"Watson, what on earth are you doing?"

Joan leaned back, exasperated.

"Sherlock, these dishes aren't just dirty, they're growing cultures." She sighed disgustedly and continued picking through the pile of unwashed dishes at the sink. Sherlock seemed unimpressed and continued towards his bookshelf, climbing the rickety ladder he kept for reaching the higher shelves.

"I have to live here too, you know," she said to his back. When he didn't respond Joan shook her head. She wondered if Sherlock would notice when she inevitably threw a bowl at his head.

Sherlock, having fetched his book, sat at his desk and began flipping pages. After a moment he stopped and turned to Joan.

"Watson, you realize that according to the laws of entropy the sink will always veer towards a path of chaos and that your cleaning it is futile in the scheme of the universe?"

Joan threw him a dirty look.

"That logic doesn't apply when there are no more clean plates in the entire house!"

A small smile tugged at Sherlock's mouth.

"It always applies, Watson, it is a physical law." he said smugly.

Joan reached for a bowl.

Sherlock opened his mouth to voice another observation when a sharp whistle made him stop. He whipped his head around, checking that the front door was locked, then flicking his gaze to the living room. Nothing. Perhaps a noise from outside? He shifted his gaze front again in time to see Joan slap a hand to her neck and sink to the floor.

Sherlock immediately sprang into action. Keeping low, he shot across the floor to where Joan lay, now breathing hard. Her eyes were unfocused, but a quick examination of her dilated pupils told Sherlock that she had been drugged, not poisoned. He propped Joan's head up so that she wouldn't choke and tried to locate the location of the sniper. Several windows were open, it being summertime, but the angle of the small dart in Joan's neck suggested it had come through one of the east-facing windows.

He tugged gently at the dart and held his finger over the thin stream of blood that began leaking from Joan's neck. He could feel her pulse under his finger, and it was definitely below normal.

If he could get the two of them upstairs then the sniper had a far lower chance of hitting them again. Crossing the room was a risk, but staying put on the kitchen floor was suicidal. He scooped his arms under Joan and prepared to lift her over his shoulder. She was trying to mumble something, but Sherlock knew that speed was of the essence here. Hearing no sounds from outside, Sherlock bolted from the floor and ran the few yards to the staircase. A small sting in his thigh stopped him.

Sherlock's vision swam immediately. The sniper had clearly calculated two different dosages for them, because a dose for someone Joan's size would not have worked this quickly he knew. He made a valiant effort to gain the staircase but collapsed on the first couple steps, Joan now fully unconscious and trapped under him.

"C'mon, Watson, don't' slack." he mumbled, trying to get his long legs underneath him but failing.

Grabbing Joan's arms, he attempted to drag her up a step or two before his arms turned to liquid and he fell back, head thumping on the wooden staircase.

Before he blacked out completely, Sherlock heard the back door screech open.

Sherlock awoke with a start, his vision initially blurry. An instinctual bolt upright told him that he was seated awkwardly in an armchair and his wrists were bound behind his back. Sherlock realized he could feel the tranquilizer still creeping sluggishly through his veins and for a moment the world tilted around him. He couldn't see much in the gloom of his surroundings, but telling by smell alone he still seemed to be in the brownstone.

A hand touched his face.

Sherlock pulled back sharply. He knew that scent. His stomach heaved with a mixture of anticipation and utter dread.

"Hello, my darling," came the voice he knew so well, "Have you missed me?"

Sherlock drew himself upright immediately, the discomfort in his numb arms entirely forgotten, and stared at Irene Adler.

A fond smile played around her lips as she surveyed him. Sherlock sensed something else however . . . there was always a distinctly predatory nature about Irene. She raised her lips to reveal small, sharp incisors.

"Don't feel like talking just now?" she asked softly. Sherlock didn't say anything. "You talked so much when we were together," Irene continued, "I've never heard a man go on and on so much in fact. . ." she looked faintly disgusted.

Sherlock bit the insides of his cheeks to keep himself under control. Irene had been everything to him once. Now the true force of her sadism shone forth and hit him like a physical blow.

A faint stirring sounded from a few feet to Sherlock's left. He snapped his head around to see Joan, just waking up and struggling weakly against the ropes that tied her to another armchair. Irene walked over and took Joan's pulse, but was forced to pull back when Joan unexpectedly bit her wrist in defense. Irene took a step back, mildly amused, and hit Joan across the face.

"No!" Sherlock's cracked voice rang out, almost to his own surprise. "She's not your enemy, I am."

He pulled harder at the ropes around his own wrists, his mind balking at the sight of Joan so helpless. She was his anchor, even if he didn't want to admit it.

Irene grasped Joan's long hair firmly and pulled her head back, exposing her neck.

"She became my enemy the moment she set foot in your house, Sherlock," Irene hissed, "Or haven't you realized that this is how things work now?"

"What's your problem?" yelled Joan fiercely, staring Irene down. Irene just laughed and let go, turning her attention once more to Sherlock.

The ropes around Sherlock's wrists were proving too tight for him to slip. Joan could see his shoulders working and kept trying to slip her own ropes. Irene knelt in front of Sherlock now, her eyes the brightest things in the room.

She rubbed her hands slowly up and down Sherlock's thighs then, watching hungrily as he tried to recoil from her touch. Every time her hands went up they passed over the dart still imbedded in his leg. Sherlock winced, the dart clearly digging deeper into his flesh. Irene's face was alight with pleasure.

"If you're going to kill me, best get on with it." ground out Sherlock, trying to avoid her eyes.

Irene mock-pouted, her hands stilling. She grasped the dart and began moving it circularly, widening the wound in Sherlock's leg. Sherlock didn't make a sound but his lips tightened.

Joan was tensed in her seat, unable to see how she could possibly help Sherlock from her position. She knew he had a very high pain threshold, but was Irene going to poke him to death?

"Don't be in such a hurry, Sherlock." said Irene softly. "I want to play with you for many long years to come."

Beside the armchair there was a small, black bag. Irene picked it up and drew out a case containing a syringe and a small bottle, prepping the shot. Sherlock had gone rigid. He could tell what it was from yards away, by smell alone, or perhaps by the way his heart suddenly went into overdrive

Heroin.

Joan noticed too, just seconds after Sherlock. She struggled harder, frantically worried for Sherlock, who just stared at the syringe, apparently paralyzed.

"Why, Irene?" he asked finally, as she approached him.

She cocked her head in mock question, leaning over Sherlock with one hand resting on the chair behind his head.

"You mean why am I doing this? Simple," she paused and leaned closer, her lips almost against his cheek. Her breath was hot.

"I promised I would hurt you."

She leaned back and tapped the syringe gently, checking for air bubbles.

"Don't struggle, my darling," she said, taking Sherlock's upper arm in a surprisingly powerful grip.

"No-," Sherlock began, trying to jerk his arm away from her in vain. With a surge of strength he shoved Irene with his body so that she stumbled back a few paces and then threw himself out of the chair to land on his knees. He knew he could fight even with his arms bound behind his back, and tried to rise to his feet but his still-drugged movements were no match for her speed and strength.

Irene kicked the back of Sherlock's knees and wrestled him to the floor, pinning him facedown, her hand powerful on the back of his neck. Sherlock struggled, the contents of the syringe calling to him darkly. For a moment he wondered why he was even struggling. Part of him wanted to give in, to accept Irene's touch and the drug she was about to pump him full of, and another part of his mind screamed (in Joan's voice, maybe it actually was Joan) to fight back as hard as he could.

Sherlock fought.

But it wasn't enough. Irene jammed the syringe into his upper arm and sat back, flipping Sherlock onto his side so that she could watch his face. He could vaguely hear Joan yelling.

The world took on the familiar nuances and shapes that Sherlock remembered from his days as an addict. His heart raced uncomfortably. Before blacking out again, he saw Irene stand up and fade into the brightness that now pressed against his eyes.

Joan kept struggling as Irene packed up her bag and prepared to leave.

"You haven't destroyed him, you know," she shot at Irene, "Not even you can do that."

Irene's face was ugly for a moment.

"I can," she ground out, "and I have.

She stood in front of Joan once more, her eyes narrowed.

"Don't let him die. That would be so . . . boring."

Joan's eyes flicked to Sherlock, who was now panting on the floor and shaking.

When she looked back, Irene was gone.

It took Joan another fifteen minutes to finally work through the ropes holding her. Sherlock continued to shake in agony on the ground, clearly suffering from narcotic poisoning. As soon as she was loose she threw herself on the ground next to Sherlock and propped his head up.

A distant part of Joan felt strange; she'd never really even touched Sherlock before apart from the time he dislocated his own shoulder and she set it for him, and to see him so vulnerable with her hands on his head seemed uncomfortable. Irene had given him a big enough dose to where Sherlock was no longer lucid. He was attempting words but they were getting stuck in his throat. His hands grasped weakly at her jacket, and the sight almost broke Joan's heart. She wiped her eyes quickly and made sure Sherlock wouldn't choke before scrambling for her phone and punching in the emergency number. Her hands shook badly, her anger peaking. All of Sherlock's hard work only to end up with Irene's needle in his arm.

"Please state your emergency. . ."

Joan stayed in the hospital with him through the night. Sherlock alternately cried out and was silent, staring at the ceiling. They had him on an IV drip, trying to hurry the detox process but Joan could only guess how much agony he was in despite that. He called out strange half-phrases, mostly about Irene and the others intelligible.

When he finally awoke properly, Sherlock turned his head to see Joan sleeping in a chair by his hospital bed. She looked exhausted, and her hair had fallen back to reveal the bruise on her neck from the tranquilizer dart. His face softened slightly. No wonder she slept. Sherlock knew that his nights to come would be haunted by Irene's voice and the feeling of her hand on his neck, pushing him down and forcing the drug into his arm.

They arrived at the brownstone the following evening, Sherlock officially detoxed but still pale. Joan entered their living room first, fighting the urge to avert her eyes from the chairs where she and Sherlock had been tied.

"Want anything to eat?" she asked, "We still have peanut butter in the fridge, or I could order."

Sherlock hung his coat and scarf up before answering.

"Not so hungry, Watson."

Joan looked into the fridge so that she wouldn't have to face the self-hatred in Sherlock's eyes. She knew he blamed himself for his relapse, even though it had been forced. Not really hungry, but unwilling to sit still, she took bread and jam out of the fridge.

Sherlock paced over to his bookshelf, still avoiding the spot on the rug where he'd been pinned. He took down a few tomes and carried them to the desk where Joan sat, spreading jam on bread.

"Watson, your hands are shaking."

Joan took a deep breath, putting down the knife and pushing the finished jam sandwich a few inches away from her.

"Sherlock, I failed you. I should have been able to stop Irene from doing- that - to you, I should have known, I-"

Joan stopped then, unable to articulate the growing, pressing guilt inside of her.

Sherlock just stared.

"Watson, nothing that happened here was your fault."

Joan couldn't look him in the eyes. She had kept it together at the hospital, but now the wave of anger washed through her.

"Irene is my responsibility to keep at bay, mine to deal with. I have no right to ask you to fight her for me."

Joan sighed.

"Sherlock-" she didn't know how to say what she meant. "You don't have to ask me."

While she had been speaking, Sherlock had cut the jam sandwich in half and now he inched one of the halves towards Joan, keeping one in front of himself.

She pushed her hair back from her face and gave a tired smile.

"Thanks."

Sherlock ate his half of sandwich in silence, watching Joan closely.

When they had both finished, Sherlock stood.

"I'm beginning to realize that Watson, that thing you said. In a way that frightens me. Your camaraderie is very important to our cases- and to me.

He went to put the dirty plate in the sink. Joan sighed, the anger leaving her system and being replaced with a desire to sleep.

Sherlock noticed her relax.

"Watson, you realize that if I had been doing the dishes when we were attacked I would have been hit first, thus being unable to carry you to safety." he said, a small smile quirking his mouth.

Joan narrowed her eyes.

"I don't remember you carrying me to safety, Sherlock. If anything, I remember dragging you off the floor and to the hospital!"

Sherlock studied the dish intently.

"I'm heading to bed."

Joan got up and made her way towards the staircase.

"Watson-"

She turned back, expecting Sherlock to try and have the last word as usual.

He was still standing at the sink, and turned in her direction.

"Thank you, Watson. For staying. For-" he looked up at her finally, his face drawn, "-for everything, really." he finished. He didn't specify what "everything" meant, and Joan knew he never would.

Joan nodded hesitantly, half-thoughts and inexplicable feelings swarming her head. As much as she cared for Sherlock, she realized that wasn't a sentiment she could express to him.

So, in place of all the unspoken words between them, she simply said:

"Thank you too, Sherlock."