"Where am I?" Joan asked as soon as the bag over her head was (rather flamboyantly, if she was honest) pulled off. She had to blow her hair out of her face, her hands bound behind her. Her ankles were tied to the legs of the incredibly uncomfortable chair she was sitting on.

"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you," came an incredibly familiar voice. A voice she was supposed to have been hearing right before being kidnapped. "Of course, I plan to do so anyway – in the long run, at least."

Mycroft.

He stepped out of the shadows of the room, and Joan couldn't help but roll her eyes a little and think 'drama queen'. "Then why am I here?"

"If I told you that-"

"Okay, I get the picture. You're gonna kill me, presumably to emotionally cripple Sherlock and send him back into a Heroin spiral, at which point you'll play the hero, send him back to rehab and get into Daddy's good books?" She suggested, remaining defiant despite the fact that all the guys in the room were pretty bulky and carrying guns.

She received an incredibly harsh slap across the face.

"You know nothing of my plans, Joan, don't pretend you do. Don't let Sherlock's own arrogance and assurance in his deductions seep into you. I think you're better than that."

"I think you're a diva. This is so dramatic, it's like Stereotypical Kidnapping 101, I mean really?"

She hoped she was setting him on edge with her confidence, her arrogance, her assurance in her survival. It didn't seem to do anything other than provoke him to slap her again in annoyance.

She grit her teeth as the knife dragged across her chest, leaving a long wound from breast to breast. She regretted putting on a tank top before going to Diogenes.

She clenched her fists and let her head drop back, refusing to make a sound as a gash was slashed into her thigh, through her jeans. She noted it was very deep, when she brought her head back up. If it wasn't treated or she wasn't killed within a two or three days, she would likely bleed out.

"Don't touch me," She muttered, kicking out at the muscled sleaze who stared lecherously at her. She was weak, having been without food or water for what felt like days, but she still managed a strong head-butt, giving him a broken and bleeding nose.

He walked off muttering something about her being a 'bitch', as Mycroft entered the room again.

"If you're going to kill me, I'd get on with it," she slurred, a little disoriented by the blood loss and the rapid movement. "I'll have bled out soon, and that's just no fun, is it?"

He smirked a little as he looked down at her. "We're going to give Sherlock a little call," he said, taking out a burner phone and dialling his brother's number before handing it off to one of the lackeys.

Sherlock picked up almost instantly, putting the caller on speaker so that the whole precinct could hear.

"Sherlock Holmes, are you?" Mycroft asked. "I've got Joan on the line here. She can have three words for you, how does that sound?" He didn't give Sherlock the chance. "Actually, make that three syllables. Bit of a challenge for her, hm?"

He held the phone to Joan's ear. Sherlock started to talk to her and try to reassure her that they would find her, as she stared blankly ahead and thought this through.

She could only think of one thing she knew would help.

"Get Jamie," She said, the phone pulled away as soon as she was done. Neither the lackeys nor Mycroft understood, and so shrugged it off.

The phone was crushed under a foot, but Joan didn't see who did it, a canvas bag slipped over her head. She usually took that as a time to sleep.

"Sherlock, Captain, so good to see you a- hey!" Moriarty protested as she was grabbed by officers and her hands cuffed behind her back. "What the bloody hell is this?!" She asked, fighting against the officers.

"Jamie Moriarty, we're taking you in for questioning on the kidnapping of Joan Watson," Gregson explained.

Jamie's eyes widened and her lips parted. She shook her head quickly and stopped struggling. "I would never hurt Joan. Sherlock," She sighed, looking over at him. "Sherlock, I would never hurt Joan. Joan is supposed to be under my protection, as a matter of fact," She explained. "Though I presume, since my incarceration, my people have been slacking."

"Joan's kidnappers phoned me," He said, hands pushed into his coat pockets. "They gave her three syllables. She told me to 'get Jamie'. So here we are. Getting you, for kidnapping her."

"I would never kidnap Joan!" She exclaimed, struggling again and making her way over to him, coming almost nose to nose. She repeated her statement there, hoping the close proximity would help Sherlock see the truth in it. "I wouldn't hurt Joan, not ever. I should think she was telling you to get me for my assistance."

Sherlock hesitated as Gregson waited on his verdict.

"She's telling the truth," he muttered, turning away and rubbing his eyes. It was his exhaustion, worry for Joan, and bias towards Moriarty that led to his misinterpretation of Joan's message. He wondered how much time he'd wasted in pursuing a warrant for the blonde's arrest.

Jamie rubbed her wrists after the handcuffs were removed, and took a deep breath. "Right then. I need my closest team, my car, and my gun," She said, putting her hands on her hips. "I'll find Joan, but I'll do this my way, I don't want the help of the FBI or NYPD – or even you, Sherlock."

She headed for her chest of drawers, packing a bag of clothes. "You're exhausted. You need a bath and a hot meal and a good night's sleep – Captain Gregson, see to it that he gets them, or he won't."

"Wait," Gregson scoffed. "You think we're going to let you out of here?"

"Captain, I cannot afford to be distracted by business whilst Joan's life hang in the balance. I can assure you that I will not be partaking in any illegal activities. Now get me my men."

He looked to Sherlock again, seeing him nod and confirm that Moriarty was again telling the truth.

Joan was being properly beaten now. She'd been unbound from the chair, her captors sure that she was too weak to fight back or make a run for it.

The deep gash in her thigh was no doubt infected at this point, and she had to wonder how much longer it would be before she got blood poisoning – if she didn't die first.

She found herself face down on the floor, feeling surges of pain all over her body. She was forcefully turned over onto her back, and prepared herself for the worst. She squeezed her eyes shut, but before anything could happen, she heard two gunshots in quick succession.

The man standing above her toppled over sideways, and she stayed waiting, expecting the next shot to be for her.

Then she heard heels clicking on the stone floor towards her, caring hands cradling her head and back as she was raised into a sitting position.

"Joan, darling, can you walk?" Jamie asked softly, other gunshots sounding throughout the building.

"I don't," She sighed heavily, opening her eyes and leaning into Moriarty's touch. "I don't know. I can try," She muttered, mouth dry.

Jamie reached behind her, a water bottle tightly tucked into her back pocket. "Here, sweetie, drink up," She said, opening it for Joan and keeping her held up.

"Boss, its all clear, every guy here has a bullet in him," a man said from the doorway, and Jamie nodded.

"Mycroft," Joan said between gulps. "It was Mycroft. I still don't know why."

"I know, darling, I know it was him. We've already captured him and given him to the police to deal with. Come along, we need to get you to hospital."

"No, no, the police will get a hit on my name, and Sherlock will be straight there. I need… I need time."

Jamie started to help Joan to her feet, vowing to torture Mycroft far more terribly than he'd hurt Joan, hating her pained whimpers.

She wasn't sure she'd let him live, though.

"It's alright, I know a hospital that won't put you on the books and will treat you without question, okay?"

In the car, Joan found herself resting her head on Jamie's shoulder, and clutching her arm.

"Do you trust me, Joan?" Jamie asked quietly, a few minutes into the journey.

Joan thought about it for a moment, shifting to get more comfortable and wincing in pain.

"Yes," she admitted eventually, nodding a little.

"Why? Why trust a criminal mastermind?"

"When we first met," Joan began to explain, "You were Irene Adler. You'd been 'held captive' and 'traumatised', and I felt sorry for you. And even after you revealed yourself to be Moriarty, you saved Sherlock's life by shooting the guy who was shooting him. And you visited him in the hospital when you thought he'd overdosed.

"And then with Kayden Fuller… I don't know what your past was with her, if you'd ever even interacted with her after giving birth, but you were angry and you were insistent on saving her," she said.

"And now you've saved me, and you're taking care of me – you're obviously not under NYPD orders, or you would have taken me straight to them. They'd have been outside waiting for you to get me out. You care. Whether or not you'll admit to it, you care. You're like an anti-hero."

Jamie watched Joan, and gave her hand a small squeeze. "I suppose I'm more of an anti-villain."

It was more than a week later when they finally twisted out Mycroft's reasoning for kidnapping Joan. He had wanted to send Sherlock in a downward spiral, yes, but not to save him and get their father's approval. He'd wanted them both dead – for reasons he refused to admit.

Moriarty had speculated that he was aiming for becoming the next criminal mastermind, now that she was imprisoned. Obviously that wasn't going to happen.

When Sherlock returned home and made tea for himself and Joan, and explained everything Mycroft had admitted to.

She was remarkably quiet, and once her cup was empty she slowly made her way upstairs. She'd had to have the infected skin on her thigh removed, and was using a cane to help her out.

Sherlock, bless him, had been waiting on her hand and foot, regularly checking how she was feeling when they were out and about, in case she was in too much pain. Not that she'd been honest with him lately. Since the whole experience she'd been incredibly resigned.

She curled up in bed, careful not to irritate her wound, and looked at her phone.

Moriarty – Jamie – had given her her number in case she ever wanted to talk to someone who wasn't Sherlock, or who wasn't a man (Joan's trust of them seriously diminishing after the kidnapping).

She was about to dial it when Jamie called her, and she smiled a little as she answered.

"How are you feeling? I'm told you had to have surgery in the end. You have a cane."

Joan laughed a little, "Yeah, I'm still in pain. It's fine though, I got myself a fancy cane instead of one of those old people ones. It has a metal wolf-head handle. A little girl told me I looked badass," She smiles.

"I'd like to see you, Joan," Jamie said, looking over at her new baby sitter, who'd replaced Agent Mattoo. "You should come over one day, I'll cook. We'll have a nice dinner in."

"Not to offend you, but I don't want to be shut in another dank, windowless room with anyone. I'd much prefer a public place, or you could come here."

Jamie nodded to herself. "Of course, of course. I'll see what I can do. Anyway, you should rest, it's late."

A/N: There we go. If there's enough interest I'll probably do their dinner date and maybe things will get frisky? Idk. Depends what you readers would like/prefer.