Hi readers and writers! I'm a newbie but thought I'd upload a fic I've been working on (my first). Love CBS' Elementary and its characters. Please let me you know what you think (please be kind but honest) and I'll overcome my shyness enough to post the other chapters. Constuctive crit extra super welcome :) Heaps o' thanks!

The streets were almost deserted on the way to their favourite take out place. Sunday nights were always low key- little to no case work. Joan Watson shivered against the wind as it picked up, pulling her jacket tighter around her. It was cool relief to her flushed cheeks after an evening of defending her privacy against Sherlock Holmes. Not that she expected much to change. She smiled. Would she be disappointed if he didn't meddle? Perversely, she knew, somewhere in the depths of that warehouse of knowledge he referred to as his "attic", his meddling, maddening as it was, meant he cared. And really, to have someone so…extraordinary care about you well- Sherlock was special. She wrinkled her nose at the thought. As she neared the end of her block she paused to change the song on her iPod to Bach's beautiful Chaconne. She'd suddenly developed a love for violin music. Bach was all she heard before one of the two men behind her hit her on the back of the head.

Beethoven blared from a computer in the brownstone's living room. It had been too quiet for a resident now used to the staccato of a woman's heels tapping around the kitchen in the evening. This was a fact Sherlock would never admit. A small pile of discarded locks, all open, sat on the floor as Clyde the turtle inched across the room. Sherlock fiddled with the top button of a red checkered shirt. He turned the music off, fed up. He was reciting the periodic table backwards, a practise he believed kept him "cognitively limber" but one that meant that he was anxious. He paced, talking to his turtle.

"Ununoctium, Ununseptium, Livermorium- Clyde, if Watson is attempting to prove a point by prolonging the period in which I have to wait for dinner she is being most inconsiderate- Ununpentium..."

He jabbed at his phone with a finger to send a text for the fourth time in an hour:


"Clyde, I am both hungry and not amused." He huffed out a sigh. He turned, having completed a circuit.

"Flerovium- Is it a ploy to assert her status as my keeper? She was displeased when she discovered my experiment on the tensile strength of fabrics but really, her knickers might save her life the moment she needs to hastily construct a rope, making good her escape from no higher than third floor of a building. Incidentally, I hadn't predicted Watson's preference in undergarments tended towards flimsy."

He swallowed, lingering by the window. The night was silent apart from the city's even blanket of distant bustle. His eyes scanned the street.

"Clyde, if you imagine I am concerned about Watson's comings or goings you are mistaken."

Sherlock's squinted at an object on the sidewalk outside the house- a black women's boot with a platform heel, its silver zip glinting in the street light. His mind's eye saw Watson standing in the kitchen, black hair falling in a dark wave over her face as she stooped to zip one boot and then the other, straightening one shapely leg at a time, causing him to spontaneously lose interest in what he was reading. She wore those boots at least twice a week. In the orange-yellow glow outside, keys and cosmetics were strewn along the street near the boot. Sherlock gulped. "Watson?"