In my defense, I was late to work because my front porch appeared to have vanished during the night.

"Dad," I said, "where's the porch gone?"

"What? Oh, that." He waved vaguely. "It was starting to rot so I tore it down."

"The porch."

"Yes."

"You decided to just-what, just say to yourself 'D'you know, we weren't using this for anything important, and since I have this hatchet conveniently lying around, well, what else really is there to do?' Was that it?"

"Don't be clever, miss," Dad said primly.

"Why do you have a hatchet just lying around, Dad?"

"Eat your breakfast, Charlotte."

"You're a doctor."

"Charlotte," he warned.

"The last time you tried a home improvement project you fell three stories out of my window."

He destroyed my mother's flowerbeds. And when we took him to casualty, he said "I fell out a window" and the doctor on call said "Mary finally push you?" and laughed himself into an asthma attack. So there is precedent for my skepticism, is what I am trying to tell you.

This story, unfortunately, does not seem to be making much headway with the woman in front of me. "So that," I finished, "is why I was late." She continued to look unimpressed. "I'm sorry, Sally," I said meekly. She narrowed her eyes at me.

"It's Detective Donovan while you're here, Miss Watson. You're at work, remember. Try to be professional." I heard a derisive snicker behind me and, from the look on Sally Donovan's face, don't even have to ask.

"Don't help, please," I said without turning around.

"I wouldn't presume to think you needed any," the person said grandly.

"Please go away," I implored.

"But I wanted to hear how you got out of your house," Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, genius, raging pain in the ass, and my godfather, protested.

"Through the kitchen window."

"Did you need something?" Sally asked tetchily. "This isn't social hour, you know. Watson is here to work. At her job."

"The kitchen window? Why not the perfectly good back door?" Sherlock asked.

"Because Mum hid the key to that door after the...incident last week," I replied. The incident, of course, being Sherlock sneaking into our house, taking all of Dad's clothes from his closet, and using them to write "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE FRIEND. AND ALSO A MIDGET" on the roof because Dad had thrown away his carton of cigarettes.

"But that was ages ago," he said.

"As I was saying," Sally interrupted pointedly. "You'll have a tour of the building before your orientation at 11:00. The Chief of Police-"

"-more commonly known to her, a person who has known him since her birth, as Uncle Greg," Sherlock supplied helpfully, as if Sally is not perfectly aware of this information. "He, by the way, will be late, as his PowerPoint appears to be making him cry. He sends his apologies and gave me money for you to go and get a coffee." I stifled a laugh. Sally looked like she's trying hard not to choke him. "And I'm sure Detective Donovan has a lot to be getting on with, so why don't I give our new corrections officer a tour and let you get back to work?" Sally hesitated, her deep desire to get rid of us at war with wanting to show Sherlock who's in charge.

"Fine," she relented. "You've got your schedule. And Watson?"

"Yes, Sal-ma'am?" I said politely.

"Try not to be late this time."

"Yes ma'am." Sally glared at me. I tried to look as innocent as possible.

"Both of you, just-just go." I followed Sherlock out of the room. I strongly suspect that most of his fondness for me has to do with the fact that I can actually keep up with him when he walks.

"Should we go and see if Uncle Greg needs help with the PowerPoint? I don't need the tour," I pointed out.

"What? Oh, I made that up. You don't have to go to his orientation, I've heard the speech and it's useless, you could swallow Scrabble tiles and vomit something more coherent." Dad once had to give a speech for a medical conference. He read it aloud to us, for practice. Sherlock stood behind him and screamed like a Wookie every time he used a dangling participle. None of us were quite sure how Sherlock even got in our sitting room, in all honesty. "I'll buy you lunch instead."

"…with the money that you took from Greg's wallet," I guessed. Sherlock tried to look indignant at the suggestion. "You are a terrible role model. I can't just skip out on my first day of work, Sherlock."

"You disappoint me," he said sadly.

"I've been unemployed for a year, I'm living at home, and I have no car. I cannot afford to get fired on day one," I said firmly. Seeing his defeated expression, I relented a little. "We can get coffee, though, we have enough time for that."

"Fine," he grumbled. "I'm sure I'll forget your birthday at some point and this can be your present."

"You did forget my birthday, it was six weeks ago."

"Was it?" he asked, startled. "Twenty-three-"

"Twenty-five."

"-already. I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday."

"You weren't even here the day I was born, you showed up to our house three months later, told Mum she'd got fat, and when Dad said 'We've had a baby, you git' you said-"

"I allegedly said."

"-you said 'Thank God, John, the cardigans weren't doing a good enough job of convincing people you'd given up on life.'"

"I like you now," he said defensively. I rolled my eyes.

"Come on. If we leave now we can stop at St. Bart's and convince Aunty Molly that ghosts are trying to communicate with her through the centrifuge machine again."