She thinks of him as the man steps out from the cubicle in the Ladies restroom. She thinks of him as she grabs, not pepper spray - she has none, in her London purse - but her perfume, and sprays repeatedly at the eyes of her attacker.
She thinks of him as the man gets his hand over her mouth to kill her scream, and the bottle of Guerlain smashes on the floor. She tries to wriggle so that her attacker falls into the glass, or slips on the spilled fragrance, but she is already being bundled through the kitchen.
"Illegal immigrant," growls her captor to the pale young men at the stoves and sinks. Joan appeals to the staff with her eyes but the implication that UK Immigration is here turns everyone to stone. Joan cannot speak, cannot yell, I am an American citizen, I am on vacation, I am a detective. Her words have been cut off and there are only her thoughts
The man is joined round the back of the cafe by another man, who helps him get Joan into the back of a van. Ford Transit, white, neither clean nor dirty, three year old license plate. Absolutely unremarkable.
Joan is tied one-handed to a hook in the plywood wall of the van. "Hang on if you can," says the van driver nastily. There is nothing to hang on to. Joan will be thrown around in here, tethered as she is by one wrist. She is free to speak now but nothing comes.
If Sherlock was here he would have noticed her unusually long absence. Sherlock's cousin, sitting in the cafe enjoying what he imagines is a friendly cup of coffee with Joan, is good but he is not tuned in to her, does not know that she is not the kind of woman who spends fifteen minutes in the bathroom adjusting hair and make-up or chatting with other females she might encounter.
The van roars away with Joan's captors in the front. She is alone for the moment and she tries to notice things but it is impossible with the van lurching around corners (how many? She has already lost count) and the stress of having been kidnapped.
It is obviously Moriarty behind the kidnap. And it is almost obvious that Joan will be the bait to lure Sherlock to Moriarty. This is what she suggested to Sherlock's cousin, hoping he could help her deflect the attack. The other possibility is that Joan is the final target. The fact that Sherlock went right to Moriarty and was ignored or rejected, rather suggests this second line of thought. But thinking that way just scares her, so she stops. How to escape?
Sherlock would use whatever was around him. Joan scans the van, rummages awkwardly in her pockets. She has lost her purse where there would be tweezers and pins, small scissors. She has nothing in her pockets except tissues. Useless.
There are windows in the back doors of the van, but she cannot reach these. There are a couple of small gaps in the floor, or rather, beside the wheel arches. Not big enough to put your hand through, much less your body. How will Sherlock know where she went?
Moriarty will tell him. If Joan is bait, Moriarty will provide a location for an exchange.
If Joan was the target, if this was just a hit, Joan would be dead already. She takes comfort from this idea.
She feels with her free hand in her pockets again – jeans, cardigan...lip balm. Pale pink petroleum jelly kind.
She can devise no weapon or escape tool based on Vaseline and tissues.
Cold air from the hole in the wheel arch chills her knee.
A tissue could block the draught. Or – a tissue could be stuffed through the hole. A trail of breadcrumbs?
Joan gets out a tissue. How to distinguish it from some other piece of litter? A message. She dabs her finger in the Vaseline. Too clear. It does not stand out. She rubs her index finger over her lips to pick up some colour. Better. She writes JW on the tissue and stuffs it through the hole. It disappears.
It might be immediately stuck in the engine. She has no way of knowing. All the same, she writes her initials on the remaining tissues and dumps them out of the van one at a time. The last one is very faint – her lipstick is gone.
That's it. Most likely her final communication – two letters on a tissue. And not what she would write with endless time and a pen. How would she even begin that letter?
Thank you, she thinks. She would begin with a thank you for all the things she has learned. For all the things she has seen and people she has met. For the new strength she has found in herself, for her new self in total. For friendship and camaraderie in the face of danger. There would be gratitude for the times he saved her life and no accusation for this one time he has not been able to.
There are no regrets. She is glad she has known him, helped him, allowed him to change her life too. She can even smile, thinking of him. He will find Moriarty, and bring her to justice, and Moriarty will not fool him with any charm or bribery. Moriarty's power over him is gone, and doubly so if Joan is killed. Sherlock might not be demonstrative but Joan is as sure of him as if he told her every day how much he cares. It is in his every motion, his every glance and twitch.
He will win, he will ensure Moriarty is punished, he will survive this time without drugs and, she hopes, without regrets. He is a whole man again now, and he can continue his life.
He made Joan who she is now, but she has made him too, and she is proud of that.
Not many people get to rebuild a genius.
Joan takes deep breaths. The van is slowing. Soon Moriarty will be here. Joan is determined not to show fear. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the one thing which always gives her strength, which reminds her that the human mind is capable of almost anything. In her mind's eye she sees him and he her and all is well between them. Things are good.
It is the end.