A/N: So, I have finally started posting my Sherlock/Elementary crossover fanfiction and here it is! Haters gonna hate, readers gonna read is my motto here. Please note that this story is set in a sort of Sherlock AU where TRF never happened and they've lived together for one or two years longer (no homo) and is set between Season 1 & 2 of Elementary because that is when I started writing. Please completely disregard Elementary SE2EP1 because that messed this up haha. I rated this story T due to refernces to violence that will come up in later chapters.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy this story and thanks in advance for reading :D Remember that reviews are the most helpful and appreciated things you can give an aspiring writer :3

Some people are simply bad at giving names: Sherlock's parents, for instance. I mean come on! Fine, it's not a bad name but I can't imagine that someone named "Sherlock" or "Mycroft" did not have a hard childhood. However, I can't say that my parents were particularly good either. Firstly, they gave their first-born the most normal, boring and ordinary name of them all. (That's me by the way.) Secondly, they name a girl Harriet. Fine, maybe it's just a matter of taste but then there's more to it:

When I was seven, my parents decided to adopt a second daughter because they felt that they owed it to the world or something stupid I can't really understand. Anyway, they chose a baby of Chinese origin who, naturally, I hated from the start. Not just for the obvious older brother/younger sister reasons but also because of what my parents named her. For some, unexplainable and unforgiveable reason, they thought Joan (that's right, one letter difference) would be the best name or her.

You can imagine how enraged I was; I still am to be honest. Maybe it's also that she's an all round improved version of me. She was the better child, had more friends than me, never did anything wrong. Even when I didn't either, even when I brought home a report card that was considered "very good" by most of my teachers, she would still get all the attention and be the goody-two-shoes of the Watson family. It's a miracle my parents even paid for my studies; I honestly believed that they would have pretty much given up on me by then (which they had on Harry, though since I couldn't really get along with her either, and couldn't see much future for her anyway, it made little difference to me). We both chose the path of medicine for our studies, and (what a surprise!) she was even a better doctor than me. You can imagine how much more I hated her after that.

You're probably thinking that I don't mean most of this seriously, that she's my sister and that deep down I love her. Wrong. Well, very deep down I sort of care about her, but I've never in anyway been compelled to do her a favour, just because it was "a nice thing to do."
We both left London after graduating. That was the first time since I was seven that I didn't have to live/be in class with Little Miss Perfect. She moved to New York to pursue a career as a surgeon, whereas I decided to go to Afghanistan and help work on the wounded in battle. That was our main difference: She couldn't bear the dead; even after a long pursuit in medical university, the thought of someone dying made her slightly uncomfortable. That was why she decided to be a doctor.

Me, I liked chaos, the pressure to save someone, and when they were gone, it wasn't rare for me to take a look at the corpses a couple more times (one of the many reasons I am able to put up with Sherlock), find out why they died, and what I could do better. I liked to help others, in any way I could, even if those ways were under horrible, and quite terrifying conditions. That was why I decided to be a doctor.

To put it shortly: Joan could only operate when she was in a clean operating room, experienced nurses surrounding her, and all precautions had been taken so that the patient would most certainly get out of surgery alive and well. I, on the other hand, didn't mind when the victim's blood was on me.

While we were away, we also both had our downfalls. I got shot in the shoulder, was shipped back to London where I first made acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. Joan made a fatal mistake on a patient and after that never had the strength to hold a scalpel again. When I heard of this, honestly, I was almost happy, I couldn't say that no one had died under my operating table (even if it wasn't really my fault, they were just too hurt), however, what I could say was that I hadn't let that affect me. Joan stayed in America, reasoning that she liked it there more and that she'd already lost her British accent anyway. I haven't heard from her since, and I have no idea whether she ever continued with medicine, but to be sincere, I don't really care either. She only ever calls my parents and has always said that her work (what ever it is) disables her from coming over on the holidays.

Oh, and did I mention her middle name is Hilary (yet another example for my parents' poor taste in names)? That's right; that makes us John H. Watson, M.D. and Joan H. Watson, M.D (that is, if she ended up returning to medicine).

The interesting thing about Joan, is that she is basically the only person in my life that Sherlock hasn't found out about, until now:

My phone is vibrating. I look at it and can already tell from here that it's not a UK area code. Hesitantly, I close my laptop and shuffle towards the coffee table where my phone is buzzing irritatingly. Just in that moment, Sherlock walks in.