Hello my lovelies!

I was pleasantly surprised by the reaction this has gotten and it is just so much fun to write!

Note on layout of 221B: It's just the Brownstone with a new address.

Note on Science: Don't worry about it. I keep to facts when I can, but do take a little creative license here and there...

I'd love to hear for you all! Enjoy :D

Ch.2

-Seeds of Something-

"This is insane!" Her mother shouts in mandarin. The cymbal crash of her arm bangles accenting her frustrations, making Joan wince. "People die all the time. There is no reason for you to get involved."

Joan counts her breaths trying to maintain her inner calm - something she has considerable trouble with where her mother was concerned. "Okay yes, people die. But they do not die like that." She says firmly, eyes flashing like ebony knifes. Why can her mother not understand why this is so important? A man just died in her arms. Joan wants to know why!

"Hubert King was murdered." Joan says slowly as if that will make her words sink in. "Probably in that ballroom and because of that I am involved in this wither you like it or not."

The two women stare at each other over the parlor table, a pair of immovable mountains, waiting for the other to blink first. Her mother only ever wants what is best for her - or at least what she thinks is best for her daughter. Yet Joan is no wall ornament waiting for a husband to add her to his collection. Something her parents are beginning to panic over as she nears her 23 birthday.

Joan has very different ideas about her life.

After a minute her mother let out a world weary sigh of defeat, shoulders slumping under her violet taffeta day dress. "Please, honey, I am simply worried about you. You cannot go gallivanting around London un-chaperoned and you certainly cannot visit an Englishman's home without one! People may talk."

Joan always wonders who these 'people' are. "Mr. Holmes is investigating the killing, who else would I speak to? It will be fine, Mother." She pats her mother's hand, soft from lilac talcum, reassuringly.

The lines of concern in her mother's features do not soften, yet she does not argue further.

Joan smiles sunshine bright at this small allowance of freedom. "I will be back before supper." She calls grabbing her long crimson coat and dashing out the door.

Her dove gray button hook shoes click against the pavement as she skips down the front steps to the sidewalk. Two suited men strolling on the street look up at her in surprise as she flashes past to hail a cab. Joan knows she stands out against the dreary backdrop of London, lithe form dressed in pink silk cheongsam and a tailored British jacket that fell to mid calf. She is entirely out of place.

A dappled mare pulls up alongside her its docile, sweet gaze eyes her carefully searching for hidden apples. The cabbie, who sat atop the carriage trundling along behind, tipped his hat. "'ere to Miss?" His cockney accent is nearly as thick as his mustache.

"221B Baker Street." She takes the offered hand up into the cab.

"The detective, eh?" He chuckles at her surprise, turning back to steer the horse. "Everyone knows Mr. Holmes, Miss. Everyone who works the streets anyways."

With that rather cryptic remark they set off into the swirling fog which lay thick on the cobble streets. Hoof beats echoing off the early morning gloom. Joan does not believe in signs, but she had to shiver at the damp chill.

Clyde watches Sherlock work with a level of disapproval that he thinks the tortoise must have learned from Ms. Hudson. He drops arsenic into a beaker doing his best to ignore the judgmental wrinkly gaze.

"This is becoming insufferable." Sherlock reaches over to spin the turtle to face the opposite direction. "You're supposed to be on my side." He huffs.

The table in front of him is covered in beakers, bubbling pots, and colorful powders with sinister smells. Clouds of dark midnight storm hues float above his head, thickening by the minute, issuing from the experiment before him. The sulfur fumes are sure to bring his landlady down on him, but Sherlock has done worse without Ms. Hudson deciding to shoot him.

The concoction brewing on the table suddenly turns a brilliant shade of emerald.

"Bollocks!"

Negative again. This is the sixth test he has done and he still has no clue what poison killed Mr. King. It usually took him less than a minute to deduce cause of death. But so far all Sherlock has determined is that it is not arsenic, nightshade, hemlock, lead, or monkshood, or anything else it could have been. He kicks his chair in frustration.

"What in heaven's name are you doing in here?" Demands a prim voice in alarm.

Ms. Hudson stands in the doorway of his parlor looking every bit as horrified as he expected her to. The blonde woman runs for the windows in her usual loud, feather ruffled way. "You are going to kill us all!"

Sherlock grumbles at his landlady in put-on irritation - he knew he probably would have starved to death ages ago without her meddling. The storm clouds begin to waft out into the cool damp breeze, slowly clearing the room. Ms. Hudson helps the smoke along by waving a worn copy of Shakespeare's sonnets at it furiously.

"Why are you barging in her e in the middle of my work?" He groans, dropping melodramatically into an overstuffed chair and rubbing his stubbled features.

"There is a woman here to see you!" By her tone one would think this revelation is nothing sort of a miracle, all things considered it is probably true. What lady would come here? "A pretty woman, by herself no less!"

Ms. Hudson suddenly turns, floral hat wobbling precariously, to level a hawk like glare at him. Sherlock sinks back into the cushions in instinctive alarm.

"And just so you know, I am going to stay right here. So if you try anything forward mister I will stab you with the fire poker. Now straighten your shirt, dear." With that she flounders back out of the room before he can respond.

"What does think I'm going to do?" Sherlock asks Clyde, who has finally rotated back to face him, in offense.

The tortoise merely blinks at him.

"Well you're a lode of help." Frowning he gets up and tugs at his waistcoat, only making his appearance more askew.

The sounds of female voices come from the entryway, causing him to jump to attention, as though his spine were an iron rod. Sherlock is never sure precisely how to act towards the fairer sex - or anyone, if he is being honest. At least now he knows who his guest is.

Joan Watson is shown into the parlor and he is struck by the oddest of observations upon seeing her among his décor. She fits in perfectly. Her very being fits seamlessly into the eclectic mishmash of the room.

"Miss Watson." Sherlock feels off balanced by the strange errant thought. "How nice to see you again."

"I apologize for coming unannounced." Joan bows her head politely. The gold flowers in her hair sparkle in the weak sunlight with the movement.

"No matter." He claps his hands together and waves her towards the shabby sofa awkwardly. "You are here about the case, yes?"

She laughs lightly, breaking some of the tension between them. Tension which is probably his doing, not hers. "I guess that's obvious."

"Why don't I get us all some hot tea?" Ms. Hudson smiles, once Joan has taken her seat. She gives Sherlock a stern warning glance before adding. "I shall only be gone a moment."

"Hurry back! I might murder her while you're getting out the cakes!" He petulantly yells after Ms. Hudson's retreating form.

His guest raises her delicate eyebrows in a quizzical expression. Joan seems more amused than worried, however, which fits with what Sherlock has deduced of her character thus far. Watson is far from a shrinking violet.

"My landlady seems to believe I'm some kind of cad and I will do something horribly untoward the instant her back is turned."

To her credit, Joan's cheeks only color slightly as this remark. "Do you often do untoward things then?"

Sherlock makes a show of thinking it over, bouncing on his heels. "Only according to some people."

"Some, but not all?"

"No, not all." He grins, flopping back into his favorite salmon pink armchair. Joan is remarkably unmoved by his mannerisms and that has Sherlock instantly intrigued.

"What progress have you made with the case?" She questions abruptly, leaning forward in her seat.

"Frightfully little I'm afraid." Sherlock admits with a tired breath. Admitting difficulty with anything is unusual for him, yet he does not mind so much right now.

"Then I have something which may help." Joan declares with an upward curve of her lips. She slips a hand into a hidden pocket fold of her pale rose dress and produces a small white apothecary bag. It rattles as she hands it over to him, indicating it must contain seeds of some variety or other.

"I believe this is what the killer used to poison Mr. King."

Carefully Sherlock opens the tiny packet to inspect the tiny brown-black seeds nestled inside. There innocuous shape is recognizable to him for several reasons, many of them unpleasant. For this particular bit of plant matter also generated poisons of a less toxic variety.

"Poppy seeds." He glances up at Joan, gray eyes serious, regarding her with new insight. "Of course. It is a special breed is it not?"

Joan nods, a spark in her eyes at his reaction. "I recognized the distinctive blue discoloring of the victim's fingertips. So I went searching the herbalist shops in Chinatown."

She really does fit in here. Sherlock steeples his fingers, leaning towards her. "Miss Watson, how would you feel about doing some investigating?"

"Sherlock!" Came Ms. Hudson's outraged voice behind him.