Hello! I am taking a temporary break from Doctor Who in order to explore some ideas I've been having over the past summer and spring. To me, this is kinds of 'Clash of the Titans' story, in fact, it was tempting to title it as such. Obviously, I am not the insane, pedantic genius that my protagonists are (well, not pedantic and not a genius anyway), so I hope you'll take the genius dialogue with a grain of salt.

This is my very first attempt at writing for Sherlock, so please be kind! Also, I am aware of some holes in the story, as far as British law and law enforcement. Frankly, the point of the story was the insights gleaned from my four protagonists, and how it all fits together, so I didn't spend a lot of time poring over criteria for making an arrest for murder in Britain.

Hopefully, even if you are not a fan of both, but rather just one, of the series, you can still enjoy this. Suffice it to say, Brennan and Sherlock have much in common... and yet...

John Watson had been waiting for the past thirty minutes in a mini-diner inside Heathrow Airport known as Downing Street. The walls were lined with with doors, a few of which were labeled with the number "10." In anticipation of the experience she knew was coming, he would have liked to have had a Scotch and soda, but he wanted to remain sharp so he'd gone with a coffee, black.

From around a corner appeared a tall, broad man, an American, wearing jeans, a burgundy tee-shirt and a brown leather bomber's jacket. He had a duffel bag flung over his shoulder, and at his middle, he wore a red belt buckle that said "Cocky."

He was paying rapt attention to the woman walking beside him, a striking, classically beautiful brunette with a leather satchel weighing down one arm and a mobile phone at her ear. She was rather on the voluptuous side, and wore a bright turquoise-coloured button-up shirt with a black blazer, black leggings and knee-length leather boots. John stood up as the couple approached.

"Make sure she doesn't sleep more than fifteen hours a day, Dad," she was saying into her phone, more loudly than she should. "Too much sleep can slow cognitive development. And make sure she plays with her colored blocks at least fifteen minutes per day, and does the DVD activity with color/animal association with auditory triggers. The DVD is on the second shelf in the cabinet next to the television, in the section labeled educational, semicolon, three to six months."

"Bones, just…ugh, give me the phone," the broad man said as he took the gadget out of her hand and began speaking. "Max? Is she good?"

John took the opportunity to introduce himself.

"Ahem," he began. "Dr. Brennan, I presume?"

The woman seemed to see him for the first time, even though she had followed her partner to this spot, and they had stopped there, clearly seeking out John Watson himself.

"Oh! You must be Dr. Watson," she exclaimed with a warm smile. She shook his hand. "Booth has told me a lot about you!"

"Likewise," he said. He smiled and turned his head a bit. "I found it very interesting that the whole time we were doing training drills together in Afghanistan, he had this gorgeous new girlfriend, but all he wanted to talk about was you."

Brennan replied, "That's because he was in love with me, but at the time I was unwilling, and in a manner of speaking, unable, to return his affection. Booth has since acknowledged to me that though he professed to being in love with Hannah, she actually served only as a poor substitute for me."

Watson smiled. Well, Booth had said she was direct, he thought. "Yes, well…"

"So, Dr. Watson, I'm very much looking forwared to filling in the gaps left open by your limited expertise," she said brightly.

"Right, right," Watson said, adopting his sarcastic coping-with-a-socially-questionable-pedantic-genius air that had served him so well over the past eighteen months. Although he had to admit, Brennan's smile and excited demeanour were a nice change from the dark moods of his clever flatmate. "I'm merely a decorated military captain with sniper training and an M.D. from a renowned university. Practically a grammar school dropout."

Dr. Brennan frowned a bit, not sure what to say, or even what he meant. She did not consider him "practically a grammar school dropout;" merely not as well-schooled as she, which is basically what she had said. And most people in the world were less-well-schooled than she – it was nothing to be ashamed of. She didn't understand what the issue was.

"Okay Max, thanks again, and give her a kiss for me," Booth said into the phone, and he pressed a button to end the call.

"Is he going to have her do the activities?" Brennan asked anxiously.

Booth sighed. "She's with her grandpa, she's fine. That's all you need to know, okay?"

"Is that…" John said, searching in his brain bank for the name of Booth and Brennan's child, of whose existence he had learned no more than three days prior. "Christine?"

"Yeah!" Booth answered boisterously, reaching out for the good doctor's hand. "John! Great to see you!"

The men briefly exchanged a man hug which consisted of right hands joined in a shake, one half-step forward each, and left hands touching each others backs for no longer than one second.

"Great to see you too, Booth," Watson replied. "Thank you for coming."

"Hey, no problem," Booth assured him. "It's what we do, right Bones?"

"Yes. We often step in and lend our respective abilities when others fall short," she replied.

Watson shook his head inwardly. "Er, do you have baggage?"

"Nope, just our carry-ons," Booth told him.

"Well, then," Watson said. He reached one hand out toward 's shoulder. "May I?"

"Oh. Thank you," she said, handing over her bag.

The two Americans followed Dr. Watson down the terminal, following signs which let them know where to catch a taxi.

No one said much of anything until they were safely crammed into the back seat of a shiny black car, headed too fast down the motorway toward London.

"So tell us about the case, Dr. Watson," Brennan requested.

"Er, you can call me John, if you'd like, Dr. Brennan," he said.

"All right, John," she said, without extending him the same courtesy.

"Well, we were called in on the case because frankly, Scotland Yard was a bit at a loss," Watson explained. "It's kind of what we do as well. In this case, it was a guy who seems to have been crushed by a boulder out in the middle of nowhere."

"What do you mean the middle of nowhere?" she asked. "All places in existence are, by definition, somewhere."

"He just means out in the boonies," Booth said.

"The what?"

"The boonies. The styx. The back of beyond. BFE."

"I don't know what any of that means."

"Far from civilization, Bones," Booth explained with a sigh.

"How is that nowhere?"

Watson tried to ignore her meticulous inquisitiveness, though he knew he wouldn't be able to do so for too long, and he knew, his flatmate wouldn't be able to ignore her at all.

"That's right, he was found in a heath between London and Surrey. No discernible civilisation within sight, that is to say, no town, no church, not even a petrol station. Only a relatively un-frequented road and a giant boulder, which brings us to our little mystery."

"Okay, go on," Booth encouraged.

"The body is devoid of flesh and the clothing is non-descript," Watson continued. "And the skeleton is shattered from the pelvis on up."

"And you've ruled out farmer looks to change careers, and levitation experiment goes horribly wrong?" asked Booth.

"Yes, actually, we have," answered Watson with a slight smile.

"Well, then, I'm stumped."

"The skeleton is devoid of flesh, so, presumably devoid of most gender markers discernible to a layman…" Brennan said, and she gestured at Watson when she said the word layman.

"Thank you," Watson said sarcastically.

"…so how do you know it's a guy?"

"Well, just the clothes," he said.

"You said they were non-descript."

"Non-descript," Watson chuckled. "But certainly gender-specific. And I know what you're going to say next, Dr. Brennan, and you're right: not much can be told from the pure appearance of the clothing. So… we don't know much, frankly."

"And your partner is not able to investigate the particulates, the thread-type, the isotopes in the pieces of bone?" she wanted to know.

Watson smiled. "Well, once in a while he'll sit down at a microscope, but all of that is really not his arena. He's much more successful as an… observer, if you will."

"And observer? I thought you said he was a genius," she said to Booth.

"He is," Booth told her. "I've read all about him – John keeps a blog. He's incredible, really."

"What are his credentials?"

"A bunch of bad guys in prison…" Booth began.

"…and a thoroughly irritated police force," Watson finished with a bit of proud satisfaction.

"The geographical locale of criminals and the emotional state of law enforcement professionals hardly qualifies as credentials for a third party!" she protested.

"Bones, what do you want? Not every genius in the world has eight Ph.D's. Just relax. Give the guy a chance," Booth soothed.

"This man, this observer, as you call him, is an expert consultant? How can a world-renowned crime-fighting unit like Scotland Yard employ a man whose methods are unproven?" she protested further.

"Excuse me – unproven?" John Watson interjected.

"Yes. Real efficacy requires hypothesis, experimentation, repetition, and most importantly, documentation."

"You're describing the scientific method, Dr. Brennan," Watson pointed out. "Not everything is black and white like science."

"I find that black and white are the only satisfactory colors – metaphorically speaking – in which facts can appear. Shades of grey do not stand up to time, nor do they stand up in court."

"Would you like the read the files on criminals that my partner has helped take off the streets?" Watson challenged.

"I'd like to read what he's published."

Watson smiled and sat back in his seat, staring amusedly out the window.

"What's so funny?" Brennan asked.

"Nothing, nothing," said Watson.

"No really, I'd like to know."

"Dr. Brennan, I'm merely sharing a joke with the voices in my head, since there's so much empty space up there."

Watson stole a glance at Booth. He was smiling, enjoying watching his friend and his partner spar. Whose side he was on, Watson could not tell.

Brennan looked at Booth for an answer to the conundrum that was Watson's silence. All Booth could or would do was shrug with a smirk.