I did not create any of these wonderful characters nor did I dream up this incredible story. Also, I'm a virgin to all this so please forgive any missteps I may make!

Chapter One: The Interesting American

She reached out to grasp the brass knocker when suddenly, and with terrific force, the wooden door flew open and a passing flash of navy blue sent her reeling backwards. Her sunglasses flew off upon impact with the sidewalk, and her vintage carpetbag skidded to a stop several feet away. As she lolled in an ungainly heap on the pavement, Violet Hunter decided she didn't care what she looked like; it was in everyone's best interest that she wait until the nausea passed before she tried to move.

"Oh damn. He's sorry. So sorry, Miss. Are you all right?" said a male voice above her. "Say your sorry, Sherlock," the man continued as he placed a large cardboard box on the sidewalk and bent down to her. His shadow blocked the sun enough for Violet to tentatively open one eye, then the other. The hovering man was in his mid-to late 30s with gentle grey eyes, an easy smile, and dark blond hair that glowed like a halo in the backlight. My guardian angel, Violet thought to herself with a dazed giggle. She knew immediately that she could trust this quiet man, which very much surprised her; she did not trust in people easily, especially men. Violet was not surprised, however, to find herself knocked flat on her back by a complete stranger smack in the middle of a busy London street. Violet was endlessly amazed by the bizarre situations the universe presented her on a regular basis. Just this morning, for example, the employment agent arranging her new position had refused to answer any of her questions and then, as a confused Violet left the office, he pressed a folded slip of paper into her hand. Talk to Sherlock Holmes, was all it said.

"Why should I apologize?" said another voice, the richness of his deep baritone reverberated in her head like an echo. "It was clearly his fault for not expecting an opening door might yield people in a hurry. And we are in a hurry, John. Taxi!"

"I think I'll live," she said. "But I could use a hand up." The man called John helped her to stand, keeping his hand firmly on her arm to steady her. She straightened her coat while he retrieved her glasses, picked up her bag, and handed them to her.

"You're a woman. Interesting."

Violet turned and blinked repeatedly in surprise. The man with the extraordinary voice and immense blue coat was exquisite. A few inches taller than she with a mass of black curls, surprising light blue eyes, and skin so pale it was practically translucent. He dismissed the taxi driver who had responded to his hail and walked back towards the house, casting a brief glance at John's hand on her arm. He carried a large cooler in one hand and an iPhone in the other, which he slid into his coat pocket. He placed the cooler on top of the box; all the while his eyes studied her intently. Somehow, she managed to form a complete sentence. "And you're the explosion I have to thank for my headache," she said.

"You're American. Very interesting."

Violet felt an incredible urge to touch her long hair as a diversion, but it had recently been cut short so she settled for crossing her arms. It had the intended effect; Violet mustered her strength and broke free from his penetrating gaze. Rather flippantly, she asked the man still holding tight to her arm if everyone in London was as annoyingly perceptive as his friend. "Sherlock is an acquired taste," he said quickly. "I'm John. John Watson. Will you come inside and sit down for a minute, Ms….?"

"Hunter. Violet Hunter. And I'm actually here to see Mr. Holmes," she said. "I took a chance in coming – but if you're going out…"

"Why?" demanded Sherlock fiercely.

"I'm sorry?" she replied, taking the risk to face him again. Her mouth went completely dry as his eyes drilled into her. If Violet had just discovered a guardian angel then this man was most definitely a devil.

"It's a very simple question – one that I would hope a highly-educated, reasonably well-off 35-year-old woman from New England could answer without much hesitation," he leaned even closer and practically whispered in her ear. "Why. Are. You. Here?"

She felt his warm breath on her neck, her eyes closed and she inhaled deeply. Sherlock Holmes smelled of soap and mint with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke and… was that bow rosin? She moved ever so slightly and for an instant his cheek touched hers. Sherlock's sharp intake of breath danced over her skin like a caress; simultaneously they shuddered. Mercifully for both of them, John's free arm went around Violet's shoulders and he pulled her away.

"Sherlock – enough. Call Lestrade and tell him he'll need to come pick up his… parts," said John, indicating the cooler. "Come inside, Ms. Hunter. I'll try to make up for Sherlock's lack of social graces and you can tell us why you've come."

"Parts?!" she sputtered as John adeptly led her into the house. "Parts of what exactly?"

Sherlock watched them go inside, his eyes keenly following the female whose close proximity had made him tremble like a child. He had gone a very long while neither needing nor wanting any attention from the opposite sex and here was the second woman inside of a year who had stopped him cold.

"Ridiculous," he said aloud and bounded inside.

The door to 221B Baker Street had no sooner slammed shut than it tore open again as Sherlock and John frantically ran out to retrieve their forgotten packages.