One minute, Joan was in her room with her noise-canceling headphones in, because even though she didn’t begrudge Sherlock his parade of willing and wanton bed partners,
she had no desire for their cries to form the soundtrack to her latest writing attempt; the next, she was kneeling on the floor with her hands behind her back tied to her ankles,
and Mistress Felicia was looming over her.
Felicia’s hand was raised in a slap and Joan flinched back, body feeling strangely large and hypersensitive, but before her hand connected Felicia paused, examining Joan closely. “Color, Mr.
Joan opened her mouth, wondering how to explain this, when there was a crash and the sound of feet pounding down the stairs. The door burst open and Joan’s body was there, eyes wild.
“Euglassia Watsonia! Euglassia Watsonia! Red light, Mistress, red light!”
Joan knew she should be freaking out, should be demanding to know what the hell happened — what the hell Sherlock must have done, because really,
this sort of thing never happened to anyone but Sherlock — but her brain stalled out on one detail.
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