Sorry for the wait! Things have been crazy. Please review! Any ideas and constructive criticism is always appreciated!

Tishbing

Chapter Six

Watson stuffed the images from the tech in her lab coat, intending to go back to work. She'd reached the A&E reception when her phone started to vibrate in her pocket. Sighing, Joan pulled it out and glanced at the screen seeing a text and several missed calls from Lestrade.

The lunchtime news theme started on one of the waiting room telly's and distracted Joan.

"And breaking news from the press room at New Scotland Yard. Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan is leading a press release on the case of Sherlock Holmes and Richard Brook. As most of you will remember..."

Joan couldn't listen anymore. It felt as if the eyes of the entire waiting room were on her. The screen flashed a candid picture of her and sherlock in that stupid deerstalker and a hush fell on the room. The news ticker scrolled along the bottom of the screen as Sally Donovan stepped up to the podium. The words 'Sherlock Holmes-Innocent!' scrolled over and over.

It was like someone had turned the sound up suddenly but it was a roar that was unintelligible. Joan felt her breakfast trying to make an appearance and she moved to the receptionist quickly telling her that she wasn't feeling well and needed the next few days off. The woman's jaw was practically on the floor as she nodded in understanding.

Joan made a fast stop at her locker, grabbed her rucksack and made her way out into the busy London streets, needing to lay low until the excitement wore down. She didn't need reporters or fans finding her, questioning her or giving her pity at the fact that she had been right all along.

xXxooooooxXx

Mycroft restrained himself from throwing something when he received the report upon his return to the office. One task! This team was assigned one simple task and they were scrambling like first year agents! The surprise announcement from NSY was too soon and yet, not soon enough. He pulled up his surveillance on University College Hospital and could see reporters flooding the scene for a glimpse of Dr. Watson.

Anthea had upped the status to level 2 active for Joan but Morstan and Jacobs couldn't locate her. She'd simply disappeared. Her phone was not traceable. Most likely shut off. He would kill Sherlock for giving her these tips at avoiding him.

Her skills rivaled his brother's at avoidance of his usual methods and it was very concerning. The subtle threat from mere weeks ago was in the forefront of his mind. It was possible that she had been taken but the more likely scenario was that she was simply attempting to gain some distance from the veritable circus that was unfolding.

A visit to the Detective Inspector seemed prudent. After all, it wouldn't do for the local constabulary to forget their place. There had been no advance warning of this announcement and it put his family in danger.

xXxooooooooooxXx

It was late evening before Joan arrived home, fingers aching from her session at Madam Bussard's. It had felt amazing, focusing on something that was beautiful and had a future rather than the pain of the past. Oh, the pain came up but rather than cry about it, she played. The notes that Sherlock's old Stradivarius sang were the balm to soothe her ragged soul. It was nowhere near Sherlock's skill but she was getting better as time wore on.

It was her secret. The one thing Mycroft and the world had no clue about it. It was where she would disappear to one night a week for her lesson. She had called her teacher and she had simply understood. Her hideout where she could feel. It was better than any form of therapy Ella had provided. She was beginning to understand why Sherlock had played all hours in their old flat.

It had been one of the few things she had taken from 221B. She figured this gift was something she could pass on and try to fill her new home with music. There had been many a night when she had woken in a sweat from her nightmares of blood and sand, only to be soothed back into a calm sleep by notes traveling up the stairs unasked by her friend.

She pulled off the shaggy brown wig and jacket, wincing as the strap on her bag jarred her bad shoulder. Her flat was dark and there was no hint of reporters. Joan smiled, knowing Mycroft had something to do with that.

Pulling out her mobile and flicking the power button, she walked up to the front steps and quickly let herself in. Multiple beeps signified a large number of voicemails, missed calls and texts. Joan rolled her eyes and scrolled through the notices, bypassing her notices for her cameras. She rolled her eyes. Of course Mycroft had sent someone into her flat.

His attempts at surveillance were impressive but the people who had been recruited by Sherlock operated a bit shadier and better than what Mycroft had. His cameras that turned up in her flat had been repurposed into her cameras. The best that the Secret Service had to offer was a great incentive for the techies. She kept a few, gave them the rest, and they set hers up to a different account so she can ensure her privacy.

Joan tossed her jacket on her settee and moved through her living room, eyes on her phone, to the bedroom, shooting off a quick text to Mycroft to assure him she was fine and at home.

Perhaps she had become complacent these past few months but she wasn't prepared for the sight that met her eyes. Joan looked up to grab her bathrobe for a shower and dropped her phone in shock. Her bedroom was destroyed. Red was splashed all over her walls, the substance still dripping. Her bed had been slashed and torn beyond recognition. Black roses and red poppies strewn over the mess. Her clothes had been ripped from her cupboards and had, similarly, been doused in the red liquid that, sickeningly, looked like blood.

It was what was on the wall that caused Joan to stumble. 'YOU NEVER DESERVED HIM!' in dripping red and underneath, a picture with a large butcher knife stabbed through it.

Joan shivered, feeling suddenly cold and moved towards the grainy picture. Her breathing had become shallow and fast the closer she got. Joan's stomach clenched to try and empty itself at the smell in her room, the iron tang. It was definitely blood on her walls.

She swallowed against a flood of saliva and moved close, squinting in the darkened room. The picture was of her and Sherlock but it definitely wasn't a public picture like those that had been on the news. It was of that night. Their last night together. Joan lost the battle and turned and threw up, the acid burning her throat as her dinner made an appearance.

The picture was blurry but the images were clear enough. There was Joan, on her back, head thrown back with Sherlock on top of her, kissing the side of her neck while she held on with her arms around his shoulders and her legs gripping his hips, both of them naked. Her face was where the knife had been stabbed through, attaching the picture to the wall.

Someone had been watching them and that someone was very angry. Mycroft's words of warning that she had brushed off as nothing moved to the forefront of her mind.

Her phone started beeping for her attention and Joan moved from her crouch but a creak in the floorboard stopped her. The hairs on the nape of her neck stood up and the feeling of being watched caused Joan to freeze. Someone was right behind her!

The fight or flight instinct warred and Joan struck out, spinning from her crouch with a punch. The was a surprised oompf and a flash of black before Joan jumped over the large body blocking her way. She scrambled,heart pounding in panic and nearly made it to the door before she was seized around the middle.

The man grunted and swung her like a rag doll and Joan's head slammed against the doorframe. Kicking out, she missed and was rewarded by another slam into the doorframe. This time stars popped in front of her eyes. Dazed, Joan thrust her elbow back and the grip loosened enough to get out of his grip and scramble away but there was another intruder blocking her path.

Blood seeped into her eyes from the last encounter and Joan blinked, trying to clear her vision. The second assailant raised a gun at her and she raised her hands to show surrender, breathing hard.

The man in front was wearing all black, his face obscured by a knit ski mask. Joan heard the other man coming up behind her and tensed.

"Well well well, look who decided to show up early." A gruff voice from the first attacker. She could feel the air shift around her as he moved closer and Joan's heart beat a violent tattoo against her ribs as the adrenalin continued to flow. The gun from the second man was the only thing keeping her in check.

Clenching her fists in impotent rage, Joan remained still as he swept around her, raising a finger to the cut on her forehead, barely brushing the wound.

Joan trembled and pressed her lips together, shaking with suppressed energy. She heard a small laugh from him and had only a moment before blinding pain erupted from her left cheek, knocking her to the ground. The power from that punch had been enormous and she hadn't been ready, her focus having been on the gun.

"You fuckin idiot! We were told not to hurt her, yet."

"Bitch deserved it. She probably broke my ribs with that elbow."

Joan remained on the floor dazed, elbows holding her up and pulling her legs under her. The gun was still pointed at her but the focus was on the guy who hit her. She knew she was slow but she had to try. Surging up, she went for the gun, a loud bang from the weapon going off accidentally gave her the opportunity to knock it out of his hand. She brought up her knee to his groin and he went down but her arms were suddenly grabbed from behind.

Joan bucked and thrashed against the hold, only succeeding in him tightening his grip. The second man curled inwards, cursing and catching his breath.

"You are very lucky that we can't kill you." He growled. Joan pulled against the unrelenting grip and bared her teeth at him. Her phone went off again with another call and the man holding her tightening his fists on her arms, no doubt causing bruises. She knew that, by now, the older Holmes knew where she was and she hoped he was sending someone.

The man on the floor grunted, steeling himself and stood up, reaching into the pocket near his knee on his black cargo trousers. He pulled out a syringe and up capped it. The sight of hit caused Joan to refresh her struggles, fighting and bucking like a wild woman.

"Hold her still, Cal!" He snapped and moved to her side. The one holding her pulled her arms back at an awkward angle, causing her to cry out as her shoulder was strained, and kicked her legs out, causing her to fall to her knees and forward. She could feel his hot breath on her neck as he pressed himself against her to stop her violent movements.

"Next time we'll have some fun." He whispered his promise.

Her head was wrenched to the side and the other stabbed the needle into her neck. Burning pain and the fight suddenly fled Joan as the drug took effect. The pattern on the carpet swum and the pain from her injuries faded. She felt like she was drunk.

The men turned her over and Joan raised her head weakly but she only got it an inch off the floor before it fell back with a dull thunk. Her vision shimmered and faded as she watched through slitted eyes as the two men left laughing.