AUTHOR'S NOTE: This takes place directly after Season 3 of Sherlock. I've never been to London but I have been to NYC several times, so I hope my interpretation of London is close enough. :)

"Please put your tray tables in the upright position," the stewardess announced sweetly over the intercom.

The passengers obeyed, all sighing with satisfaction that the long plane flight was finally coming to an end. I was with them, especially since I was loosing feeling in my extremities and my rear end.

I folded up my tray table and removed the fifth Harry Potter book that I'd been rereading to pass the time. Stashing it in my purple and black plaid backpack, I peered out the airplane window.

I could see London below us, the people scurrying around like little ants. A smile pushed its way onto my face; this promotion was going to be the best thing that ever happened to me.

Twenty minutes later, the plane landed and all the passengers including myself got off and entered the terminal. After another frustrating fifteen minutes of looking for my luggage at Baggage Claim, I hailed a cab and took it into the great city of London. My cab driver had a delightful British accent, a nice change from the New York accent I normally heard every day. His face was dirty with a scruffy goatee, but his eyes glowed with compassion for the confused tourist.

"So where are 'ou from?" he asked cheerily, scratching his beard as he drove down the busy highway.

"Manhattan, New York," I replied, hearing the sharp contrast between my stark accent and his honey-buttered one.

Outside my window, Big Ben towered over us for a moment and then was gone; the cabbie was driving awfully fast. London felt like a British New York City to me.

"You're a long way from 'ome," he mused. "Any reason?"

"Promotion, got moved," I replied simply, not wanting to give out too much to a stranger, no matter how friendly he may be.

He nodded with approval from the wrong side of the car where he was driving. "Congratulations. 'Ou'll like it 'ere. Great for tourism. Very crowded though, so watch your step."

He turned around a little to flash a smile at me in the backseat, which I returned.

"I've been working in New York City for a while, I think I can handle London."

As we entered London, we drove past the great TV billboards that would normally be displaying ads for companies.

But as we drove by, they showed a man with brown hair and brown eyes in a suit, with the words "MISS ME?" floating above his head. His chin moved as if he was speaking but his mouth remained closed.

That's all I saw as the cabbie drove by, but the looks on the Londoners faces nearby seemed shocked.

Must be some kind of celebrity, I assumed, or a new advertising campaign.

And I thought nothing more of it for the rest of the drive.

After settling into my hotel room, I took another cab (yet again driving on the wrong side of the room, which unnerved me a little) to the New Scotland Yard where I'd been promoted. The huge, towering building resembled those from where I was from: skyscraping, silver, and unfeeling.

A little bit of doubt crept its way into my tough resolve, but I stomped it down before it could do any damage.

"Well, here goes nothing," I murmured, and strode into my new job.

The building was moderately crowded, not too bad though. People strode very business-like here and there, all in suits or pantsuits. The atmosphere felt tense, but it also was like that at my old job so I thought nothing of it.

The inside of the building was like the outside, silver and cold to the eyes. The floors were silver marble and the walls were washed white; it made my eyes hurt.

My old office was more colorful at least, with some hanging pictures of successful police officers and detectives. People were as business-like as they were here, unless they knew you, then you were greeted with a friendly insult like, "Look what the cat drug in," and "Speak of the devil…" and other ones with profanity.

Homesickness pricked me in the side and I struggled to shake it off.

I brought out my ID tag from my pocket and hung it around my neck before continuing forward.

I knew where to go; my boss had walked me through it on an online tutorial so I wouldn't look like a deer in headlights on my first day.

One person greeted me cheerily, his accent a bit more gargled than the cabbie's. This took me off guard; most people I saw in the New York offices didn't even look at you if you didn't know them.

But, I said hello back in my unintentionally intimidating New Yorker accent and his smile disappeared immediately.

Geez, I thought as I walked past him into the offices. I'm going to get a bad rep before I say anything past "hello."

I found the offices with ease, thanks to my good memory. A door labeled, "Greg Lestrade, Head Detective" in gold lettering stood imperatively at the end of the hallway. Around me were office desks in small, claustrophobic cubicles with their busy bees typing away endlessly at the keyboards to the computers, which ranged from old version Macs to the newest MacBook Airs.

A busy bee in a dress shirt and tie shouldered past me with a handful of folders. I smiled; it felt like home.

No one else had noticed me except for two worker bees that eyed me over their cubicle walls. I squared my shoulders and strode imperatively to the boss's office and delivered a demanding knock-knock-knock to his wooden door.

The talk that had been going on in there ceased immediately after the second knock, and my blood ran cold.

Did I interrupt something important? I thought witheringly. Darn it! I should've knocked more nicely!

There was a shuffle of footsteps and the door opened halfway. A man in his mid-thirties with grey-brown hair and brown eyes stood in the frame of the door, and his eyebrows shot up.

For a moment, my voice caught in my throat and I couldn't speak. A very awkward five seconds passed, and I was already kissing my new job goodbye and preparing the hole I wish I were stuck in instead.

"Can I help you?" the boss asked at last.

"Yes," I said finally, praising God in my head for giving me the ability to speak again. I only hoped the butterflies in my stomach would settle or drop dead. "I'm the transfer from Manhattan, I'm sure Mr. Briggs notified you this morning via email."

The boss nodded with acknowledgment, though blinking a little fast.

"Yes, come in." He opened the door wider and I stepped in and saw whom he was talking to.

There was a short man with grey hair though he didn't look old – just barely into his forties, probably – with a black buttoned up coat and dark slacks. His grey eyes flicked to me from the window and his eyebrows rose, too.

I should've worn a British flag or something to blend in, I thought sarcastically.

The second man was quite interesting. He had dark brown, curly locks that framed his long, chiseled face and complemented his bright blue eyes. Those bright blue eyes saw me at once and studied me like a specimen under a microscope.

That bothered me. My inner New Yorker that I tried to suppress at times came out.

"What are you looking at?" I spat out in a tone that would make my colleagues proud to know me. His eyes quickly averted to the carpet, but his face remained as stony as it had been.

"Actually…" he began, his voice deep and very British.

"Sherlock," the other man chided, and the man named Sherlock stopped.

Sherlock? I thought as Mr. Lestrade closed the door behind me and walked awkwardly to his desk. He definitely got made fun of in high school.

"John, Sherlock," Mr. Lestrade began, and I could see that their previous conversation was over. The three all seemed a little deflated, and my confidence plummeted a little. "This is Nicole Stryker, our new transfer from New York. She'll be helping us out, and working with you two… if she has the patience for it."

The Odd Couple turned to me with expectant looks.

I quickly answered, "Sure. Anywhere I'm needed, that's where I'll be."

"I'm sorry for your loss," the oddball Sherlock announced.

I stared at him in shock. "Excuse me?"

"Your dog," he said, as if it were obvious. "He died a few days ago. May I ask what killed him?"

"Sherlock!" John chided again, but Sherlock was on a roll.

"A hit-and-run car? Congenital disease? No, if it were congenital then your eyes wouldn't be so puffy; you would be expecting it. It was a car, wasn't it? A stranger? A neighbor? No, not someone you know… a busy street. You're from New York, the Big Apple! Busy streets…a police offer – no, detective! A police officer wouldn't dress like that-," he gestured to my clothes, his facial expressions changing rapidly as he spoke as he discovered new information on me.

I glanced at my Muse band T-shirt and my dark blue jeans and purple hi-top converse. Mr. Briggs said I could wear whatever I liked; that my status at Manhattan Police was good enough for my file to give me a good first impression.

Apparently Sherlock thought differently.

Meanwhile, the man continued babbling, spilling out information he shouldn't have known.

"Your dog was a border collie, judging by the hairs on your shirt. But the fact that that shirt is from the band's 2005 concert tour means you've had this dog for a while since the hairs are new and old. You must have sentimental feelings towards the animal, thus making her death a horrible occasion, which is why you seem quite tired and yet happy about leaving home…"

"Sherlock!" Mr. Lestrade shouted in exasperation, and Sherlock quieted like a kicked puppy. "Let's try to welcome Ms. Stryker and not scare her off, please?"

He turned back to me. "So sorry about that, he rambles quite often. But he's a genius, so please be patient."

"Well, most geniuses are considered insane… some are just psychopaths," I retorted, staring hard at Sherlock who delivered an equally hard stare. Especially since he put Rocky back in my head.

"High functioning socio-path," he murmured, more to himself.

I turned to him, suddenly irate. "Hey, buddy, if you're gonna say something say it to my face!" The New York accent literally absorbed the room with awkward silence.

Sherlock, gazing at the floor, said matter-of-factly, "I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath."

Embarrassment and confusion engulfed me. "Oh… got it."

"Ms. Stryker," Mr. Lestrade addressed me cautiously. "You'll be working with these two for a while. We've got a big case and we're going to need as much help as we can get."

I heard my mouth say, "Alright," but my mind was frozen. I had to work with the high-functioning sociopathand his sidekick?

This is going to be harder than I thought…