinked at her in surprise, and finally smiled, a small, amused smile that talked of sympathy. "Thanks for your concern, Dr Watson."

# #

Joan meandered in the 1997 row, waiting for the archivist to be far enough to make her move. She shot a text to Blake "Call me asap" and sat on the floor, waiting. Four minutes later, her phone vibrated with an incoming call.

"Watson."

"What now?" Blake snapped in a loud whisper.

She repressed the urge to scream. "Holmes went to visit Smith's widow. He already connected the last three, and he knows that the first one was in 1997. We need to do something."

"Damn it!" They remained silent for a long moment before he spoke up in a calmer voice. "I'll do the fifth this week. You don't have to come, just keep me informed about the investigation."

"You don't have to do it alone. That's what we agreed on."

"You've done enough, John. I can finish it."

"And then what?" she asked out of the blue, surprised by her own question.

"Then they'll rest in peace, I suppose."

"What about us?"

Hemlick inhaled sharply and Joan just knew that he felt completely lost about the possibilities of a life without revenge. "I don't know, John."

The problem was, she didn't know either. "Just… don't make any hasty decisions, Blake. Promise me."

"Promise" he sighed. "I promise."

# #

Sherlock summoned her to the Lestrade's office around six-ish with a short text, and she meekly went up, thinking up excuses for the missing file. In the end, the made-up reasons didn't matter, as it was clear that there was no shortage of cases in 1997, and it was not humanly possible to check them all in three hours.

Joan dragged her feet through the open space, already hearing loud voices arguing in the office. "I can't just request a warrant! The case isn't even active!"

"Think of something! You keep nagging me about going through official channels!"

Sherlock and Greg were at a stand-off, shouting at each other from different sides of the cluttered desk. The ex-soldier watched them for a moment from the door, before stepping in. "What if we offer our consulting services?" she suggested calmly. "The family would probably be interested in solving the murders. And give us access to any information they may have."

The men stared at her in surprise, Lestrade with a hint of relief, Holmes with something akin to pride. "Good point, John" the detective said, sounding very much like a master praising his dog. Joan shrugged it off with practiced ease. "We'll do that. Lestrade, send me the addresses."

Before the DI could protest, Watson chimed in again: "We're not going door-to-door tonight. People would be tired, grumpy and uncooperative. Morning visits are better in that sense."

"But…"

She was way too exhausted to deal with the usual bossy nonsense. "These cases were cold for years. It can wait one night." Seeing the precursor signs of an epic temper tantrum, Joan amended: "Plus, it gives you time to prepare the questions and sort out the data already available."

It seemed to mollify the detective a little, not that Sherlock would admit anyone got a better idea than him for once. He huffed indignantly and stormed off, leaving Joan to apologize.

# #

Once in the flat, Sherlock fell on the couch without even bothering to take off his shoes and declared the living room a "silent zone" for the evening. Joan shrugged at his antics (she did that a lot recently) and went looking for any sort of food in their cupboards. It proved being an expedition among chemical hazards, with little to no bounty at the end (a couple of biscuits and a tin can of green beans). She spread her loot on the counter, trying to imagine a healthy meal out of it. Unfortunately, her imagination didn't go that far, and the doctor ended up munching a stale biscuit for dinner (the beans really didn't inspire her). The tea, at least, was excellent, if she said so herself.

The teaspoon made a subdued clinking noise while she absently stirred the honey into the beverage. It made easier to focus on the most pressing matter, namely What the fuck am I going to do? The obvious answer was to destroy the evidence in the small box and get the hell out of the country. Change identities, go underground with Blake. It was only a matter of time before Sherlock found Falcone's file or linked the other victims to Joan's old neighbourhood. They had been so reckless in the first years of information gathering, too.

In the other hand, Joan was so tired. The righteous anger against the world withered years ago, and only the sense of duty towards her co-conspirators made the doctor move forward with the plans. That, and the memory of a funeral in 1987. It was something she could never forget.

# #

In the wee hours of the morning, Joan pulled out the small box from under the bed and stared at its contents. Her hands were crumpling a half-empty matchbox. In the end, she couldn't burn it. Perhaps, it was the small flower, last memory of a friend, that she couldn't destroy. Perhaps it was the barely repressed desire to be stopped. But she didn't have to make it easy. With a heavy sigh, Watson carefully folded the page with the five names, just above the last one, then ripped it off. This piece, she could burn without a hint of remorse.

# #

Patrick's parents were delighted that someone finally took interest in their son's case. When they heard about Arthur, they started chattering excitedly, not particularly distressed about the other man's death. It was just another step closer to the truth in their eyes.

Joan felt sick, being in their house, seeing framed pictures of the late Mr Stanley, but she had to keep up the pretence, she needed to follow the investigation as closely as possible if she was to survive this. "You alright?" her friend asked quietly while they moved upstairs to look at archived documents.

"Yeah" she answered in kind. "Just under the weather."

Luckily for her, Patrick's archives were just personal papers, medical records, nothing of importance. But just as they were leaving, Sherlock already starting a massive sulk, the mother called out to them. "I almost forgot!" Joan had that awful sinking feeling that announced danger. "Patrick had a small storage unit. We have no place to keep its contents here, but we still pay for it. Do you need to see it?"

Holmes grinned brightly. "Of course!"

# #

They went to the unit with Stanley's parents, took all the files and albums stored there with promises of returning them as soon as possible, and grabbed a cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock was positively vibrating with excitement. Finally, a lead! His hands were itching to tear into the yellowed papers immediately, but he knew a moving car was hardly the appropriate environment for a thorough evidence analysis. It didn't stop him from compiling test protocols in his head.

A dull thump indicated Joan throwing her head against the head-rest. The detective glanced at his blogger with a hint of worry. Fact: John looks pale. Fact: John didn't eat much since yesterday noon. Fact: John is more liable to transport than me (ugh). Conclusion: John is hungry and will feel better after lunch. When they finally got to the flat, he magnanimously asked about getting a take-away. Watson gave him an odd look, but phoned the delivery service nonetheless.

Feeling rather proud of himself, Sherlock started the methodical dissection of the collected evidence. Papers sprawled on the floor with him sitting cross-legged in the middle of the chaos, the detective didn't pay attention to anything else, until Joan prodded him to eat at least a couple of bites. How and when the plate appeared by his side, he didn't know. He reluctantly complied, eyes still glued to the page filled with a simplistic binary code. It was shaping out to be a list of names and dates, and he needed to run them through NSY database. And maybe some international ones.

It took Sherlock several minutes to notice that his vision was going in and out of focus, blurring at the sides. When was my last sleep? - was his first irritated thought. He blinked to dispel the dizziness, but it suddenly became difficult to make the eyelids go back up. A slight tingle at the end of his fingertips alerted the brain to the drugs. Shit. The food. Who? Why? The sluggishness was invading the thought process, and he focused all the energy into opening his eyes again. To his great surprise, he was already face down on the floor, his breath raising slightly the nearby papers.

Thinking was getting harder. Sedatives, must be. Food… Food. John ate too. Where's John?

"Sherlock?" someone called softly through the haze of drugged fog. "Can you hear me?" Strong hands turned him face up, and he stared blurrily at the ceiling. Oh, that's where that glue capsule went… Joan's face floated above. She isn't drugged. Why? "It's alright. You'll be alright." Why? Her warm touch ghosted his throat, checking for vitals. "It'll wear off soon." Sherlock struggled to stay conscious, only marginally aware of what was happening. The doctor lifted his head, slipping a pillow under it. "Now sleep" she advised, throwing a blanket over his prone form.

Before he finally lost the fight to stay awake, Sherlock heard her steps going upstairs with a slight limp.

# #

Joan threw a few necessities and a wad of cash she saved up for years in the backpack. She typed a quick text to Mycroft ("He'll be fine.") set to be sent in an hour and left her phone and her gun on the desk, along with a scribbled "Sorry" on a random receipt.

I'm sorry, she thought again, climbing out of the window on the fire escape, then to the roof. I'm really sorry. She ran and jumped for a good twenty minutes before feeling safe enough to get down on the streets. Joan rushed into the first working phone booth she saw, dialling Blake's number.

As soon as he picked up, she fired: "They found Alistair's archive."

"Fuck!"

But they had no time to commiserate. "You need to disappear."

"How?! Where are you?"

"I left just now. Going to Edgware, we can regroup there."

"Regr… Damn, I keep forgetting you're military." He seemed to calm down a little. "I need an hour to arrange everything, then I'll join you in Edgware."

"Good. See you then."

"See you, John."

# #

When Mycroft received the text from Joan Watson, he frowned. "What has he done now?" he wrote back. But there was no response, which was unusual for the good doctor. He phoned his surveillance team who reported nothing suspicious at Baker Street. But Joan was not returning the calls. Dismissing the forbidding feeling creeping up in his stomach, the older Holmes stood up and grabbed his umbrella. "Anthea, my car immediately, please."

# #

Sherlock woke up to a shocked gasp. Well, 'woke up' would be an exaggeration. He opened his eyes and the eyelids felt so heavy, he closed them again. "Sherlock?!" he heard a man exclaim and someone shook him rather violently.

"Piss off…" he mumbled, and the man sighed in relief.

"What happened here?"

"Nuthin."

"You're sleeping. It's not nothing."

"Drugs" Sherlock finally shared with a frown.

"Sherlock…" the voice started to sound utterly disappointed and world-weary.

"Not me" he added.

It made the other man pause. "Then who?"

Sherlock made a colossal effort to crack one eye open. He was oddly comfortable on the floor, under the warm blanket. "Think it's John." The statement did not trigger the expected feeling of deep betrayal. Am I in shock? No, there is something else…

Mycroft's face twisted into a grimace. "John? Are you sure?"

"It was in the food" Sherlock offered instead of an explanation.

Fortunately, the older Holmes was more than able to catch on underlying statements. "Interesting." He gestured at someone who stood by the door and got up from the kneeling position at his brother's side. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock critically assessed his current condition. No soreness. Slight dizziness. Thought capacity at 97.3%. Mobility at 86.8%. "Yes." He sat up brusquely with a groan, abdominal muscles twinging with pain. "Where's she?"

"No sign of Dr Watson in the building or neighbourhood, sir" reported Mycroft's shadow from the staircase. Holmeses looked at each other with an identical calculating glint in their eyes.

"Phone?" Mycroft asked dispassionately.

"In her room, sir."

With another effort and (more importantly) without help, Sherlock got up, leaving the comfy blanket in a messed tangle on the floor. "Let's go."

The phone was, indeed, in her room. As well as the shortest apology note in the world, written in a hurry with a simple ballpoint pen. The inclination of the letters and the slightly longer tail of the "y" told Sherlock that the apology was surprisingly sincere. What is she sorry for? Drugging me? Leaving? Something else?

"It was a rash decision" the older Holmes commented from the door. He was leaning against the doorframe, umbrella still in hand. His eyes swept the room with laser precision. "Something spooked her."

"But we only have this case going…" Sherlock trailed off, trying to restore the mental files with Joan's exact reactions to all milestones in the case. He usually archived them away without analysing too deep, but in retrospect, it had been a mistake. "Odd. Why would she be involved in this?"

"The question, brother mine, should be 'how', not 'why'."

"All the same" his comeback lacked the usual bite. "If her objective was to hinder my investigation, she could have acted much earlier."

"She did not want to do this" his brother supplied. "Drugging you. Something forced her hand." Ah, I see. Her care was genuine. "She took all precautions to make sure you were not harmed." Our friendship is real.

"I need to review the evidence again."

# #

Working together with Mycroft was highly uncomfortable, but scarily efficient. It took them two hours to go through the coded archives of Patrick Stanley, while governmental minions were busy with groundwork. In the end, their discoveries boiled down to three facts:

One – Joan Watson had been in London during all four murders. Which, per se, wasn't proof of her involvement.

However, two – all three victims had lived in the three-miles radius from Joan in the late eighties. Which was getting a little too much for a mere coincidence.

And more disturbingly, three – Patrick Stanley had filed and securely stored encrypted names of missing children and young adults, some of whom had been found dead years after their disappearance, as well as people suspected of involvement in human trafficking.

They also found several photos of young people, most of them barely out of their teens. Several had indeed gone missing during the nineties. One picture featured a zoomed up shot of Joan Watson, painfully young (eighteen or nineteen years-old) and unscarred, leaning towards someone on her right with an intense look. She wore glasses (her eyesight is perfect, this ought to be fake, a disguise) and her hair was the longest either Holmes had ever seen it (she used to wear braids, how unexpected). But it was obvious now that the good doctor had a connexion to the case.

"Something's missing" Sherlock mused out loud. He managed to keep any feeling of anxiety at bay, mainly thanks to his brother's presence, but these details made him seriously worry for Joan's safety. And given the way she left, it was not unfounded.

"My people are working on connecting Joan to any of the victims" Mycroft replied while leafing through rental contract dated from 1985.

"That'll take ages!" The younger man fell back on the floor, on the conveniently placed pillow. Something kept nagging at him, a small detail, something recent, very recent… Is it before John left? There was this limp, I remember it. No. The documents? No. It was in the room. Something small. New. "The box" he suddenly sat up. "It wasn't there before." Finding new reserves of energy, he jumped up and sprinted upstairs.

There was indeed a small metal box under Joan's bed, that had not been there during his last cursory check-up of the place. The lock was there in name only. By the time the older Holmes came into the room, the contents of the mysterious box were scattered on the woollen afghan and the consulting detective was looming over them with a deep frown.

Sherlock gingerly picked up the page that had been torn from a kid's notepad. It was ominously titled "Revenge Pact", letters clearly written with great care, even using a ruler. It had been written by a boy. Glancing back at his brother first, Sherlock read the terms of the pact out loud, stopping only to decipher the child's scrawl.

"We swear upon our lives to track and hunt the people responsible for the death of Hannah Elizabeth Martin. We will find them. We will make them understand what she went through and make them pay. We will kill them."

The thing was dated from November 1st, 1987 and signed with three names. "H. E. Martin, J. H. Watson, B. S. Hemlick." He brought the paper at the eye level, examining the ink. "The text had been written by the Martin boy. Then they signed in blood."

"1987… John would have been eleven" Mycroft commented. "Pretty serious commitment for someone that age." Their eyes were drawn to the old photo of four children, two boys and two girls, grinning around a camp fire. One of them was unmistakably Joan, short hair bleached by sun, smile untouched yet by the desert. She had her arm around the shoulders of a tall boy with legs of a frequent runner. The other two kids were clearly siblings, the girl younger than the rest of the group by two or three years. There were two other photos of them, at the beach and in someone's backyard. They looked inseparable.

"Hannah Elizabeth Martin, born in 1979" said Anthea from the doorway, reading from her phone. "Disappeared in August 1987 and found dead in October 1987 with clear signs of torture. Suspected victim of an unidentified serial killer. Survived at the time by both parents and an older brother, one Henry Edward Martin. The brother had passed away from an untreated medical condition in 2010."

"What about Hemlick?" Sherlock inquired softly.

"Blake Stephen Hemlick, alleged best friend of Henry Martin."

"Locate him" Mycroft ordered, picking up the worn diary.

"Already on it, sir."

As Mycroft leafed through the diary, that dated from late eighties, a piece of paper fell from it. Sherlock swiftly picked it up and froze at the sight of the names. Mycroft glanced at it before commenting sarcastically: "I presume they found them."

"Indeed." The younger brother noted the first name – Alistair Falcone – and swore under his breath. She knew what to look for all along. There is still a chance she did not destroy the file, though. Then he ran a finger over the lower edge of the list. "It had been torn recently. There are more names."

"Sir?" Anthea stepped inside. "Blake Hemlick disappeared from his work place three hours ago and had not been located yet."

"Upgrade to level four. Also, find everything we have on Alistair Falcone."

"Yes, sir."

Mycroft turned towards a fuming Sherlock. "Read this" he put the diary into the younger man's hands. "I will supervise the search. We can think of a strategy once we have all the elements."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to protest, but quickly swallowed back the insults. It was a reasonable suggestion. He needed more data. He could not find Joan without it.

# #

They sat side by side on the dusty floor under the condemned window in a dilapidated two-stories house, still shaky from the adrenaline rush and the shock of being so close to being found out. Blake was still wearing his suit, blue tie askew. Joan untied the tight laces of her combat boots and slumped against the mouldy wall. Silence stretched between them, cold and cruel.

"Why are we doing this, Blake?" she finally asked, not even looking at him.

He didn't move before responding in a dead voice: "We swore on our lives."

"We were stupid kids."

"Hannah died. Henry died."

"Exactly. But we're alive. What about us? About our lives?" She chanced a glance in Blake's direction, but he remained still as a statue.

"Do you regret it?" he asked quietly.

Joan turned back to observing the cracks in the ceiling. "Probably not. But I think Alistair was enough. The others would have lived in fear forever. But we kept going for Henry…"

"They were moving on!" Blake straightened up in sudden fury, slamming a fist against the wooden floor. "Building their lives, being fucking happy! While Henry…"

"I know!" she responded with a pained grimace. "But… was it really the best we could do? We could have gotten Henry help, real help, made him listen! I'm a bloody doctor and I let him lie to me about his health. He would have been alive now… We could have taken them to trial. Anything. Anything at all."

Blake looked at her with eyes so full of pity she thought they became a mirror. "We can't stop now, John" he said, sagging back down.

"I know." She felt tears burning behind her own eyes. "But I wish we could be stopped."

# #

The diary proved to be an intriguing insight into teenage Joan's life. She had kept it from 1987 to 1994, writing short sentences for every other day. For longer entries, she glued folded sheets between pages, making the book look swollen and bulky, like it was overflowing.

First there were notes about Hannah's disappearance, and the search. "September 21st, 1987. Still nothing. Henry hadn't eaten in days. Mrs Martin doesn't leave the bedroom. I'm scared. What can I do for them? I hate it." Then blurred lines on days after the discovery of the body. "October 20th, 1987. The funeral was beautiful and awful. She was just a kid. Who could do that?"

On the day of the pact, Joan simply wrote "Day of the Dead", without mentioning the contract three kids signed with their own blood.

There were several months of short entries about dealing with grief and seeing the Martin couple fall apart, and parents trying to make them move on. Henry, as described between the neat lines, became steadily obsessed with his sister's death, which was both worrying and normal for a pre-teen going through such trauma. Blake Hemlick, the third kid involved in the revenge pact, was barely mentioned aside from his presence at the Martin's house. The first big folded sheet was the summary of the police case regarding Hannah's death. How on earth did she get this information? The entry on April 9th, 1988, quickly solved the mystery: "Blake and I hid in the broom closet in the police station, and sneaked into the detective's office at night. We copied all the files."

He stopped to glance at the old photo again. Blake Hemlick had been a lanky athlete-type child. Judging by his social media profile, he remained fairly active and in shape. The dirty blond hair darkened with age to a dull brown. He looked rather shy as a pre-teen, awkward even in the company of his close friends. This uneasiness carried on to the adulthood but had remained well-hidden in slightly protective postures and tense smiles. He looked like a lion too scared to step out of an open cage, just because the world beyond it was unknown.

There was nothing of importance for long months after that, just small comments on schoolmates (with a hint of jealousy on their ignorance of all things dead and grieving) and family (with a lot of frustration in regard to Harriet and her shenanigans). At the end of 1988, on November 1st, she wrote "Henry is scary." There was also a half-sheet glued into the pages, with diagrams and names, and a spotty timeline of Hannah's disappearance. For twelve-years-olds without access to modern technology, they had been rather thorough in their hypothesis and data collection. Mildly impressed by their work, Sherlock continued his reading, not noticing that it was well past midnight.

# #

Blake changed into sweat pants and went to the nearby store to buy some supplies. Meanwhile, Joan cleaned up the bathroom and the couch as much as humanly possible and started tinkering with the water pump without much conviction. The old house still had an antediluvian generator huffing and puffing in the basement. It made her wonder how Mrs Martin never noticed the small fees coming out of her bank accounts. Henry had set up the contracts and the automatic payments about ten years ago, and he probably took care of his parents' finances too.

"John?" She startled at the voice calling from the entrance. For a second, she thought it was Sherlock, but no, the voice was not deep enough.

"Down here!"

"What are you doing?" Blake asked after locating her near the pump, covered in dust and rust, a torch light stuck under her chin.

"Trying to get us running water."

"You know how to operate that thing?" Having spent most of his life in a big city, he never quite took to repairing things by himself, always relying on quick services.

Joan, on the other hand, had to pick up various skills on remote military bases. "Yeah, not that different from what we had in Sierra Leone. We spent more time maintaining it than using it, but yeah…"

"Neat." He stepped closer and took the torch from her. "I'll hold that for you."

"Ta." The work went faster now that she didn't have to perform wonders of contortionism to get some light. "Ok" she sighed once the machine started quietly rumbling. "The pressure won't be great, but it's better than nothing."

"Neat" Blake repeated again, dropping the light. The silence stretched again.

Joan couldn't bear it anymore. "Let's eat something."

# #

"November 1st, 1990. Henry punched a mirror. We cleaned it up before Mrs Martin came home, but it'll be difficult to explain. I've seen Blake's wrists. They're both falling apart. Why aren't I?"

"February 14th, 1991. Chris asked me out. I laughed it off. I can't start dating now, I must look after Henry and Blake. I need to keep them going."

"February 15th, 1991. Harry found out about Chris. She's annoying."

"April 1st, 1991. Henry broke down crying again. Blake hugged him so tight. He loves Henry. But they don't know. I'm confused."

"December 24th, 1991. I miss Hannah. She liked Christmas so much. I bought a gift for her again. Will leave it at the grave tomorrow. I miss her. Whoever did this to her, I'll make them pay. I hate them. I hate them so bad."

"November 1st, 1992. Henry's drinking too much. It's killing Blake, watching him get hurt like that. I'm trying to help, I really am. Hannah, tell me, is this not enough?"

Sherlock put down the diary and winced at the soreness of his neck. The kids had not made big progress in the investigation for a couple of years, and there was just too much teenage drama unfolding. While he was absolutely not interested in the details of their woes (he had quite enough of his own at the time), he was curious about Joan. These years were formative to her personality, and without them, she would not be the person he met at Bart's, the friend he came to deeply respect.

The more he read, the more he confirmed his initial conclusion. Joan had never faked anything in his presence. All frowns and all smiles were genuine. It's just that… he had missed a lot of subtext, another layer to her puzzle.

However, she was probably a murderer. Most likely. Based on the thoughts she recorded in her teenage years, the future doctor had a deep-seated hatred towards the people responsible for little Hannah's death. Unsurprising. Her opinion on how to deal with these people, however, seemed to oscillate between fair trial and bloody murder. Once again, not unexpected for the situation. Perhaps, her doubts persisted in the adult years. It felt very odd to consider Joan, the steady, reliable presence, whose moral compass had been a certainty from day one, as a child lost in impossible choices.

She killed them in the end. Sherlock looked back at the crumpled pages. Maybe not. I should keep reading.

# #

They slept huddled on the couch, waking up every hour or so from the cold and the cars honking in the distance. It was strangely reminiscent of the nights they spent with Henry in the basement, planning, plotting, trying to make sense of an unthinkable horror and falling asleep on the blanket, clinging to each other for warmth and reassurance. Despite the loss that broke them, these were innocent days.

As the dawn spilled red light through the dirty window, they shuffled towards the kitchen. Blake prepared two cups of soluble coffee. It tasted horrible, they had no milk or sugar, but they gulped it down nonetheless. Joan opened a bag of cheap biscuits and they split them evenly.

"Blake…" the doctor started suddenly. "Do you still love him?" She wasn't sure why she asked it now, after all these years. She wasn't even sure if Blake himself put words on his feelings. But she really needed to know.

He looked stunned for a second, then his face crumpled into such a painful grimace that Joan instantly regretted asking. "Always" he breathed out. "Always…" And God, it was heart-breaking to watch. Feeling herself crumbling under guilt and pity, Watson got up, went around the cracked kitchen table and hugged Blake. It was the only comfort she could offer to the man who watched the love of his life sink into a very dark place with no means to pull him out, and then burn from a preventable illness. And never say anything. Ever.

"I'm so sorry" she murmured while he broke into dry sobs on her shoulder. "I am so, so sorry, Blake."

# #

"October 29th, 1994. We know who ran the temporary keeping place. We'll have to check all her relatives and contacts, one of them must be the leader. We'll get them. I swear to all gods, we'll get them all."

The final page ended with that ominous promise. After seven years of investigation, the kids managed to unearth more information than the police. They identified the two men directly responsible for snatching Hannah off the street, and the woman who hid the child in her house. As they grew older, they had more means at their disposal, and they were steadily working on finding the organizer of the kidnapping, the one who actually killed the girl.

They had not yet found the man in 1994, but judging by the list found in Joan's box, it was Alistair Falcone, killed in 1997. Nephew of Roberta McDougal.

Sherlock closed the journal and pressed both hands on his eyes. It felt like someone poured sand over on his eyeballs. They killed Falcone. They killed the retainer and the kidnappers. Who else? Who else are they planning to eliminate?

# #

Mycroft's PA appeared at his doorstep with a steaming cup of coffee (black, two sugars) around 7 in the morning. Sherlock greeted her with his customary glare but accepted the coffee nonetheless. "Mr Holmes asks if you'd be willing to accompany him" the woman said without looking up from the phone.

The way it was formulated grated on the younger Holmes' nerves. It was as if he had a choice in the matter. But if he wanted to find Joan and to stop this revenge idiocy, there was only one option – Mycroft.

"Give me fifteen minutes" he stated before burning his throat with scalding coffee in one big gulp and disappearing in his room.

# #

"Where are we?" he finally asked when Mycroft rang the bell of a condo with the tip of his umbrella. The older brother arched a condescending eyebrow.

"Whozzat?" slurred a female voice behind the door. He wouldn't. He bloody wouldn't.

"We need to talk to you about your sister, Miss Watson" Mycroft said loudly. Harriet. Just brilliant…

The lock clicked and the oldest Watson sibling peeked cautiously through the narrow opening. "Joan?" Then she noticed Sherlock and the door flew immediately wide open. "What happened? What have you done?" She glared heatedly at them (especially at Sherlock).

"Why does everyone assume I'm the one causing trouble?" he asked petulantly at large.

"Because you usually do" both Harriet and Mycroft responded in unison, immediately grimacing at the cheesiness of it.

"What happened?" Watson repeated the question to pass the awkwardness.

Mycroft, always in control, took the lead. "John took off, rather dramatically, last night. We assume it has something to do with her childhood friends, and we hope you will be able to help us fill the gaps in our knowledge."

The woman was not impressed by the big words. She crossed her arms and glared at them, not budging from her door. "Why would it be any of your business? She is an adult. She can come and go without reporting to you people."

"She might put herself in danger" Mycroft offered.

"She does that all the time."

"She drugged Sherlock before disappearing."

"Good for her." Clearly, Harriet was not eager to help. Mycroft was hitting a wall with her dry comebacks, and it made Sherlock chuckle despite the gravity of their situation. "You had it coming" she threw at the detective.

"Perhaps" he forced himself to admit to everyone's great surprise. "However, she needs help right now. We believe it has something to do with the death of Hannah Martin."

That made her pause. "Little Hannah. Yes, that was horrible…" She glared at them again, before finally dropping her hands. "Fine. Come in."

Her living space was unexpectedly tidy. The lack of alcohol or empty glasses in the living room or the open kitchen pointed to another attempt at sobriety. Though, the dark circles under her eyes implied it was not an easy road. "Tea?" Harriet asked, already pulling the mugs and setting up the kettle. Apparently, compulsive tea-making was a Watson family trait.

They stood in silence, watching her prepare the beverage, before she glanced at them in confusion. "Sit down" she said in the same tone one'd use to say You morons.

Holmes brothers exchanged an eyeroll but sited themselves on opposite chairs. Watson brought them their mugs and returned with her own tea soon after. Plopping on the large sofa, she sipped the hot drink with gusto. After waiting for them to take a sip as well, Harriet ordered in a no-nonsense voice: "Explain."

Mycroft and Sherlock had a mute conversation that held along the lines of You do it! In the end, the older brother sighed heavily and started talking. "John had been implicated in the suspicious deaths of persons involved in Hannah Martin's death. Sherlock stumbled on this case by chance, and she chose to disappear when he came close to a breakthrough. It is possible she might attempt something… stupid."

"Damn" Harriet lowered the mug to her lap. "That, she might. Have you found the other guy? What's his name… Blake?"

"He disappeared at the same time and had not been located yet."

"Damn" she repeated, eyes widening.

"What can you tell us about Blake? About Martin family?" Sherlock butted in.

"Johnny was super close with Martin kids, both of them. Blake was always hanging out with them too" she shrugged. "The boys went to school together with Joan. I wasn't really interested in them at the time. Was already too old."

"You were thirteen" Sherlock pointed out sceptically.

"And they were eleven at best" Harriet huffed. "At that age, one year is like a century."

He put that statement aside to process later on. "What about Hannah?"

"She adored her brother. Followed him like a puppy. When she went missing, we all searched for her. It was really scary. No one went outside anymore." She closed her eyes in remembrance. "Then they found her dead, and it was even worse. Police everywhere, people crying randomly. We were all terrified."

"And John?"

The older Watson let out a humourless laugh. "Johnny was brave. She tried to hold everyone together, like glue. And for some time, it even worked."

"Meaning?"

"Henry, the brother, was falling apart. Even I could see that. He was angry, and sad, and guilty. It was too much for the kid. Blake was clueless, but tried his best, the poor guy. And then, there was Johnny, talking them out of stupid shit, calming them down after a fight, getting them to eat. Sometimes, I think these two survived until adulthood only thanks to my sis."

"What about the parents?" Mycroft asked carefully.

"The Martins? They disintegrated. Literally. They were painful to watch. Never really smiled again. The father died in 2001, if I remember correctly…"

2001. When Roberta McDougal died. "Do you…" Sherlock paused because his throat was suddenly very dry. "Do you remember anything, anything odd happening in 1997, that would involve John, Henry or Blake?"

Harriet frowned, genuinely trying to remember. "I'm not sure if it was 1997… but around that time, yeah. Johnny turned up at the family dinner covered in bruises, Dad was livid. She said she played rugby with her friends, but it really looked like someone beat her up, maybe even the same day. I tried to make her talk, but she laughed it off. Blake came to pick her up that night. I remember, because I always thought he was in the closet for Henry but the way he was all gentlemanly with Johnny that night, it made me reconsider."

Sherlock's eyebrow twitched. "Gentlemanly? How's that?"

"You know, gave her his coat, helped her get in the passenger seat" Harriet smirked knowingly. "All the jazz." Or maybe he was feeling guilty, because John had been injured in their first attempt at exacting revenge.

Mycroft seemed to have the same thought, as he pulled his phone out and sent a long string of instructions to someone. "Do you have any idea where they might have gone now?"

Harriet shrugged helplessly. "I hardly have an idea of where Joan is on regular basis, let alone when she's trying to hide."

# #

The older Watson had nothing more to offer in lieu of information, and they left soon after. "That was enlightening" Mycroft drawled once they were seated in the moving car.

"That was useless" Sherlock huffed, sagging down in his seat.

"I wouldn't say so. We can now confirm Henry Martin as the driving force behind the murders."

The detective glanced at his brother, who watched the road with such indifference, it made the younger brother want to punch him. Maybe there's something here… "His cause of death?"

"Renal failure coupled with pancreatic cancer."

"Damn" he cringed. It sounded painful.

It was still morning in London, and the traffic was rather tame, just after the rush hour. Sherlock watched the cars passing them by in the opposite lane for a couple of minutes before voicing his concerns. "Do you believe they will try to finish the kill list, now that Henry's gone? Or will they just disappear?"

"They won't be able to leave the country" Mycroft 'reassured' him. "My assistant had searched Hemlick's apartment" he continued unfazed. "The man was ridden with guilt regarding Henry Martin's death. There are numerous unsent letters on his laptop."

Sherlock perked up. "Anything of importance?"

"Declarations of love and loyalty, and pleas to take care of his health. He had been writing them for years, perhaps like a diary. After Martin passed, most of the texts turned into rants, begging for forgiveness and promising to bring peace. The grief made him highly unstable."

"So he will want to finish the job." It is a start.

Mycroft finally turned his cold gaze on him. "You should know that Hemlick does not plan to survive this. He appears apologetic towards Joan, but he will not go out of his way to preserve her."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, repressing an unbidden shiver running down his spine. "She can take care of herself." The unsettling feeling did not leave. He closed his eyes again and tried to remember more details about the last interaction with Joan, if only to avoid considering all the possible outcomes. You'll be alright. "She could have destroyed the evidence" he finally mused out loud. "We have enough fire accelerants and acids at home. She could have made it impossible to connect the Martin case to the murders." I would have found it eventually, though. But not fast enough. "She wants to be stopped, doesn't she?"

Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically soft. "Perhaps."

# #

Joan looked forlornly at her reflection. And it just started to grow longer, she sighed internally before giving one last brush to the shortened and dyed hair. Her natural greying blond colour was gone, and instead the former soldier sported a short cut of dark chestnut hair. She also put on brown contact lenses, which made her eyes water, and pushed small pads inside her cheeks to change the face contours.

It was not much, but enough to not be recognized as Joan Watson on first sight. It wouldn't fool a Holmes, not for long. However, it was enough for what they planned.

Blake, barely recognizable with a buzz cut and stubble, knocked on the open door. There was a time where Joan was the tallest of their group. Now, he towered a good foot over her. "Ready?" His gaze was feverish, torn between excitement and fear.

"Yeah."

# #

She watched him fidget with the hem of his shirt while the train brought them back to London. I should have done something sooner… But I hated these people so badly. I don't know anymore. I just don't know. Joan had known for some time now that killing in revenge would not bring salvation. But it seemed like the only thing that kept Henry alive for years, and she could not refuse him this last straw. Blake… Blake had melted into Henry's view of the world with reckless abandon. Whatever the man said, Hemlick would agree. Joan tried to counterbalance their blood-lust so many times, failing, failing and failing. Or maybe she never tried enough. They had been dealing with this nightmare for decades now, and it seemed so normal in the beginning. There were bad guys, and they were going to punish them. How did it get so out of hand?

I am an accomplice to four murders, Joan acknowledged to herself, watching her reflection in the dirty window. And I'm not really sorry. But it had no meaning now. Not anymore. And maybe, it never had one.

Once they arrived at St Pancras, her companion went into a small shop to grab some supplies. While he was stuck in the queue, Joan flagged down a young woman who had been loitering under the arrival's board. "Sorry, miss? Can I borrow your phone, just for a text? I have no battery on mine, and my cousin is waiting for my message." The woman eyed her with evident suspicion but ended up agreeing. She quickly typed "Leila Dime. JW" and sent it to Sherlock's number. With a cheery "Thank you!", the blogger retreated into the crowd.

# #

"What the…" Sherlock stared at the text, thoroughly confused.

"Wrong number?" Mycroft's PA suggested mockingly.

"Shut up" he snapped, already dialling back.

"Yeah?" answered an unknown female.

"You just sent me a text."

"Wasn't me" the woman said. Judging by the background noise, she was at a train station.

He tried not to lose patience entirely. "Really?"

"Yeah, your cousin borrowed my phone for the text."

"My cousin?!"

"Yeees" she started to get irritated.

"What did she look like? Where is she?"

"Listen, man…"

"It's important!"

"Dunno" the woman surrendered. "Short, dark hair, she was dressed for a hike. Said her battery died."

Dark hair? Not John then. But who else would it be? "Where is she now?"

"Dunno" she repeated. "Do you know how many people there are at St Pancras?"

He disconnected without adding anything. "They are in disguise" Sherlock announced to the room, catching Mycroft's attention. "They're going to act soon."

# #

They stayed on the bench watching Leila's house for a couple of hours. Joan silently prayed that police would arrive and stop them right then and there, but the neighbourhood remained excruciatingly calm. "She's alone now" Blake stated. She felt like time slowed down and they were walking through jelly. Everyone thought I was Sherlock's moral compass. But in truth, he was keeping me from falling into pieces.

Her finger was pressing the doorbell, and she had no recollection of getting to the door of the small townhouse. "Yes?" Leila Dime opened the door with a polite smile.

"Good day, Ma'am" Blake started in his best door-to-door salesman voice. "We are collecting old clothes, shoes or toys for homeless families. Would you be willing to donate?"

"Oh" - her smile grew warmer – "Of course! Come on in, I was just thinking of dropping my old things off at a charity."

At the time, ages ago, they had identified Miss Dime as Alistair Falcone's live-in girlfriend. She had been very much informed about her man's business, as the torture and killing had most likely taken place in the basement of their house. She had been just short of thirty at the time of Hannah's murder. Now that Joan looked around the small living room, with airy curtains and light furniture from a famous Swedish brand, she caught herself thinking This woman is alone. There were no photos of her family or friends, or mementos from vacations, or anything personal, really. At the ripe age of fifty-four, Leila Dime had no close friends and no fond memories. She was still very thin, almost sickly so, but wore very wide shirts and bulky pants.

A realization started forming at the back of Joan's mind.

Leila came back into the room. "I have some boxes in the back, do you want to sort through now?" Before Joan could stop him, Blake grabbed Leila's arm in an iron grip and pushed her against the wall, pressing a hunting knife under the throat. "Oh my god!" the woman gasped in shock.

"Do you remember Hannah?" he hissed menacingly.

"Who?!"

"You don't?!" He shook her slightly, making the large clothes flail around her small frame, and Joan's eyes caught on something.

"Blake" she called out in a dead voice.

He didn't listen, continuing to work himself up to a rage. "Hannah Martin, you don't remember her?"

Leila was crying silent tears. "Blake" Joan tried again, this time putting a calming hand on his shoulder. Hemlick grunted unintelligibly but stopped for a second. The doctor reached out and lifted Leila's shirt over the stomach, revealing numerous small round scars. Cigarettes. "You were a prisoner too" she said, looking the crying woman straight in the eyes. "You had to survive, and so you let them murder children."

Blake jerked back, knife dropping to the ground, while Miss Dime collapsed on the ground with an agonizing wail. "Please, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I remember them, all of them, see!" To their mute horror, she tore off her shirt and turned her back to them.

Oh my god. Joan stumbled back until her knees hit a low table and she sat heavily on it, tears burning at her eyes. Oh my god. Blake froze in place, but his breathing became louder and louder, to the point of hyperventilating.

On Leila's back, there were names. Dozens of names tattooed at different times and by different artists. Hannah Martin was one of them.

They stared for ages, the silence interrupted only by Leila's breathless sobs. This guilt. I can't even start to imagine what she's gone through… Somehow, Joan managed to gather enough strength to get up and kneel by the poor woman. "Dress up" she ordered gently. "Dress up and get up. We're sorry."

Their last victim-to-be cautiously looked up, trembling. For a second, it could have been alright. It could have been over. Then Leila's eyes widened in fear and something smacked Joan in the right temple with the loudest thump.

"Wh…" she fell on one knee, vision swimming. Through the blood trickling from her hairline, she saw her childhood friend holding a piece of a shattered vase. "Blake…?" She didn't have time to process more as he hit her again and the world went black.

# #

The headache was monstrous. Joan winced and brought a hand to her forehead, probing it gingerly. The drying blood stuck to the fingertips. Ouch. She tried opening her eyes, and surprisingly it worked. The white ceiling stared back at her dispassionately. Despite having been bashed in the head, she was laying on something soft. Strange. Something was stuck in her mouth, and she pushed with her tongue before messily spitting out the pads used to alter the face lines.

Finally, her brain caught up on the surrounding noises. Someone was whimpering quietly, while someone else was pacing and muttering. The muscles in her neck tweaked painfully as Joan turned her head to watch. In the few minutes she was out, Blake had managed to tie Leila to a wooden chair with a rope (did we bring a rope with us? did he plan all this?) and push aside some bookcases, for whatever reason. He looked like a madman, sweating, gesturing wildly and muttering incoherent phrases that sounded like apologies.

"Blake?" Joan called as loudly as she could. He didn't hear. I have a concussion, definitely. I should lie down and wait for reinforcements. Telling her inner doctor to shut up, she pushed herself into a sitting position. Oh, he put me on a sofa. How nice. "Blake. What the hell are you doing?" And what is that smell?

The man finally stopped his pacing, and turned to look at her, really look. His eyes were blazing with inexplicable hope. "Once she's dead" he started in a breathless voice, "Henry will be in peace. He will be alright."

He's insane, Joan thought with numbing clarity. He's gone insane with grief. "Blake." She forced her legs to the floor, but didn't get up yet, black spots dancing in her field of view. "Look at her, Blake." He deigned to glance at the captive woman, who had gone quiet now. "She had been abused, threatened. She could have done nothing to save Hannah." Blake shook his head vehemently. "Just look! She's dying of guilt. We can't put her through the same thing as the others. It isn't right."

"But he needs it!"

"He's dead!" she yelled, disregarding how painful it was right now. "Henry's dead, Blake! Hannah's dead! But we're not. You're alive." He paled significantly at the outburst and stumbled back. Joan hoisted herself up and took a step closer to him, wobbling slightly. "It's enough. We've done enough. It will not bring them back. And I'm tired of burying friends."

He stared at her blankly for the longest second before the mad hope shattered into a mask of utter despair. A low groan, between a scream and a sob, filled the silence, and Hemlick slid down a wall, curling into a ball. He started to rock to the sound of quiet "no, no, no"s.

I am so sorry. But you weren't going to make it better. Joan watched him with pity. If her loved one died like Henry did, she couldn't imagine what she'd do. I'm sorry.

Once she made sure that her unfortunate friend wasn't going anywhere, the doctor staggered towards Leila. The rope was rather loose, and she managed to undo it in just a minute. The woman was sobbing silently. "Come on" Joan cajoled her to get up and threw a blanket over her shoulders. "Let's get you out."

"I'm sorry…" Miss Dime whispered as they moved towards the entrance.

"No. I am. You did not deserve any of this." Joan missed a step and had to take lean on the nearest cabinet in the hallway. "Go" she waved at Leila. "Call the police, the ambulance. We'll be here."

The older woman gave a slow nod, as if unsure of the reality of it all, and took a cautious step back. At this moment, they both heard a loud clatter in the living room and a wordless snarl of rage. Shit. "Go!" she yelled at Leila and moved to block the path towards her retreat.

Blake came barrelling at her with all the anger accumulated during the years. Joan met him with a knee to the stomach. It made him heave and step back, giving the ex-soldier time to regain ground. "Stop it!" she tried to reason with him.

The front door opened and closed, Leila was safe. Blake lurched forward again. He never learned how to fight, she remembered. Joan landed a solid left hook into his jaw, then kicked him in the knees and pushed him back. He lost his footing and fell awkwardly on the floor.

"Blake, that's enough!"

All the fight seemed to seep out of the man, and his body was rocked by dry sobs again. "He can't be gone…" she heard him say. "He can't…"

Joan fell on her knees next to him, whether of physical exhaustion or to offer comfort, she couldn't tell. "It's over." He tried to sit up, and she tried to lend him a hand, despite the dizziness that threatened to overcome her. "It's all over" she repeated, hugging her last childhood friend in a desperate attempt to keep him together.

Eh?

The searing pain in her left side was not expected. I know this pain.

Joan pulled away from Blake to get a good look at his face. He looked possessed, and completely broken at the same time. Then something pulled out of her flesh and she gasped. "You…"

"I'm sorry" he said, as if it changed the fact that he just stabbed her. "I have to join him. If I burn too, will he forgive me?"

Joan watched him stand up and go back to the space he emptied earlier. She tried to slow down her breathing and apply pressure on the wound with both hands. It wasn't too deep, Hemlick was inexperienced, but it was bleeding sluggishly, and some of the organs might have been damaged.

"What are you doing?" she asked, voice surprisingly steady.

"I'm going first" he grinned toothily at her, setting up a small white candle on the floor and lighting it up. The floorboards looked suspiciously wet and shiny at that spot. Suddenly, her brain placed the smell that bothered her earlier. Gasoline.

No. God, no. Joan scrambled to her feet, adrenaline making it possible without passing out. Blake took out the syringe destined to Leila. No, not again. "Blake, please…" I'm not watching a friend die again.

There were blue and red lights flashing behind the windows, but neither paid attention to them. "I'm sorry, John. It really is the only way." He placed the needle at his vein (did he train, he did, didn't he, oh gods) and smiled again.

"No" she whispered in horror. The entrance door flew open and someone ran inside.

Blake must have practiced a lot, because at the same time the newcomers approached, he gave himself the shot and in a swift move knocked down the candle. "NO!" Joan screamed as the flames went up in a circle around her insane friend. "BLAKE! NO!" She lunged towards the fire, to get him out, to stop him. "JOHN!" someone yelled and strong hands caught her by the waist, pulled her back despite her vigorous struggling. She could see Blake collapse in absolute silence behind the fiery curtain. She fought against the person restraining her, but her efforts were getting weaker, and he manhandled her outside, just as the firefighters rushed inside.

Dead. The realization hit her like a ton of bricks. Blake's dead. They're all dead.

# #

Locating Leila Dime had not been an easy task. Mainly, because it was not her real name. The breakthrough came when Sherlock finally deigned to read Falcone's file, that had been found misplaced in NSY archives, and noticed the name of his alleged girlfriend. From there, they dug up the file on Lillian Dimitroff, granddaughter of a Russian immigrant, who had gone missing in 1985 and reappeared in 1998. Photographic evidence confirmed her to be Leila Dime. Lingering over that particular, undoubtedly tragic, story was deemed a waste of time, and Mycroft directed squadrons of police, paramedics and firefighters (just in case) to Miss Dimitroff last known address. They followed by car.

They arrived to see a distressed fifty-something woman crying on the lawn, clutching a grey blanket around thin frame. The only intelligible words were "revenge" and "sorry", but they were enough to confirm that they were at the right place. The police officers were ready to launch the assault, when Leila finally said something useful: "He's going to burn it all."

The only thought in Sherlock's head at that moment was John is still inside. Pushing through the cordon and ignoring completely Mycroft's calls, he dashed to the door, throwing it open with no regard to discretion. "NO!" Joan screamed, and with a whooshing sound the air grew uncomfortably warm. He stumbled into the living room to see a wall of flames. "BLAKE! NO!" And Joan, unmistakable despite the different hair colour, about to rush head first into the pyre.

"JOHN!" He was at her side in two steps, catching her just before she got singed. The blogger struggled violently, but Sherlock held his ground and pulled her back, away from the fire, away from the madman inside. As he managed to get her outside, Joan suddenly stopped all resistance and let herself be guided to a nearby bench.

As she sat there, very still, Sherlock felt completely lost. "John?" he crouched in front of her, trying to catch her gaze. He was surprised to see that her left eye became brown. Contact lenses, his mind quickly supplied, one fell out. There was blood on her face. Got hit in the head.

Before he could process the anger surging up in his gut, Mycroft sauntered over to them. "The fire is under control." As Joan did not react at all, Sherlock stood up cautiously and glared silently at his brother. "What do you want to do about the situation, Sherlock?"

They had discussed the options, of course. Mycroft was willing to cover up Watson's involvement in the murders against a pretty hefty favour ("she is keeping you in line, I got used to that"), or they could send her to trial, or… "I'll confess" Joan said softly.

Both brothers stared down at her in shock. She looked up with a tired shadow of a smile. "I'll confess to everything. No point in hiding anyway."

"John…" the detective started. He wanted to put a hand on her shoulder but froze mid-gesture. It was covered in blood.

"If I survive, that is" she added serenely.

Sherlock fell on his knees and tore the vest off the doctor's shoulders. Her entire left side was soaked in blood, and no one had noticed due to black clothing and other priorities (like the fire raging in the house). Sherlock's brain stopped functioning properly at this point, and he could only stare pleadingly at his friend. "Medics!" Mycroft yelled to someone.

"Hypovolemic shock is just about here" Joan informed them, eyes starting to drop. Seeing her falter, Sherlock hoisted himself on the bench and hugged her with one arm, trying to keep her immobile. "I prepared the compound" she continued in an almost whisper. "I taught the boys how to inject and how to hold a scalpel. I might as well have killed them all myself."

"Don't talk" Sherlock begged as the paramedics rushed towards them.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock… Really, really… sorry…"

# #

Joan had been unconscious for two days. Aside from the two hours in surgery, Sherlock had not left her side. He had time to process what happened and ponder their options. Fact: John is an accomplice to four murders and one murder attempt. Fact: John had been coerced into the whole plot by childhood friends. Fact: Both men involved in the murders are dead. Fact: Both men were mentally instable. Fact: John regrets it.

Option A: Send John to trial. Outcome A1: Guilty as accomplice and sentence of up to 10 years. Likelihood 13%. Outcome A2: Acquitted due to mitigating circumstances. Likelihood 56%. Outcome A3: Case dismissed due to insufficient evidence. Likelihood 31%.

Collateral damage: John's reputation.

Option B: Eliminate all evidence of John's involvement. Outcome B1: No one notices, and John can continue living at Baker Street as usual. Likelihood… (factoring in Mycroft's resources) … 94%. Outcome B2: The ruse is revealed, and John goes to trial with a reduced chance for acquittal. Likelihood 6%.

He was busy considering possible impacts of the second option when Joan's heart rate spiked. Sherlock jumped up from the metallic chair and rushed at her side. "John?"

She eyed him tiredly. "I'm not dead?"

"Despite your best efforts" he huffed, instantly regretting it.

"Ah" was her only response before closing her eyes. She did not fall asleep though.

"Does it hurt?" Sherlock asked tentatively, because it certainly looked like it. "Do you need painkillers?"

"I'm fine" Joan gritted through her teeth.

"You don't look fine."

"You don't say."

They lapsed into a tense silence, where Joan was trying not to cry, and Sherlock was trying to figure out a course of action. Finally, he settled on a simple suggestion: "We can keep your role in the case under wraps."

Blue eyes flew open. "No."

The vehemence of her answer was unexpected. "Why not?"

"I knew what I was doing. I don't need big brother to shield me from responsibility."

"It is not necessary to involve Mycroft…"

"That's not it, Sherlock." She tried to pat him on the head but overestimated her current strength. Wincing, she settled on patting his hand. "I do not want special treatment."

"You want everyone to know?" he frowned. The idea of announcing Joan's faults to the world had not occurred.

"I want to pay the price for my crimes. In full. No shortcuts." Her voice was firm and confident, in stark contrast to her haggard appearance.

"But…"

"No one would trust me after that, yes." Her gaze softened at the sight of his confusion. "You should just leave me be, you know. Who would hire a detective who lived with a serial killer?"

"Lives."

"What?"

"Who lives with a serial killer" Sherlock insisted.

"I'm going to prison" Joan reminded him gently.

"That remains to be seen. Nevertheless, unless it is against your wishes, I see no problem with you staying at Baker Street." He was damned if he let her go that easily.

"I drugged you."

"With no lasting effects, I must add."

"I ran away and tried to kill someone."

"It might happen to me as well."

"I'm a wreck."

"So am I."

They glared heatedly at each other, before Joan let out a strained giggle. Soon enough they were both trying to catch their breath from laughing too hard. "Shit…" the blogger panted. "Now I am dizzy."

"You're not getting rid of me with some murders, John" Sherlock stated. "Quite the contrary."

# #

Despite Joan's protests, Holmes magic made the whole thing into a closed trial, no media allowed. She let her lawyer explain the whole thing, even if she felt that putting the accent on their young age and trauma had been unnecessary. She answered as truthfully as she could, about Hannah, about their pact, about their plotting and about the actual murders.

When asked about Falcone's death, she explained that they spent two years approaching him, trying to get as much information as possible, and Joan had been on the front lines, in direct contact with their target, being the less conspicuous of the three. At that time, she still believed that they could hand the data over to the police and avoid the bloodshed. Henry would have to deal with it.

But then Alistair started getting suspicious, and she got wheeled off to a warehouse in a white van. It was pure dumb luck that Blake had witnessed the abduction, and that the boys managed to track it down before Falcone actually killed her.

The first murder had been such a sloppy affair… But the terror in Alistair's eyes when they injected him had set something off in Henry. "The first one" he had said, cutting the Roman numeral I into the cooling skin. He found his drug.

It only got worse from there.

Joan recounted everything in a monotone voice, gaze fixed on the far wall of the court room, never mentioning the fear, the guilt, the anger and all these other undecipherable emotions she had felt at the time. She didn't see the horrified looks on the jury's faces, nor the uneasy grimace of the magistrate.

At some point, the judge asked her: "Do you regret it?"

Do I? Joan wondered. I wanted them dead. I really did. I wonder why… It was supposed to help Henry. It was supposed to bring back Hannah. But it was never going to work. We damned ourselves for nothing. We set ourselves ablaze. "Yes" she answered, looking the older man in the eyes.

After a two-hours long deliberation, Joan Watson had been acquitted.

# #

"We did not have a private conversation for a long time now" Mycroft said, serving the tea. His minions had intercepted the doctor just when she was released from custody, and she could only imagine how badly Sherlock was reacting right now.

Joan wriggled on the sofa (that probably cost about the same as a kidney on the black market) and tried to smile politely. It came out as a grimace. "Indeed."

"Don't fret. I am quite satisfied with the outcome of your trial."

That came as a surprise. "Really? Why?"

Mycroft pushed the ornate teacup towards her and leaned back in his plush chair. "Despite my usual disregard towards all things sentiment related, and contrary to my brother, I understand the driving force and the impacts of it." The confusion on her face must have been quite apparent, since he sighed heavily and attempted to dumb down his argument. "I can understand why you participated in this 'pact'. Young children are quite impressionable, and idealistic. And you, in particular, are very loyal to your friends. You could not drop out of the whole debacle because you cared about these two men."

The thought of Henry (desperate, bitter, sick, mad, cruel) and Blake (shy, enamoured, rejected, broken, burning) made her shiver involuntarily. If they became like that, what about me? What am I now? She looked aside, if only to avoid the calculating eyes. "So?"

"It does not change the fact that your presence helped Sherlock" he stated calmly. "His own past is far from perfect. You can probably imagine what nine years of heavy drug use could do to a man." Joan looked up sharply at that. She knew about the drugs, of course, but not for how long it had been going on. "While most people see this as his defining trait, you only took it as one part of a whole. And he needs someone like you by his side."

"A murderer?" she asked incredulously.

"A friend."

# #

Even with a closed trial and an acquittal, her medical license had been revoked. Joan had stared at the letter for the longest time, then threw it in the bin. The next day, she landed a part-time job as a cashier in a nearby Tesco. At least now, they could get an employee discount on milk.

# #

The NSY had also caught wind of her involvement in a series of murders and the subsequent trial. Lestrade showed up about two days after she got back to Baker Street and attempted to discreetly quiz them about it. Sherlock exploded.

"For God's sake, Graham, she was acquitted! Let it be!"

"I know, but there'll be all sorts of rumours" he tried to justify his actions. "Give me something so I could try to tone it down."

Joan, who had been watching them silently while leaning on the kitchen door, finally spoke up. "Don't. I never intended to hide it, but I won't go around announcing my story to everyone."

Both men stared at her in various degrees of disbelief. "Are you… sure?" Greg asked, a little hurt she included him in 'everyone'.

"Can't be worse than what actually happened."

Shortly after, he left, without any answers.

# #

Sherlock noticed that Joan had barely slept a couple of hours since she was released from custody. And it had been four days already. Usually, he would not pay attention to such trivia, but bloody Mycroft had warned him about the potential fallbacks of the trauma, and unfortunately, the fat git made sense. He tried the proven technics, playing soothing pieces on the violin, watching old movies with an endless supply of tea, but it did not work.

Joan was getting paler than a ghost, twitchy, grumpy and completely apathetic.

"John? Shouldn't you sleep?" he ended up asking on the fifth night, while she gulped down another mug of coffee.

Her gaze was dull and tired, but her voice was sharp. "I don't think so."

"You will have to, eventually."

"Since when do you worry about someone else's sleep patterns?" she narrowed her eyes.

"Since you're trying to kill yourself by sleep deprivation."

"And what if I am?"

This response cut into him like a very sharp knife. Rationally, Sherlock understood that she was not thinking properly anymore, no one could in that state. However, the idea of her intentionally bringing herself to the brink of death, especially so soon after getting into the ICU from a stab wound, was extremely unsettling. "Why?" he asked softly.

Joan seemed to instantly regret her words though, as she shuffled from feet to feet and looked away. "I don't want to dream" she finally said, barely a whisper. "I still see them burning." He did not know how to react to this.

Sherlock ended up slipping a pill in her tea, and Joan slept for twelve hours straight.

# #

It had been several months since the trial. Joan continued working a light schedule at the cash desk and following Sherlock around on cases. The rumours in the Yard died down, for lack of new information, even if she still got odd looks now and then.

Mycroft showed up occasionally, and she was certain that one day he will call upon his favour from her. He was holding it for now, possibly out of curtesy to Sherlock.

Sherlock… well, Sherlock became slightly more considerate, with a tenacious motivation to make her sleep at least six hours a night. Joan did not like to sleep. Without sleeping pills, the rest often turned into a nightmare, and she did not want to get addicted to these things.

She would often just lay down and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember her childhood, and things they did while Hannah was alive. Good times, good laughs.

Sometimes, Joan would smile coldly in the dark at one particular memory.

Henry was pounding his fists against the tree. Blake tried to stop him when the bark started to tear into the skin, and they wrestled for several minutes. "Let's find them ourselves" Joan suddenly said. The boys stared at her, frozen in the most ridiculous positions. "Let's find them. And make them pay."

"Like… bring them to the police?" Henry asked, straightening up.

Eleven-year-old Joan clenched her jaw in grim resolution. "Maybe. Or just kill them."

Something ignited in Henry's eyes, mirroring her own quite immature but very real rage, and Blake stepped back at the sight. "Yes. Let's kill them."

# #

A/N2: Well, that got out of hand. I feel like it's the closest I'll ever get to evil!John. I don't even know why my brain tries so hard to make it happen.