A/N: I've never really written anything like this before, and I've never published anything either.

I think it starts off a bit slow, but stick with me and I'll do my best.

Although I have never mentioned this before, Sherlock was not the first Holmes that I met. Of course when I first met Sherlock I did not realise this, but in time I came to the conclusion that I had met one before. Perhaps I should explain.

While serving Queen and country in Afghanistan I was an army medic, a captain assigned to a small team that did reconnaissance missions. We called ourselves the Misfits because we were the ones with skills that didn't really fit in anywhere else. To be fair, the boys always said I would fit in anywhere they stationed me, but I always thought of myself as an outsider.

Our team leader was Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Davies. Davies was a good man. He managed to find the perfect balance between following orders and breaking the rules. He fancied himself a practical joker, and you always had to check your boots for bugs and snakes and other nasty surprises. He was also a brilliant strategist and planned all our skirmishes right down to the last bullet.

Second in command was Lieutenant Samuel "Serious Sam" Bell. Sam was, as his nickname suggests, very serious. Straight as an arrow, he always followed the rules. Sometimes he was so caught up in his rules and regulations and being a soldier that he forgot we were still human beings. Thank god for Davies who always reminded him that we could have fun too. Sam was an engineer and a wiz with computers. If it had wheels or microchips Sam was your man.

Private Owen Woods and Private Harrison Clarke were the remaining members of the team. Woods with tactical weapons and sniper training and Clarke with his aptitude for hand-to-hand combat made our team capable of any mission.

One winter morning (and when I say winter, I mean that it was 32 degrees Celsius, rather than 35) Davies was called to the visiting Field Marshall's tent. Generally being called to the field marshall's tent meant one of two things, you were either getting promoted, or you were getting punished. Both had us worried, because either way we might lose our team leader.

When he came back, Davies had a smile on his face.

"Is it good news then?" asked Clarke, "Have we lost you?"

"Don't be stupid. We're far too successful for them to break us up. Apparently we are going to have another team member for a few weeks though," explained Davies. "A Brigadier named Smith apparently, so we are all to be on our best behaviour. Apparently MI6 borrowed the bloke a few years back and decided not to give him back. And now we have him."

When you get assigned a superior officer, especially in a clandestine team like ours, there is normally some friction as the team tries to keep out the intruder and stay loyal to their leader and all that. We were all worried about how this Smith fellow would react to us.

"What do you think doc?"

"What's that Sam?"

"Do you think the brigadier will be a right bastard?"

"I don't know Sam"

"Don't call me Sam! Its Lieutenant Bell."

"Yes, sir, Sam, sir."

Sam just smiled. We were like that. Like brothers. All of us were. What would happen when some MI6 trained army officer came and saw our command chain. Questioning orders was second nature to us, it kept us alive in the field. Would an outsider accept that I would not just shoot someone because I was told to, that I was a doctor first and a soldier second? We could only hope.

Three days later the Misfits were called to the field marshall's tent. Inside was the field marshall and a short, barely 5'7'' rather unimposing man in full camouflage gear including a helmet.

"This is Brigadier Smith. Don't let size fool you, Smith could take any of you and win. Smith is here to recover lost munitions, or to at least to find and tag for later retrieval. I expect you to accommodate any of Smith's needs." The Field Marshall's serious tone had us holding in our laughter. Clarke had never been beaten on base. When we had boxing matches everyone bet on Clarke. I remember thinking 'surely this little man couldn't do anything of real harm to our 6'2'' martial arts master'.

I would come to realise how wrong I was.

Smith was quiet. Kept to himself most of the time. We moved through the districts easily and Smith didn't contradict any orders Davies or Bell gave. In fact, most of the time he followed their orders too. We were curious as to what Smith was doing because it seemed that any team could have done what he was doing.

Several times I asked Smith about himself, but he always avoided answering, and I was beginning to worry the poor fellow couldn't talk.

About three weeks later we had two days off. I was looking forward to relaxing and doing some reading. Clarke and Woods had gotten in on the "fights" that some Americans had organised. I decided to go and watch the fights, no doubt I'd have to clean one of them up.

As I entered the tent they were fighting in I saw that all the Misfits were there, even Smith. Woods was complaining in the corner with a split lip, which didn't surprise me at all, but what did surprise me was Clarke fighting the American in the ring. Within 30 seconds Clarke had lost.

"Nice try, Ace," smirked the American, "but don't feel so bad. There's no way you would be the first to beat Lt Ford. Any of you other Brits want to try?"

I was half tempted to have a go myself, but I was nowhere near as good as Clarke and I don't particularly like concussions. As I thought this Ford smirked and was about to leave the ring, when Smith pushed him back in, then climbed in too. Davies tried to stop Smith, but he wouldn't be deterred.

Ford began taunting, "Look at you little man, you're country must really be suffering if the height restriction is so low. I'll just wait while you go get a ladder so you can reach my face. Come on then munchkin, take of your helmet so we can see your green hair!"

Smith smiled and took off his helmet and placed it down at the edge of the ring. While he had his back turned Ford rushed him. I cried out a warning, but I shouldn't have bothered, because Smith turned around and punched him in the gut as he came towards him.

Ford staggered backwards from the force of the blow. Then seemed angry "You got in a lucky punch, but now your dead."

He took a step towards Smith and swung his hand, but Smith reacted faster, caught his hand, twisted it behind his back and forced him to his knees. In under a minute Smith had pinned him. I couldn't believe that the man who took Clarke so easily could be beaten so quickly.

Smith smirked, then went to climb out of the ring, and Ford, showing what was clearly his favourite move, attacked from behind again. This time Smith showed no mercy and broke the mans clavicle with one blow. As he continued to climb out of the ring one of the other American soldiers started laughing.

"Well I might have known it. Who else could beat a tank like Ford so quickly? Men put your hands together for Stephanie Holmes!"

Holmes? Stephanie?