Hello all! This is my first Sherlock fic, and it will be a long one. I hope you all like it and reviews make me feel loved! :) also, constructive criticism is helpful but flames are not. Thank you! (For the record, this scene and the ones that follow take place 6 years before the show, or, more specifically before John becomes prominent in Sherlock's life)

6 years before…

Sherlock Holmes likes to think that his late twenties were perhaps the best years of his life. Mycroft was too busy starting his job to bother him, and for once he had managed to stay clean constantly. He found, interestingly, that without the burden of wondering where you'll get your next fix or whether or not your overprotective moron of a brother will be breathing down your neck makes life surprisingly pleasant. And he hadn't once felt the need to use again.

He sat on the bench beside the pond in Regent's Park, looking through cases and reviewing the website for a possible job at the Scotland yard, working for some bloke by the name of Greg Lestrade. No doubt those incompetent fools need my help, he mused, these are textbook mysteries. Even Mycroft could have a solid guess at who the killer is… God, it's no wonder London is a breeding ground for crime. Everyone can get away with anything.

He was in deep thought, about to enter his mind palace, filled with anticipation at the possible career opportunity, when a rough jolt bumped him to the side, knocking his mobile to the ground with an audible crack.

"Oh! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I am so sorry!" A heavily Scottish accented voice exclaimed, "Are you hurt?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in annoyance. Stupid, dull, people were too numerous. Boring. He looked up to see who the idiot was when he was met with a strange shock. Something he was… Dare he say unknown.

A woman was standing over him, balancing haphazardly on black roller skates. Her face was round and soft, and freckles dotted the pale skin not unlike his own. She had the largest sea-glass colored eyes he had ever seen, and a part of his brain absently wondered which gene in the human DNA strand was capable of making such large irises. But perhaps the most striking of her appearance was her huge, fiery, blazing orange curls. It was even curlier than his own mop of black tresses, whirling and unwinding in flyaways everywhere about her face, thick and bouncy and unruly, almost looking like a type of tall, wavy ivy vine. It contrasted sharply with her loose light green tee shirt, and he immediately deduced her long purple skirt as the cause of the collision.

"Did you ever think to wear more suitable garments when crashing about on those things?" He snapped, gesturing to her skates.

He expected her, almost wanted her to be offended, to look at least annoyed. At least that was familiar. But instead, she smiled. Smiled, a genuine grin of slightly dim but otherwise perfect teeth.

"Oh, yes, I see where that might raise a problem… But you see, this is my favorite skirt. I know the whole thought of luck is rubbish, but I swear that every time I wear it something good happens." She noted, her voice deeper than most women but filled with a light quality all the same.

Sherlock was honestly beginning to worry at his own lack of certainty on this person. She's just an ordinary tourist in Regent's, she should be easy to read! Every alarm in his mind was going off. He just couldn't put his finger on this woman. Something was keeping him from deducing even the simplest of things.

"Like a cracked mobile?" Sherlock muttered, reaching for his phone and looking in dismay to see that it was completely ruined from the hard pavement.

The woman's face fell. "I am so sorry about that!" She said hurriedly, "I can pay for it, if you'd like… The name's Moira, by the way. Moira MacCallan."

Sherlock hesitated before shaking the hand she held out slowly. "Sherlock Holmes."

Moira smiled and cocked her head before she began giggling madly, causing the other to roll his eyes and scoff. However, something infatuated by her laugh- it was perfectly pitched, like something straight out of a movie. He had never experienced anything like the strange combinations of sentiment brewing inside him. And it was only the first five minutes. This strange, odd, clumsy lady managed to fully engage the attention of the great Sherlock Holmes in only 5 minutes. Something was wrong… It had to be. Sentiment was not an advantage, and it was certainly something he prided himself in not being keen on. So if this wasn't sentiment… Then what was it?

"You Brits," she finally managed to get out, "I can never get over your accents!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, folding his arms. "You're from the hills of Mull, north side of Scotland." He stated, satisfied that he was over his strange stupor and able to make one deduction.

Moira collected herself, still chuckling a bit. "Yeah, that's right. I live with my Nana in the most lovely cottage, it truly is beautiful this time of year. I didn't want to leave, but she gets worried I'm not 'social enough' and won't let off 'til I go to civilization, unofficially dubbed 'London'... So, here I am, I guess."

The detective had to force his mouth from opening slightly. "You… You don't want to know how I know exactly where you're from?" He asked, used to expecting the normal 'you're a bloody psychic' or, 'freak, how did you know that?'. Never had his abilities been ignored so… politely.

Moira grinned, shrugging just a bit. "Doesn't matter. You got it right, didn't you?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, still unable to string together a biting insult or a remark strong enough to make her go away. And what was even worse was that for some reason, he didn't want her to.

"So, Sherl, I can call you that, right? Tell me where I can get some decent food around here! Only been to London twice, the first time being when I got lost hiking." She confirmed, face drawn deep in thought.

Before Sherlock could reply, her eyes lit up and she rambled on again. "Oh! Do you want to come with me? Get some food, yeah? I love spaghetti, I think that's my weak spot. How about you? What's your favorite food? Do you know any Italian people-"

"Wait." Sherlock bit out, looking at his watch and then back to her, "You've bumped into me while skating with obviously no experience, broke my mobile, and we've been talking here about pointless chatter for 5 minutes. That's 20 minutes in total since said accident occurred. You've only known me for 20 minutes, and you want me to help you to lunch?"

Moira kept that irritatingly warm smile and nodded. "Yep."

Sherlock straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin slightly. "You should know that I'm a cold and calculating genius who has absolutely every intention of having as little contact with the dull, moronic populous as possible, and I think you're a desperately clueless woman who has secluded her life in the wilds of Scotland and chosen the worst time possible to acquaint herself with such a pointless, stupid idea. I was about to solve a case and you interrupted me with your foolish skates, something even children have outgrown. You want me to take time out of my activities, which I can assure you are far more superior than any of your intellect can understand, to take you to lunch?"

"That's what I said the first time, Sherl, now let's hurry up! I'm not quite sure how to get these things off and my stomach is growling. Up you get, now, before I fall on you again." Moira said whilst trying to balance herself on the skates, holding on to the edge of the bench while listening and staring at Sherlock with rapt focus.

The detective had to recover from a second unexpected blow that day, and this time his mouth dropped open for a good 3 seconds before he had the mind to close it. "Did you even hear a word of what I just said?" He snapped, trying to sound as bitter as possible.

"Yeah, yeah, you're a cold and calculating genius who has every intention of avoiding stupid people like me," she mimicked in a mock British accent, "now, what's your favorite lunch? We can compromise on where we wanna eat, I suppose, as a way of paying you back for your mobile there… So, what's your favorite food?"

Sherlock's jaw worked up and down, feeling like the dumbest fool on earth when he answered, "I don't eat much… But when I do I find Indian appealing."

The woman smiled, nodding as she grabbed onto his arm for support. "Great, then! I like Thai, myself. I should think there's a place that serves both."

The surge of electricity that bolted through him when they touched seemed to make him feel the most alive he'd ever felt. He avoided all human contact like it was the plague, but this ignorant, blissfully happy Moira seemed to have a rare exception.

"Well? I can't exactly skate there. Onward!" She proclaimed loudly, pointing in no direction in particular, laughing as she did so. Sherlock looked at her face, young, about 24, and her sparkling eyes that looked at him as if he was her best friend. He knew he should be reasonable, he knew he was being illogical, idiotic having been drawn to her. A million doubts flew through his mind, as well as a million questions. But looking at this woman, something exploded within him. He thinks it was the walls of his mind palace, brick and plaster shattered to make room for the new section dedicated to Moira MacCallan.