I do not own Sherlock or Trigun or Agents of Shield

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Dr. John Watson knew that the sight of a dead girl on the couch would invariably lead to some sort of chaos involving his errant flatmate. At the time he really didn't know how much chaos there would be.

The dead girl in question was a teenager; blood smeared along her left leg leaving horrible stains on her peculiar shoes and pants while disappearing completely into the red trench coat. Her face was smooth, with a regal brow and straight nose and short, spikey blond hair began to fall from the straight up position that it previously held. A leather holster hung low at her hips reminding the poor doctor of one of the old western films he had seen.

"Sherlock, why is there a dead teenager on the couch?"

The consultant detective wandered into the room with a bored expression, "She's not dead, but her leg needs to be fixed up."

"What did you do!? Sherlock?" Holmes wandered out of the room.

"Bandage her leg please. And don't call Lestrade, he's mad at me for stealing a taxi."

Heaving the godmother of all sighs Watson moved into his room to grab his first aid kit when he came back brilliant sea green eyes stared at him over the edge of orange reflective sunglasses.

"Hello," he rubbed his arm along the side of his jacket for a moment, "I'm sorry for….whatever's Sherlock's done." One eye slid shut as she shifted her leg ever so slightly to allow him more access to the damaged limb. "Well, I'll get on with it then."

Later, Watson had completely forgotten the red clad teenager (she was so quiet and still) until Mrs. Hudson dropped a carton of eggs and screamed.

"SHERLOCK!" At her scream the doctor and the consulting detective scrambled into the living room to investigate.

"What do you want?" Holmes demanded irritated, "Do quit your screaming."

"Why is there a poor dead girl on the couch?" John turned his attention back to the girl; she had settled down more comfortable and peeked comically from the high collar of her coat.

"She's not dead," The teen blinking in affirmation, "She's injured."

"How?" Now slightly calmed Mrs. Hudson moved to the couch to stare with rather morbid curiosity at the large swath of bandages, "And why didn't you take her to the hospital?" "Not important, he turned his infamous glare up the teen, "I've got your gun."

She blinked again, "Are you going to talk at all?" John demanded as he finally caught sight of her right arm that hand been buried in the cushions. There was no right sleeve to the coat, instead covering that arm was a peculiar leather encasing with multiple buckles. Covering her hands were black leather gloves. It looked very strange.

"Do you want me too?" All adult eyes turned, "I wasn't talking earlier because no one was talking to me. And I figured it would be rude to interrupt the doctor's work. Hello!" With that leather encased arm she gave a wave that reflected the cheery smile, chipper voice and sea green eyes sparkling with mischievousness.

"Um, yes." Watson shrugged as the moment sank into an awkward pit, "How are you feeling?' She's American.

"Oh me? She sat up with an even brighter smile, "I feel fine. Great, but fantastic works to, hmmmm. What about glorious. No? Too stern and formal? I think so. But what about just phenomenal or is that too much of a mouth full?"

She is definitely American. Was the simultaneous thought from all three of them as the girl tried to find the perfect word phrasing about how she was feeling.

"Are you hungry dear?" Cutting her off in a rather un-Mrs.-Hudson like manner the words caught the younger woman off guard.

"Yes," her arms flailed about to emphasize the point, "I'm starving in fact. But not actually starving because I ate 12 hours ago in the airport but that's silly for someone to starve that quickly. So I'm just very hungry."

"She still hasn't told me her name," Sherlock muttered as the American scrambled off the couch and followed Mrs. Hudson to the kitchen, highly favoring her injured leg, "She won't talk to me."

"You're meaning to tell me you couldn't guess her name from the coat?"

"Why," Sherlock turned his intense eyes from the brightly dressed teen to his friend, "Can you?"

"No Sherlock, I was making fun of you."

"Well ask for her name, we've got to get something to work off of."

"Miss," John stepped into the kitchen as both ladies began to engage in a heated discussion of Coffee versus Tea. "would you mind telling us your name?" As her piercing eyes turned on his Watson felt as if his insides had been flash frozen with nitrogen, then her eyes turned from flinty to cheerful a millisecond later.

"Sure, you can call me Vash, the most awesome person you'll ever meet!" Vash's eyes passed over Sherlock as if he wasn't even there.

"You don't even need to hear her to be able to tell she's an arrogant brat," Crossing his arms and turning away from the kitchen Sherlock spoke to Watson, "Just look at that coat and her arm with those boots and sunglasses. No one walks around like that unless they're 100 percent sure of themselves."

"She's got self-confidence, good"

"Entirely too much if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"And her voice, it's too cheerful to be normal.

"Which means it's not," the two sustained a glaring contest until John heard Mrs. Hudson ask the question that had been burning in the back of his mind.

"What happened to your leg?"

"Oh, some idiot ran be down with a taxi."

"Oh that's dreadful, did the police catch him?'

"No, I'm afraid not. He scampered before anyone could find him."

Aghast Watson turned to see Sherlock pick up his violin, "Sherlock!"

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Mycroft Holmes wasn't one someone could sneak up on, nor scare, startle or frighten. But at his moment he was a little concerned about the man sitting across from his desk. A man who he swore had not been there when he had got to speak to the secretary for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes," In the semi permeable darkness of the office Mycroft could make out a well pressed suit and neat features, his accent unmistakably American, "May I have a moment?"

"It seems you already have taken the liberty of adding yourself into my schedule so," with a wave of his hand Mycroft moved toward his desk, "continue."

"Thank you," both men continued to stare for a several minutes while concluding and filing away information about the other. "My name is Agent Coulson from S.H.I.E.L.D. and I'm afraid that London is in grave danger."

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The deadly combination of Mycroft Holmes and Agent Coulson! YES so leave a review.