Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes is very aware that Joan Watson is not, and isn’t supposed to be, his savior.

Painfully aware, almost.

But it’s not as if he can forget it, anyway, since he finds himself repeating the phrase like a mantra over and over again throughout the week. Like when Watson pokes her insufferably curious nose into places where noses oughtn’t poke into, meddling and muddling under covers and behind furniture for some piece of forgotten evidence that she can use to prove her case.

He reminds her that he isn’t some tall-dark-and-handsome type that she can miraculously save, over yet another take-away breakfast, when she tries to surprise him into divulging some small tidbit of information about the London Mystery. Not that Sherlock is slow-witted enough to actually do so, anyway. Watson only rolls her eyes and makes an offhand comment about the weather.

She tries again later, though, and Sherlock can’t help but admire her tenacity.

But Watson isn’t his savior.