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In the end, The Woman turns out to be a mask herself. The mask meant for Sherlock, to undo him, to shatter him. To entertain her briefly.
One of the hundreds of other masks that she owns and puts on every single day. The man on the phone, the puppet master, the terrorist. The painter, the shattered woman. The actor that plays every part of the play, commanding attention.
There are times that Joan walks down the street, any street, and thinks she sees Irene. Just a lost person in a crowded city, anonymous with nothing but that blonde hair waving in the wind to reveal her.
But she is more, she is everything, she is powerful. She cants her head at Joan, in the hospital room, a hint of amusement.
And she becomes nothing, hands cuffed behind her back, not shying away from Joan’s gaze when Bell leads her down the hallway.
She holds her head even, this is not the end.
The first time Joan dreams of her, she has her back turned, on the edge of a building.
“You wouldn’t,” The curve of her body remains still, framed by the sky. She has a too familiar wound on her left shoulder blade, seeping through her shirt.
Joan has a gun that she’s been pointing right at where Irene’s heart is, she doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there and her arm is starting to grow heavy.
“I have to.”
It’s her voice and it’s her shooting the gun.
Other nights, she can’t quite catch her breath, gripping the edge of the living room table she’s backed herself into to keep her upright.
“You solved me,” Irene’s words are warm, soft. But the smell of her is sharp, permeating the air. All the blood and anger, boiling away under the surface.
“You are no mascot, Watson.”
Joan lifts her head, trying to avoid the fingertips reaching for her chin, the even, cut nails nipping at her skin.
“No.” She says with enough finality to hope that Irene will go, now that they’ve both reached a conclusion. Irene has words on her lips as she moves closer, she has a name on her tongue she hasn’t said yet.
“You are more than a woman.” A pause, “Joan.”
Sherlock gets news over lunch that Moriarty has been set free. Her prison transport mysteriously stopped at the side of a highway and burst into flames hours before. Joan takes the time to consider the angry lines of his forehead, the way he needs to get up and leave without taking a jacket.
Joan opens her eyes in a room that she has never seen before, filled with windows and sunlight. And tens of original paintings, propped up with care.
Moriarty’s arms are exposed, streaked with paint and fresh burn marks. She collects her brushes, methodically laying them out on a newspaper covered table.
“You are quite good at this game,” The woman’s smile is blurry as Joan blinks her eyes. She kicks at the blanket tangled around her legs.
‘But evidently, not good enough.’ Her fingers tinker with unscrewed glass bottles.
“Why did you bring me here?” Joan’s mouth is dry, she’s already searching for a weapon, for leverage.
“I was curious.” The portraits watch them from a distance. “I don’t understand you, yet.”
Moriarty’s eyes narrow and suddenly all eyes are on Joan and the way her pulse races when she finds the scalpel on the table. “I could always examine you, piece by piece.”
Her fingers hold the instrument delicately, as Joan would before taking a deep breath and making her first cut.
Sherlock makes his tea and watches his televisions for over an hour, ruminating in the details of their newest case. Something is off, something is odd. The air outside is wrong, ripe with impending rain and the rumble of thunder. Joan lays back for the first time in days, her body aches but when her eyes finally shut, she cannot truly rest.
There is a road that stops at the docks, a body on the concrete, spilling red past Moriarty’s expensive high heels.
“He didn’t listen. He didn’t understand.” She mumbles to herself. Joan wraps her arms tighter, burying her hands in her sleeves. The man doesn’t have a face. The mask is cracked to reveal nothing.
“It meant too much to him.” Moriarty stands, brushes her hands off, “…And you won’t let me win.”
“Why won’t you let me, Watson?”
Joan doesn’t back away when there is a hand at her throat, with no force behind it.
“Why?” Moriarty’s hand is warm on her collarbone, trying to push her away.
Joan looks again, past the woman’s shoulder. The man’s lifeless body is Sherlock’s, then Gregson’s, then Bell. And then it’s her brother, her mother.
“What do I need to do to make you understand?”
“Watson, wake up.” Sherlock squeezes her shoulder lightly, “I have the answer.”
Joan brushes the hair out of her eyes, ready to complain. But it’s morning and the rain has cleared. Sherlock has coffee waiting for her in the kitchen. “Come with me.”
They change into warm clothes and travel to the plaza, sectioned off from the population by police tape. And as Sherlock loses himself in an explanation, Joan feels eyes on her from beyond the crowd that has stopped to look at them.
Joan thinks, hopes, this is how it will remain.