"I'm a detective," said Joan, through gritted teeth, "not a babysitter."

"And he," said Gregson, "is a close friend of the mayor's. So until I tell you otherwise, you have a new partner. Congratulations."

Holmes held up a finger. "Technically, we're not friends. He owes me a favour."

"And that makes it so much better," said Joan. "Captain, with all due respect—"

"With all due respect, Watson, this is not negotiable."

Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Shall we get started, then?"

Joan had read exactly one Sherlock Holmes novel. She found it exhausting, verging on manic, plot wound so tight with twists and turns that when it finally came unravelled it felt like breaking the surface after a long dive.

Holmes was still watching her expectantly.

"Don't touch anything, don't talk to anybody, do not get in my way. Do I make myself clear?"

"Miss Watson – it is 'Miss' Watson, isn't it? My books are always meticulously researched. I know more about how to conduct myself at a crime scene than you do."

Joan clenched her fists at her sides and looked away. "Just don't get in my way," she repeated.

She wondered why her, why now. Why Sherlock Holmes.

--

Holmes obeyed the letter of her orders but not the intent, a constant voice in her ear like a backseat driver. He was observant and cynical and so very sure of himself, throwing questions at her witnesses and smirking when they fumbled the response.

He was, she had to admit, probably the most effective partner she'd ever had.

On day five, she sat him down at a desk opposite her and fanned a series of folders in front of them.

"Welcome to the job of a New York City police detective," said Joan. "Reading statements, revising the evidence, reading the statements again. Desperately hope for a breakthrough. Repeat."

"Sounds right up my alley," said Holmes. "Revising a manuscript is all about looking for what doesn't fit and getting rid of it."

She snorted. "If you're so good at this, why are you a writer, not a detective?"

"Real crime is rarely as interesting as the ones I can come up with," said Holmes. "So poorly planned, such selfish motives. And since I have no interest in becoming a career criminal – too risky, you understand – I became a writer."

"And why me?"

"You were a doctor once, were you not?"

"Yes," she said, cautiously. "I quit and entered the police academy."

"You didn't become an ME. Why? Dead bodies, there's no risk there. No chance of accidentally taking someone's life."

Blood on her gloves. Slick and wet.

"I was through with the medical profession," said Joan. "Can we talk about something else?"

"My last detective's understanding of the human body was far too limiting," said Holmes. "He always needed to consult an ME before he could get started. Delays, delays, delays. But you—"

"I can't just look at a body and tell you how the person died," said Joan. "Or the time of death. That's impossible."

"No," said Holmes. "But you can make an educated guess, can't you?"

"If you're here to observe me, then observe me," said Joan. "I don't need to answer your questions."

"I'm not your enemy, Watson."

"No," said Joan. "The enemy is the criminals I'm letting get away because I'm too busy being distracted by you."

"It was the step-son," said Holmes.

"Excuse me?"

"The step-son," said Holmes. "Read his statement again. You'll see it."

Joan picked up the paper again and skimmed the text through. "Son of a—" She slammed it back on the bench. "We're going to need a warrant."

"You said 'we'," said Holmes. "Now, the first person pronoun in English can have two possible meanings, one includes the person being spoken to, the other does not. But in this case, I think—"

"Holmes," said Joan. "Are you coming or not?"