It was snowing. Sherlock looked up and sighed, watching the flakes drift down. After a moment of staring she flicked her dark curls away from her face and stepped into the club. She shed her raincoat, leaving it in the coatroom before stopping briefly in the powder room to ensure the falling snow hadn't ruined her makeup. It hadn't, thankfully; the entire process of applying makeup was horrendously tedious and she was loath to redo it.

Without a backward glance she stepped onto the main dancefloor and made her way across it to the bar. She knew how clients looked at her, how the other girls hated her for it. They didn't realize –how could they when they didn't see- how swiftly the money Sherlock made was spent. The irony of a callgirl with no phone was not lost on her.

She'd arrived at the bar. Already she knew which one would be taking her home –or rather, to his motel room. Third stool from the left, married with two children aged five and eleven, a boy and a girl respectively. Utterly boring, would most likely object to her doing cocaine either before or after intercourse.

Dull. She hadn't even shot up that day, Jim forbade it on days she was working, said it made her look off, though what that meant was lost to her.

So she played her part, pretending to drink and flirt with everyone at the bar, using her skills to drive clients to other girls one by one until hers was the only one left. He shyly invited her to his motel, promising to make it worth her while. Precisely as predicted, and Sherlock couldn't pretend that didn't thrill her.

When he was done with his ridiculous rutting and had paid her, Sherlock went to Jim's and dropped off his percentage before going home with her cut.

A vague sense of responsibility, or rather the fear of another visit from Mycroft, overtook her, driving her to pay her rent before going upstairs and shooting up.

Either it had been too long –unlikely, she'd just taken some earlier in the week- or someone had tampered with the drug because when she finally came down from her high she was outside a clinic in a strange part of London, soaked to the skin by half-melted snow and obviously experiencing the beginning stages of hypothermia.

"You alright, miss?" a warm voice asked. Sherlock whirled, shocked someone had managed to sneak up on her. She tried to speak but she was too cold and the chattering of her teeth got in the words' way.

"Let's get you inside, then. Don't worry, I work here," the voice said, and now Sherlock could focus on its source. A small woman, light blonde hair with piercing blue eyes. Tanned skin, psychosomatic limp aided by an aluminium crutch, recently returned from a tour of duty in either Iraq or Afghanistan. Clearly a doctor, seeing as she calmly led Sherlock through the clinic and into an exam room.

"Sit tight, I'll have some coffee here in a moment," the woman said, flagging down a nurse from the doorway and begging him to fetch some coffee. He agreed quickly and rushed off. "I'm Johanna by the way," she added. "Johanna Watson. And you?"

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" Sherlock managed to force out between her teeth. She accepted the coffee, even though it was black and not at all to her taste. It was warm and that was all that mattered.

"Afghanistan, how did you…?" Johanna asked, handing Sherlock a few packets of sweetener. Sherlock added it to her drink before answering.

"Tanned skin, military bearing in combination with your injured shoulder entails service in the armed forces. Factor in your age and you could only have been in Iraq or Afghanistan," Sherlock rattled off quickly, awaiting the anger that always followed her deductions.

"Brilliant," Johanna proclaimed, shaking her head in amazement.

"Elementary," Sherlock corrected, still expecting the usual anger. When it didn't come, Sherlock was surprised. No one –not even Lestrade- responded to her deductions with awe, much less with the delight obviously dancing across Dr. Watson's face.

The doctor only smiled before sitting forward and taking Sherlock's face in hand. At first the woman struggled but when she realized this was the doctor side, not that of the soldier or woman, touching her, she relaxed.

"How long have you been an addict, Miss…?"

"Thirteen years this past spring," Sherlock answered, deliberately ignoring the unspoken query. Dr. Watson only nodded slightly.

"Alright, then. At least let me see you home safely," she offered, standing and placing her now-empty coffee cup aside.

Sherlock could have refused, but something about the doctor had piqued her curiosity. They stepped outside and flagged down a cab.