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pennavnprojects · 5 months ago

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JoanLock! WIP - Calling All Readers Pt. 2

Here's the rewrite. A while back, and I mean a whiiiiiiiile, I posted a first draft segment of my fanfiction-in-progress. Here's an update (finally)! Still some work to do, I got some great feedback at a local writer's group, but it's getting there!

A lone siren released a desolate “wop!” as Joan disembarked from the ambulance. She jumped down, shielding her eyes from the bright, flashing red and blue lights. She approached the yellow police tape, mentally hyping herself up for the next job.

Her first night as an EMT had been a mixed bag. First two calls had been falls, an elderly woman down the stairs then a young man in his shower. After that, it had been a uni student in the throes of alcohol poisoning. Like Joan, she was blonde. Unlike Joan, she had spent the majority of the night partying, celebrating her induction into Uni. Joan wished she too could party it up, but didn’t envy the girl the hangover she was sure to wake with.

Her last call came in around 3 AM. A woman was found unresponsive in an abandoned building on the edge of town. Joan warred with her sense of excitement at the potential crime and the sensibility that warned normal people did not get excited about violence. Her excitement was winning.

First on the scene, she briefly looked around for the 999 caller, but saw no one in the vicinity. She glanced to her partner, who shrugged. They both bustled up the building’s rotting stairs, checking each floor for a sign of life or a body. They found the latter. Her partner silently let her take the lead, and it was Joan who pronounced DOA. Her previous thrill flickered, gradually dying like an oxygen-starved candle, as she and her partner followed procedure, calling in Scotland Yard and vacating the premises.

Soon enough, several cop cars had arrived and Joan was subject to routine questioning. A lanky, younger-looking sergeant approached her, mouth quirking in a good-natured grin as she stuttered over his questions. It didn’t take much detective work, she was sure, for him to sus out she was green.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before. New EMT?” He scribbled on a notepad before offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade; get any more of these and I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Joan,” They shook hands. “Joan Watson. I’m part of a work-study program at St. Bart’s. Seems I’ll be around often.”

Their conversation went no further, as a dark figure interrupted them, “Lestrade, your crime scene is abysmal. As usual.”

Joan blinked, turning to face the presence. A young man, about her height, with a mop of curly dark hair leaned into Lestrade’s personal space. He had sharp features, and a long nose, which he looked down over to glare at the officer. He was wearing civilian clothes, Joan noted, and wondered how he had got past the police tape.

“Yes, yeah, yeah - get to the point Sherlock” Lestrade barely flinched at the sudden disturbance. He winked at Joan, carelessly waving a hand in the air. He never finished his thought.

Joan had less than a second to process the old-fashioned, unusual name. Sherlock’s eyes locked onto Joan. His weight shifted, and he was suddenly in her orbit. Joan sized him up. He was lanky, and didn’t look like much of a threat at first, but restlessness in his posture hinted at a manic energy.

“You,” He addressed her. “What did you notice about the body?”

Joan sent a glance Lestrade’s way. “I gave my statement to the police.”

“Useless, your talents are better served helping me.”

Joan ignored him, turning her full attention back to Lestrade. “Since when did Scotland Yard let civilians into their crime scenes?”

An irritated huff breezed over her crossed arms.

Lestrade’s mouth pulled upwards into a grin wider than a Cheshire cat. “Since their older brothers have political pull. Insisted we make Sherlock here an amateur detective.”

“Consulting detective,” the Sherlock hissed. “Body. Now. Crime is waiting.” With a suffered huff, he flapped the ends of his coat and hurried off, ignoring the officers who shouted after him.

Greg was still chuckling under his breath at Sherlock’s exit. “Never seen ‘im so ruffled. Who are you, Joan Watson?”

“Never mind that - what the hell?”

“Oh, Sherlock’s a student - with you, sounds like - got a relative with pull over the force and an interest in forensics. Shows up and badgers everybody, then usually solves the case.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg gestured up to the crime scene. “You oughta see him work. Got a minute?”

Joan’s eyes flicked towards her EMT partner. Checking her radio, she noted there were no incoming calls or emergencies. The body had been interesting, and her sense of excitement flared back to life. She nodded to Lestrade. Waving away the two other sergeants at the door to the decrepit building, he ushered her up three flights of stairs to the familiar body.

No longer preoccupied with saving a life, Joan could take a moment to evaluate her surroundings. The roof to the building had long rotted away in sections, staining old apartment or office walls an off-white, mildewy colour. The floor wasn’t in much better shape, boards swollen in the London rain, and now blood. The body was still left the way Joan remembered - face down near fingernail scratches in the floor - and covered in pink.

Yes, the woman was dressed head to toe in the colour, with only one pump hanging limply off a foot.

The amateur detective stood slightly away from the body, peering over the scene in thought. Some distance away, a forensic tech took photographs of the scene. The flash of the camera carved deep shadows into the lines of his face. It reminded Joan of old black and white horror flicks, where vampires lurked amid streaks of lightning.

“Cause of death.” Ordered Sherlock.

Joan sent a side-eyed glance to Lestrade. “Thought that was the coroner’s job.”

“The coroner is an idiot, and I don’t care what he thinks. What would you say was the cause of death?” Sherlock spun and paced to the opposite end of the room.

Greg handed her a set of nitrile gloves with a shit-eating grin. Joan huffed, but snapped them on, to the shocked alarm of the tech in the room.

“She can’t touch the body!”

“She’s an EMT - Anderson, you dolt - she already has.” Sherlock said.

Ignoring them both, Joan squatted by the body and leant over, reassessing her initial observations. The woman’s eyes were open in that eerie, absent way normal for the deceased. Joan noticed burst blood vessels: petechial haemorrhaging. The body lay face-down, with the head twisted sharply to the shoulder. Joan slightly lifted it, like she had earlier to take an absent pulse, but this time, she focused on other details. The woman’s lips were blue and a faint whiff of gastric acid caught the air.

“Asphyxiation.” Joan determined out loud.

“By what cause?” Sherlock countered.

“She choked on her own vomit,” Joan continued.

“Finally!” Sherlock crowed. “Someone who isn’t completely useless!”

Joan continued to ignore him. She gazed at the throat, finding no evidence of bruising or strangulation. She examined the hands and wrists, where recently manicured hands were torn away in the woman’s manic scraping against the floor. There was no bruising on her arms or knuckles; no defensive wounds. Ripped pantyhose on her legs only suggested that the woman had tripped and tore them at one point, and her ankle with the missing pump was swollen, probably with an injury relating to the missing shoe.

“Someone coerced her here, probably with some kind of weapon. I think forced her to take something that caused her death.” Joan announced.

“Excellent, but you’ve missed major details,” the amateur detective burst into a rambling analysis of the scene.

Joan peeled off her gloves and tossed them into a forensic garbage bag. She checked her watch as his tirade sparked an argument with Anderson. As the two strove to shout over the other, Joan strode back towards Lestrade.

“You weren’t kidding, Lestrade,” she mused aloud. “Does this happen often?”

“Call me Greg,” Lestrade said, “And you have no idea.”

“Do you make bets?” she eyed the way the detective and the forensics tech hurled insults at each other, close enough she thought they might start throwing punches.

“Not since the commissioner got wind of it.”

“Damn. Not much to look forward to then.”

Greg laughed. “Well, some nights after a long stretch, the boys like to get together for a pint. You should join us sometime.”

Joan sent him a lopsided smile. “Cheers, that sounds great.”

As static crackled over her radio, Joan’s remembered her partner was waiting outside. She bid Greg goodbye, leaving to finish her shift and looking forward to shaking off the crazy night.

Thoughts? What made this version better than the original (or what didn't)? Did I capture Sherlock and Joan's characters the same way as before? Leave your reactions in the comments!

#johnlock #novel writing #writinggoals #creative writing #bbc sherlock #sherlock x john #sherlock bbc #sherlock fandom #fanfiction #ao3 fanfic #ao3 author #ao3 writer #fanfics #fanfic #archive of our own #Fem!John #Uni!Lock

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pennavnprojects · 5 months ago

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Shout out to Matt Briney on Unsplash! Thanks for taking and posting this picture. It's great inspiration for my character Joan Watson from my fanfiction-in-progress! For those of you who don't know, Unsplash is a free resource where you can find stock photos! I use it a lot - especially when looking for collage material or writing. It's a great place to get some atmospheric inspiration.

Check out this image, and others on Unsplash, here: Photo by Matt Briney on Unsplash

#novel writing #writinggoals #creative writing #writing advice #unsplash #free photos #writing hacks #inspiration #writing inspiration #dark academia #dark aesthetic #johnlock #sherlock x john #bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #sherlock holmes #sherlock bbc

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pennavnprojects · 10 months ago

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This was so helpful! I'm definitely going to remember this in the future!

How to pull off descriptions

New authors always describe the scene and place every object on the stage before they press the play button of their novels. And I feel that it happens because we live in a world filled with visual media like comics and films, which heavily influence our prose.

In visual media, it’s really easy to set the scene—you just show where every object is, doesn’t matter if they’re a part of the action about to come or not. But prose is quite different from comics and films. You can’t just set the scene and expect the reader to wait for you to start action of the novel. You just begin the scene with action, making sure your reader is glued to the page.

And now that begs the question—if not at the beginning, where do you describe the scene? Am I saying you should not use descriptions and details at all? Hell naw! I’m just saying the way you’re doing it is wrong—there’s a smarter way to pull off descriptions. And I’m here to teach that to you.

***

#01 - What are descriptions?

Let’s start with the basics—what are descriptions? How do you define descriptions? Or details, for that matter? And what do the words include?

Descriptions refer to… descriptions. It’s that part of your prose where you’re not describing something—the appearance of an object, perhaps. Mostly, we mean scene-descriptions when we use the term, but descriptions are more than just scene-descriptions.

Descriptions include appearances of characters too. Let’s call that character-descriptions.

Both scene-descriptions and character-descriptions are forms of descriptions that we regularly use in our prose. We mostly use them at the beginning of the scene—just out of habit.

Authors, especially the newer ones, feel that they need to describe each and every nook and cranny of the place or character so they can be visualized clearly by their readers, right as the authors themselves visualized them. And they do that at the start of the scene because how can you visualize a scene when you don’t know how the scene looks first.

And that’s why your prose is filled with how the clouds look or what lights are on the room before you even start with the dialogues and action. But the first paragraph doesn’t need to be a simple scene-description—it makes your prose formulaic and predictable. And boring. Let me help you with this.

***

#02 - Get in your narrator’s head

The prose may have many MCs, but a piece of prose only has a single narrator. And these days, that’s mostly one of the characters of your story. Who uses third-person omniscient narrator these days anyway? If that’s you, change your habits.

Anyway, know your narrator. Flesh out their character. And then internalize them—their speech and stuff like that. Internalize your narrator to such an extent that you can write prose from their point-of-view.

Now, I don’t mean to say that only your narrator should be at the center of the scene—far from it. What I mean is you should get into your narrator’s head.

You do not describe a scene from the eyes of the author—you—but from the eyes of the narrator. You see from their eyes, and understand what they’re noticing. And then you write that.

Start your scene with what the narrator is looking at.

For example,

The dark clouds had covered the sky that day. The whole classroom was in shades of gray—quite unusual for someone like Sara who was used to the sun. She felt the gloom the day had brought with it—the gloom that no one else in her class knew of.

She never had happy times under the clouds like that. Rain made her sad. Rain made her yearn for something she couldn’t put into words. What was it that she was living for? Money? Happiness?

As she stared at the sky through the window, she was lost in her own quiet little corner. Both money and happiness—and even everything else—were temporary. All of it would leave her one day, then come back, then leave, then come back, like the waves of an ocean far away from any human civilization in sight.

All of it would come and go—like rain, it’d fall on her, like rain, it’d evaporate without proof.

And suddenly, drops of water began hitting the window.

You know it was a cloudy day, where it could rain anytime soon. You know that for other students, it didn’t really matter, but Sara felt really depressed because of the weather that day. You know Sara was at the corner, dealing with her emotions alone.

It’s far better than this,

The dark clouds covered the sky that day. It could rain anytime soon.

From her seat at the corner of the room, Sara stared at the sky that made everything gray that day. She…

The main reason it doesn’t work is that you describe the scene in the first paragraph, but it’s devoid of any emotions. Of any flavor. It’s like a factual weather report of the day. That’s what you don’t want to do—write descriptions in a factual tone.

If you want to pull off the prior one, get to your narrator’s head. See from their eyes, think from their brain. Understand what they’re experiencing, and then write that experience from their POV.

Sara didn’t care what everyone was wearing—they were all probably in their school uniforms, obviously, so I didn’t describe that. Sara didn’t focus on how big the classroom was, or how filled, or what everybody was doing. Sara was just looking at the clouds and the clouds alone, hearing everybody just living their normal days, so I mentioned just those things.

As the author, you need to understand that only you, the author are the know-it-all about the scene, not your narrator. And that you’re different from your narrator.

Write as a narrator, not as an author.

***

#03 - Filler Words

This brings me to filler words. Now, hearing my advice, you might start writing something like this,

Sarah noticed the dark clouds through the window. She saw that they’d saturated the place gray.

Fillers words like “see”, “notice”, “stare”, “hear” should be ignored. But many authors who begin writing from the POV of the characters start using these verbs to describe what the character is experiencing.

But remember, the character is not cognizant of the fact that they’re seeing a dark cloud, just that it’s a dark cloud. You don’t need these filler words—straight up describe what the character is seeing, instead of describing that the character is seeing.

Just write,

There were dark clouds on the other end of the window, which saturated the place gray.

Sarah is still seeing the clouds, yeah. But we’re looking from her eyes, and her eyes ain’t noticing that she’s noticing the clouds.

It’s kinda confusing, but it’s an important mistake to avoid. Filler words can really make your writing sound more amateurish than before and take away the experience of the reader, because the reader wants to see through the narrator’s eyes, not that the narrator is seeing.

***

#04 - Characters

Character-descriptions are a lot harder to pull off than scene-descriptions. Because it’s really confusing to know when to describe them, their clothing, their appearances, and what to tell and what not to.

For characters, you can give a full description of their looks. Keep it concise and clear, so that your readers can get a pretty good idea of the character with so few words that they don’t notice you’ve stopped action for a while.

Or can show your narrator scanning the character, and what they noticed about them.

Both these two tricks only work when a character is shown first time to the readers. After that, you don’t really talk about their clothing or face anymore.

Until there’s something out of the ordinary about your character.

What do I mean by that? See, you’ve described the face and clothes of the character, and the next time they appear, the reader is gonna imagine the character in a similar set of clothes, with the same face and appearance that they had the first time. Therefore, any time other than the first, you don’t go into detail about the character again. But, if something about your character is out of ordinary—there are bruises on their face, scars, or a change in the way they dress—describe it to the reader. That’s because your narrator may notice these little changes.

***

#05 - Clothing

Clothing is a special case. Some new authors describe the clothes of the characters when they’re describing the character every time the reader sees them. So, I wanna help you with this.

Clothing can be a way to show something about your character—a character with a well-ironed business suit is gonna be different from a character with tight jeans and baggy t-shirt. Therefore, only use clothing to tell something unique about the character.

Refrain from describing the clothing of characters that dress like most others. Like, in a school, it’s obvious that all characters are wearing school uniforms. Also, a normal teenage boy may wear t-shirts and denim jeans. If your character is this, no need to describe their clothing—anything the reader would be imagining is fine.

Refrain from describing the clothing of one-dimensional side-characters—there’s a high chance you’ve not really created them well enough that they have clothing that differs from the expectations of the readers. We all know what waiters wear, or what a college guy who was just passing by in the scene would be wearing.

You may describe the clothing of the important character in the story, but only in the first appearance. After that, describe their clothes only if the clothes seem really, really different from the first time. And stop describing their clothes if you’ve set your character well enough in the story that your readers know what to expect from them in normal circumstances—then, describe clothes only when they’re really, really different from their usual forms of clothing.

***

#06 - Conclusion

I think there was so much I had to say in this article, but I didn’t do a good job. However, I said all that I wanted to say. I hope you guys liked the article and it helps you in one way or the other.

And please subscribe if you want more articles like this straight in your inbox!

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pennavnprojects · 10 months ago

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As someone who just posted their first fanfic for feedback, thank you! Reposting for all the works and authors that have inspired me over the years!

It's Fanfic Writer Appreciation Day! So go on, appreciate the fuck out of those who generously share their ideas and talents with us. Today and every day after.

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pennavnprojects · 10 months ago

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Calling All Readers

Time for me to put my money where my mouth is!

I recently finished the first draft of a large Fanfiction project I've been working on - and now I'm looking for feedback.

Welcome to JoanLock [Working Title]. Fem!JohnLock, Uni!Lock. Joan Watson, medical student, EMT, and reserve soldier, thinks her life can't get any busier or more exciting. When one of her DOAs becomes a homicide investigation, she meets the brilliant and infuriating Sherlock Holmes. Sparks fly, and Joan is whisked into a world of intrigue and investigations. While Sherlock enlists Joan as a partner in his relentless pursuit of crime-solving, they both face ever-growing threats and danger.

Rated M for Language, Sexual Content, and Violence. Reader discretion is advised.

I'd appreciate any feedback you have! If it helps, here are some things I'm looking for: 1) What is your initial reaction to Joan? What about her have you learned, and is there anything that draws you to her? 2) What is your initial reaction to Sherlock? What about Lestrade? 3) To be fully transparent, the orientation is a scene I'm considering deleting. If I do, what are the most important things about the characters that should still be included in the story?

“Welcome to orientation!” Shouted the preppy upperclassman through the auditorium loudspeakers. After hearing from our wonderful President and Financial Advisors, now it’s time to let the fun begin!”

A round of courteous applause echoed through the audience.

“To get things started,” She continued. “We have a fun exercise to both get you better acquainted - and encourage you to have safe sex!”

What in the bloody fuck… Joan thought to herself. Stationed towards the back of the auditorium, the close-cropped blonde blended in with the sea of a thousand other underclassmen of St. Augustine’s class of 2016.

“Can I have all the boys please separate to one side of the auditorium - how about to the left? And all the girls to the right. Please make a single-file line.”

It took several long minutes for the students to shuffle into place and in doing so, sent many bewildered looks to each other. Looking concerned herself, the upperclassman’s face pinched like she suffered from constipation at the wait. Eventually, two makeshift, though winding, rows of students were formed.

“Alright! Thank you everyone. Now, as we go down the lines, each person will be paired with a partner of the opposite sex,” The speaker’s eyes glittered and a corner of her mouth turned up as if getting away with saying a dirty word. “And you’ll each be handed a cup with a clear liquid in it. Do not drink it! You and your partner are pretending to be at college party - and you’ve decided to hook up! Let’s take a quick moment to find our ‘au pairs’ and chat!”

Achingly slowly, the lines slouched forward, matching couples who gathered their cups and awkwardly shuffled off together.

Joan glanced about the large room, trying to predict which boy she'd match with out of sheer boredom. Christ. At least it’s better than getting screamed at during basic. She scratched her head, feeling the soft fuzziness of her buzz cut. While the ROTC allowed women to keep their hair long and pinned up for exercises and service, Joan had opted for the more traditional men’s cut. More practical, she had thought, always getting in the way anyhow.

Picking at blunt nails, the medical student’s eyes roamed around the crowd, people-watching. Some couples split off giggling, others in complete silence. As the lines shortened, small talk began to fill the space. To Joan’s amusement, the speaker’s face slipped into one of consternation, checking her watch repeatedly as the minutes passed. Joan watched as a boy across from her sent a wink to the one behind him, whose face blushed scarlet. One paired couple stood with their faces in their phones, idly sneaking glances at each other. Two boys in line shared a screen, seemingly watching a video together. From the fifty feet away that she was, Joan took in their absent, bloodshot eyes and the tilt of the phone away from other eyes. Definitely high, she thought and chuckled to herself, probably watching porn too. She watched, entertained, as yet another boy demonstrated a knack for trouble, surreptitiously slipping a nondescript ring into a pocket after glimpsing his partner in line.

The girls were no better, it seemed. The girl in front of Joan swayed on her feet, stare glassy in the face of the world. Two whispered in tandem towards the front, angling their torsos in conspiracy. One girl towards the back was furiously typing away, taking dramatic pauses to glare upwards into space before typing away at some response. If nothing else, school will be interesting, mused Joan.

Eventually, it was her turn to reach the front. The girl before her stumbled into a table full of cups, capsizing a number of them, as her partner and several other event volunteers scrambled to keep her upright.

Joan’s eyes caught sight of her partner, a slightly younger boy with an angular face, whose slight sneer made him appear right savage. To Joan’s amusement, disinterest radiated from his every move, from his snatch of the cup to his hurried pace away from the crowd, almost forgetting - or completely ignoring - Joan. Somehow, she just managed to keep up with him - which is why she came up short at his sudden stop about halfway through the auditorium. Sharply, he turned to look at her, dark eyes squinting at her form. Surprised, Joan noticed that they were about the same height, except for his upward spiral of brunette curls.

“Nursing or pre-med?” He barked.

“Surgery, actually,” She answered, startled. “With a minor in pediatrics.”

The boy pursed his lips in a gesture Joan wasn’t sure was derision or frustration.

“And… you?” She ventured.

“Toxicology. Chemistry. Engineering.” He huffed. “Anything to spend my brother’s money.”

“Posh git.” Joan sent a wry smile. The boy just furrowed his eyebrows. “Joan.” She shot her hand forward.

Interrupting their stilted conversation (Which was good, because Joan was positive the boy would’ve rather spat on her hand than shake it) the speaker crowed into her microphone. “Now that everyone’s found their hookup, and hopefully had a chance to exchange pillow-talk,” She winked “our volunteers will add a solution to each of your cups. If both you and your hookup’s cups turn pink - congrats! You’re pregnant!

As harried volunteers scurried about, dropping splashes of ‘solution’ into every cup, a slow surgence of of pink expanded throughout the auditorium. Some couples turned pink themselves upon the matching results, boys crowed if they were “pregnant” or not, and one unfortunate girl chugged her glass before taking her ‘test’ - upon doing so, spit all over her unfortunate partner.

“They’re using fucking phenolpthalien.” Joan muttered under her breath, causing the boy to quirk an eyebrow.

A volunteer rushed up to them, poured an explosive dollop of phenolpthalien into their two cups and scurried off again. At the twin pink swirls forming in their respective cups - Joan sent a saucy wink to the boy. “Guess you’re my baby daddy.”

And promptly burst out laughing at the surprised - disgusted - face he made towards their incriminating solutions. Several people looked their way.

“Remember kids!” The speaker tried to instruct the other students, who couldn’t be more than a few years younger than her, over Joan’s uproar with mild success. “Abstinence is the best form of protection! But your chances of not getting pregnant are better if you use protection! So go out there, and if you have sex - have safe sex!”

Christ, Joan thought, what are we thirteen again?

Volunteers opened the back doors to the auditorium and the hundreds of students trapped inside practically sprinted like horses out of the gate. Without much ado, the boy dumped his cup’s contents into Joan’s, handed her his cup (which Joan took reflexively, damn!) and joined the mass exodus.

As the stranded volunteers - even the speaker seemed to have vanished with everyone else - began to mop up the disregarded cups, full or otherwise. Joan wandered over to the nearest water fountain, dumped the solutions, and tossed the cups away in a waste receptacle. Idly, she wandered out of the auditorium, checking the time on her phone. 8:05 P.M. They released early.

As Joan started to feel the vibrations of bass music through the sidewalk - these college kids don’t waste any time do they? - her phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Joan? Thank you for picking up, Joan.” It took her a moment to place the voice. “I know you said you had orientation tonight but we could really use the help at the hospital tonight.” It was her EMT supervisor.

“Yeah, we finished early. I’ll head on over.”

“Christ, you’re a godsend. See you soon.”

Twenty minutes later, Joan walked into a wall of chaos just through the doors of the St. Augustine’s teaching hospital. Joan had chosen this university for exactly this reason. In addition to having a flexible ROTC program, an acceleration rotation program, and multiple medical electives, the school partnered with its teaching hospital to offer jobs for its students. Joan had applied, and gotten into, an EMT role which worked well with her schedule.

She was greeted by a nurse at the ER counter. “Thank god you’re here, you’re needed for an emergency call that just came in. Old lady just fell down her stairs.”

Joan made a beeline for the locker room, where she climbed into her uniform, suddenly glad she had gone through the pain-in-the-ass that was job training two weeks ago. While inconvenient, it meant she could jump right in during moments like these. And she was grateful for the distraction. Most of her ROTC mates were older and didn’t return to Uni until next week. Joan didn’t usually feel lonely while working.

Now dressed, she grabbed her medical kit and headed towards the ambulance bay. A driver, rough-looking with scarred hands, was waiting there for her. With barely a greeting, they were off. The next six hours were filled with emergency calls, stitches, pulse readings, and one heart attack. It was almost 3 AM when they got an unusual call, about a woman who was found unresponsive in an abandoned building on the edge of town.

It was Joan who pronounced DOA.

Soon enough, several cop cars had arrived and Joan was subject to routine questioning. It was a lanky, younger-looking sergeant who questioned Joan. Though she hadn;t seen him before, he knew well enough that she was new.

“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before. New EMT?” He scribbled on a notepad before offering his hand. “Greg Lestrade; get any more of these and I’ll be seeing you around.”

“Joan,” They shook hands. “Joan Watson. I’m part of a work-study program at St. Augustine’s. Hate to admit it, but it seems I’ll be around often.

“Well, one thing to look forward to - some nights after a long stretch, the boys like to get together for a pint. You should join us sometime.”

Joan sent him a lopsided smile. “Cheers, that sounds great.”

Their conversation went no further, as they were interrupted by a familiar figure with a mop of curly, brunette hair. “Lestrade, your crime scene is abysmal. As usual.”

“Yes, yeah, yeah - get to the point Sher-” Greg never finished.

The other boy’s eyes locked onto Joan and interrupted him. “You,” He addressed Joan. “What did you notice about the body?”

Joan sent a disbelieving glance Greg’s way. “I gave my statement to the police.”

“Useless, your talents are better served helping me.”

Greg held up a hand, stemming the boy’s brewing tirade. “Wait, you two know each other?!”

“Barely.”

“Of course.”

Blue eyes met dark ones as Joan and the boy each took stock in what the other had said. Looking over at Greg, Joan caught his questioning glance.

“Met at orientation,” Joan delivered with a straight face, cocking a thumb in the boys direction. “He’s my baby daddy.”

The boy flushed scarlet. “Don’t be daft, Lestrade,” He snapped at the sergeant, then Joan. “Don’t call me that!”

“Just a joke mate,” She half-heartedly placated him before explaining to Greg. “We got partnered up for a safe sex speech; utterly ridiculous.”

“Are they still doing that!?” Greg laughed incredulously. “I did that years ago - can’t believe they’re still pulling that shite!”

As Greg continued to laugh, Joan sent a pointed look over to the boy. “Never got your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes. 1031 Bleeker. Yes, that’s just down the hall from you. Body. Now. Crime is waiting.” With a suffered huff, he flapped the ends of his coat and hurried off, ignoring the crime scene tape and several officers who shouted after him.

Greg was still chuckling under his breath at Sherlock’s exit. “Never seen ‘im so ruffled. Who are you, Joan Watson?”

“Never mind that - what the hell?”

“Oh, Sherlock’s a student - with you, sounds like - got a relative with pull over the force and an interest in forensics. Shows up and badgers everybody, then usually solves the case.”

“Bloody hell.”

“You’re telling me,” Greg gestured up to the crime scene. “You oughta see him work. Got a minute?”

Joan’s eyes flicked towards her EMT partner. Rufus, she had learned sometime throughout the night, was attempting to light a cigarette with shaky hands. Bastard had been jumpy all night. Checking her radio, Joan noted there were no incoming calls or emergencies. She figured she was in the clear for at least a few minutes, so she nodded to Greg. He led the way. Waving away the two other sergeants at the door to the decrepit building, Greg ushered her up three flights of stairs to a familiar body. The roof to the building had long rotted away in sections, staining old apartment or office walls an off-while, green, mildewy color. The floor wasn't in much better shape, boards swollen in the London rain, and now, blood. The body was still left the way Joan remembered - face down over fingernail scratches in the floor - and covered in pink. Yes, the woman was dressed head to toe in the color, with a hat in disarray and only one pump hanging limply off a foot. Sherlock stood slightly away from the body, peering out the window in thought. Some distance away, a forensic tech took photographs of the scene.

“Cause of death.” Ordered Sherlock.

Joan sent a side-eyed glance to Greg. “Thought that was the coroner’s job.”

“The coroner is an idiot and I don’t care what he thinks. What would you say is the cause of death?” Sherlock spun and paced to the opposite end of the room.

Greg handed her a set of nitrile gloves with a shit-eating grin. Joan huffed, but snapped them on, to the shocked alarm of the tech in the room.

“She can’t touch the body!”

“She’s an EMT, she already has. Anderson, you dolt.” Sherlock snapped.

Ignoring them both, Joan squatted by the body and leant over, reassessing her initial observations while on scene. The woman’s eyes were open in that eerie, absent way normal for the deceased, but uncomfortable for the general public. Joan noticed burst blood vessels - petechial hemorrhaging. The woman’s body lay face-down, with her head twisted sharply to the shoulder. Joan slightly lifted it, similar to the way she had earlier to take an absent pulse, but focused more on detail she hadn’t noticed at the time. The woman’s lips were blue and a faint whiff of gastric acid caught the air.

“Asphyxiation.” Joan determined out loud.

“By what cause?” Sherlock countered.

“She choked on her own vomit,” Joan continued.

“Finally!” Sherlock crowed. “Someone who isn’t completely useless!”

Joan ignored him to continue her own examinations. She gazed at the throat, to find no evidence of bruising or strangulation. She examined the hands and wrists, where recently manicured hands had been chipped or torn away in the woman’s manic scraping of the floor. There was no bruising on her arms or knuckles - no defensive wounds. Ripped pantyhose on her legs only suggested that the woman had tripped and tore them at one point, and her ankle with the missing pump was swollen, probably with an injury relating to the missing shoe.

“She was forced here, probably with some kind of weapon, and hurried. I think she was made to take something that caused her death.” Joan announced, figuring her time was up and she should return to her job aiding the living.

“Excellent, but you’ve missed some major details,” Sherlock burst into a full analysis of the scene as Joan peeled off her gloves and tossed them into a forensics garbage bag. Sherlock’s tirade had sparked an argument with Anderson, and as the two strove to shout over the other, Joan strode back towards Greg.

“You weren’t kidding.” She mused.

As they stood off to the side for a moment, Sherlock interrupted his own argument with Anderson to shout, “The case!” and sprinted out the room, down the stairs, and into the night. Utterly bewildered, Joan took that to mean it was indeed time to go back to work. She shook Greg’s hand, bade him farewell, and set off to find Rufus who was furiously puffing his third cigarette and completely oblivious to the world.

Joan spent the rest of her shift with a few more calls and an enthusiastic “Thank you!” from her supervisor. She trudged back to her college dorm, idly eyeing 1031 Bleeker as she happened past, and readied for bed. She was convinced the strange night would be the last she’d see Sherlock Holmes. She was wrong.

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