AN: Words can not express how much I love BBC's Sherlock. The actors are marvelous, the episodes are intelligent and funny and my only complain is that there aren't a 100 more episodes available so I can enjoy them. So, of course my mind was hijacked by plot bunnies, especially after reading so many wonderful stories in the fandom. And since I couldn't resist, my writing/reading "kinks" came into play: genderswap and psychic. There you have it, the warnings for what you're about to read: gernderswap, psychic, mentions of gore and Mycroft Holmes. :D

Rating: T

Pairing: none, can be read as somewhat implied Mycroft/John, but not really.

Characters: John (Joan) Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Anthea.

Additional warnings: Unbetaed and not Brit-picked. If anyone wants to give it a go, feel free to contact me. Also expect really infrequent updating schedule if I decide to continue it. Still here? Onward with the story then!

Summary: Series of short stories, mostly with AU elements. Story 01: Meet Dr. Joan Watson, part army medic invalidated from Afghanistan, part sidekick and blogger to the world's only Consultant Detective and part…psychic. Problem? Girl! John.

Story 01

It is raining. Of course it is, because her hands are full with groceries bags and there's no possible way that she can juggle those and her umbrella to make it safe and dry to the flat. For just one split of a second she wonders if she should risk it. Dash into the rain, make it home and then have a real hot shower, followed by an equally hot tea and a good night sleep. Except that with a flat mate like hers there are very high chances she won't even make through the door before she has to turn around and start running.

Usually on the trail of a killer.

So no, going out in the rain without protection is not an option.

Her war wounded shoulder agrees with her decision. The fully grown cactus that has taken residence in her throat after an entire morning of unpleasant tingling agrees as well, and apparently there's also a headache just waiting from behind her eyes for the perfect moment to jump in and join the party.

Doctor Joan Watson helplessly looks as the deluge coming down from the sky, sighs in frustration and thinks that the only thing missing from the picture is a good kidnapping.

She gets the next best thing when a silent, black limousine parks just in front of her and a sharply dressed woman, never looking up from her Blackberry, comes out of the car and stops by her right side.

"Hello…Anthea." Joan greets hesitantly.

"Doctor Watson." Anthea barely looks up from her cell phone to frown a little at the bags resting besides Joan's feet. "You can leave your groceries here. Someone will come and take them to your flat."

"Alright, then." Joan nods and places her bags as to not be in anyone's way and in three quick steps she's in the car. The ride through London's busy streets is silent but not oppressive, and after she's abandoned the idea of finding out where they are going, Joan closes her eyes and rests her achy head on the leather upholstery. She really hopes they have enough cold medicine lying around in the flat. Lord knows she won't be in any shape to get out and buy some when she finally arrives home.

For once they don't end into an unused warehouse, and after a brief stop in front of a nondescript building, is Mycroft Holmes himself who joins them in the car. The moment he's in, the doors automatically lock down and Joan feels the first stirrings of uncertainty.

"Hello Mycroft." Her tone is mild, they have agreed on first names by the third impromptu meeting.

"Joan." He nods briefly and then scans her with his eyes, much in the same manner his brother does every time she returns to the flat. It is fairly disconcerting, but Joan has learned to almost ignore it. Still, she's certain that by the end of their chat there will be another bag, containing cold medicine, sitting next to her groceries.

"What can I do for you, Mycroft?" Joan decides on the direct approach. "Nowadays you just stop by the flat when you want something." Despite the dread, she's also feeling a bit curious.

"Doctor Joan Watson. It has come to my attention that you possess a rather unusual gift." His smile is positively shark like. He looks quite pleased with himself. Joan just looks and feels nauseated.

She takes a deep breath to calm her fluttering nerves. She considers for a moment the merits of denial, before she realizes he would have never approached the topic if he wasn't sure about the information.

"I'm afraid your sources might have exaggerated this time." She shrugs and tries to keep calm. She briefly acknowledges that both her hands a steady. Joan is sure Mycroft has already picked up that little detail.

"And I really don't think they did."

"Who?"

"Miriam Webster."

Hell, Joan briefly closes her eyes and admits defeat. From all the people they could have talked with, Mycroft's men had to pick the one person to whom Joan had foolishly spilled the whole story after a night of drinking in celebrating the end of their finals. If only the alcohol had done its job and wiped out the memories of all involved, things would have gone a lot smoother.

If wishes were hoses…Well, there's no point in hiding anymore, and with that Joan sits a bit straighter.

"I believe you have a photograph for me?" She holds her hand expectedly, while Anthea fishes out the required item from a slick briefcase.

"Name?"

"Alexander Gunner." Mycroft replies steadily. He's still smiling but there's a hint of… something deeply hidden in his penetrating gaze. Joan would call it unease, but that's too strong of a word for it and then she wonders if she's imagining the whole thing.

It doesn't matter; nothing does, except for the picture she's currently holding: a young, blond man, smiling crookedly at the camera. Joan concentrates on it, letting the whole world fade around her, but she can't see anything. She stops before she gives herself an even bigger headache than the one she's currently nursing, relief slowly filling her. Maybe she's lost it, after spending so many years trying to ignore it, and she's ready to cheerfully tell Mycroft and his entourage to go to hell, when something niggles at the edge of her vision. Like a limb she's forgotten she had and now it's slowly unfolding from a very awkward position, something opens up inside her mind and her question is out before she has the time to think about it.

"Real name?"

"Very good, Joan. It has taken my team half a day to find out that was actually an alias." Mycroft seems approving but Joan is careful not to look at him directly. Sometimes, when she's open like that, her gift latches on the people around her and pries out their most hidden secrets. Mycroft, she's sure, would not appreciate that.

"Try Alexei Piotr Senckievic." Anthea's doesn't look up from her Blackberry, but for the moment her typing has stopped.

"Right. Thank you." Joan gives the other woman a tight-lipped smile and then she goes back on concentrating on the photograph. The image blurs, the colours bleeding one into another and suddenly the car and its inhabitants disappear and she's standing in a hotel room, next to the dead body of the same man she was trying to find. The setting sun bathes the whole room in an orange glow giving an almost surreal quality to the whole picture. Joan looks around; trying to find out where exactly is she. There's a small notebook near the telephone, an emblem and an address printed on it.

"…Holliday Inn Express Bristol. Hotel apartment, second floor. The man is dead, shot in the back of his head, execution style. …." Joan delivers the facts clinically, half of her still caught inside the vision as she's slowly regaining her senses. Near her, Anthea is typing at a dizzying speed. Mycroft is no longer smiling.

"Impressive" he says, watching her speculatively. "What else can you tell me about him?"

"Not much," Joan murmurs distracted. There's a bunch of numbers flashing across her vision, and while she can't tell what they stand for, there's no doubt they are important to the case. "Pen and paper, please."

Anthea searches for the items, but it's Mycroft that leans over and hands them over: several sheets of paper and a metallic, expensive pen. He's still holding them when she tries to grab the pen and the next vision hits her as a sucker-punch in her gut: a stern looking man holding a reluctant looking child by his arms while saying "I'm very disappointed, Mycroft."… Then Mycroft finally lets go and Joan feels like she can finally breathe again. Cautious she looks at the pen, at Mycroft and then back at the pen, and bits her lip to stop herself from asking.

Mycroft subtly clears his throat and Joan is reminded that that is none of her business. The man in the photograph is, and once she switches her focus, the numbers come back. Dutifully she jots them down and after, like an afterthought, she adds the name Mary Ann Inversson right beneath them.

"Track these bank accounts and the sums I've pointed for each of them and you'll find what it is you are looking for." Joan says quietly, fatigue slowing her speech. She feels drained and, most likely looks so, because Mycroft just plucks the paper from her unresisting fingers, peers with interest at the numbers written on it and then hands it to his assistant. "Thank you, Joan. My pen, if you please?"

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize." Joan hands him the pen, but when he moves to take it from her, her right hand shots out and grabs his wrist. Anthea tenses, like a cat ready to pounce, but Mycroft stalls her with a small shake of his head. His gaze is focused on Joan, more exactly on her eyes, which at the moment are so dilated they seem completely black. When she speaks, her voice has the same clinically detached tone she used earlier to describe the state of the late mister Senckievic. "Senckievic's death is not a coincidence. Nor is Davies and Assisi."

Mycroft pales a bit, clenches his jaw, but doesn't pull his hand from Joan's bruising grip. Once again, Anthea has started typing furiously. "Anything else?"

"Don't leave your assistant's sight for the next 72 hours. She's a much better shot than you would ever hope to be." And Joan falls silent; as the rigidity that has gripped her slowly bleeds away, leaving her almost slumped in the seat.

"Thank you, Joan, for your time." Mycroft says as he gently extracts his hand from her lax hold. Joan blinks a little startled, as if waking up, and then she sends him a searching look, clearly unsure of what he was going to do next. Mycroft smiles briefly, a bit more sincere than before, and then he starts to confer with his assistant in hushed tones.

Joan lets them be, and in a few moments the car parks in front of 221B Baker Street. She's out of the car as soon as it stops, but before she closes the car door she can't resist a final advice. "Mycroft take care. Sherlock would be impossible to live with if anything were to happen to you."

"I will, Joan." Mycroft nods his head in parting, evidently done with the meeting.

Knowing that it is the best reassurance she can get, Joan closes the car door and makes her way to the entrance of the flat where a bulky man in a black suit patiently waits with her groceries. She opens the door and calls him in. "Come on then, Paul. There's no point in hiding anything from Sherlock and I would rather I didn't have to haul these bags all the way up to the flat."

Clever woman - sitting in the car, Mycroft smirks approvingly at her handling of the situation and then he turns back his attention to Anthea.

"Sir, the reports just came in. Davies is dead as well; traffic accident just 20 minutes ago and we can't contact Assisi."

"I see. Well it seems that Doctor Joan Watson is the real deal. Update her status. And, Anthea?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Unleash the Dogs of War."

...

The end?

I have an idea of how I can continue this, but if there's no interest I probably won't. You decide. :D