Author's Note: I had such a urge of inspiration to write this…and I'm pleased with the plot that I have in my head! This is a romance story, but NO slash. Because you see…I made Watson a female. Now, if you notice, there is a strong friendship between the unbreakable duo of Holmes and Watson, so their characters won't but much different. I promise this will not be a cliché female!watson story and all the characters will be in here! It starts from the very beginning, and goes off till I decide to end it. This one will be long, but I'm sure it will turn out just fine. I apologize in advance if you find any typos and reviews are loved!

I do not own Sherlock Holmes. It all belongs to the wonderful mind of Arthur Doyle.

I had no intention of ever returning to London, nor had I been pleased with the news back at the military base that I was being sent "home" due to my unfortunate incident. Prior, the year had been 1878, I earning my medical degree from the University of London—a much grueling task I must add—when I had "entered the battlefield". Women were absolutely forbidden from working in such a dismal career, but with my deceased brother's sources, I had managed to force my way to schooling. Needless to say, my future of settling down and marrying a nice man had vanished from the books. I was wild, a tarnished name to any man's reputation. Not that I cared for the bloodiest moment. But continuing from earlier, I had been shipped off to work as a surgeon's assistant after graduating and it was nauseating—my first deaths in my career. They had told us that every doctor killed a patient, but they had never told me that I would have to deal with hundreds every day. But then again, I being a female, was enough to say I wasn't supposed to be medically able and at war nonetheless! Yet I knew all that was needed to…

Battlefield is an ugly thing.

There are no winners in such a combat, no prizes, no pride. For the time I spent in the hospital wing, I had aged over a thousand years, watching young men die or bleed themselves to death. Sometimes only parts of them came through the door, their bodies so covered with burns and blood that I regarded them as a fragile glass—one touch and they'd break. After weeks, my heart had reached an unbearable state; the sight of dead bodies seeming more like dead flies on the windowsills.

So, to this day, I don't know whether I am relived about getting shot.

Rests assure I am not a martyr of any sort. The memory was still quite vivid in head seeing as I have only just recovered and departed. I had been rushing out to the well outside to retrieve some water for the surgeon when the large crack suddenly sounded through the empty courtyard. When one says their life flashed before their eyes, I'd like to say they are all dirty liars. I saw nothing but white, searing pain and I was dying. And it was only till my eyes wandered to the blossoming red stain on my shoulder and my body crashing to the ground that I realized what it was—a Jezail bullet. And that crack had been my bone.

When I finally did awake, I wished I had not. The strong light burned my eyes, and I could feel my pupils dilating from being closed for so long. Agony swept through my shoulder and my leg, the slightest movement causing a wave of raw pain to hit me. I remember shutting my eyes tightly, fearing for the worse—the removal of my limbs. I knew the chances of survival; I had done the procedure numerous times. If the patient didn't die during the surgery, the infection was bound to get them. I had cracked an eye open and turned to look at my limbs, feeling my eyes watering and let out a sigh of relief to see them all there. There had been an old man staring down at me, his strong green eyes having no emotion. "Miss Joanna Watson, I presume? You're bloody well lucky that theMurray fellowmanaged to save your life. We were sure you were going to die." The old doctor shrugged, his professionalism never slipping. I loathed him for it, but kept my mouth clamped shut. I was in too much pain to respond anyways. The doctor continued, fishing a cigarette from his coat, lighting it and then placing it to his lips. I thought he wasn't going to say anything, but then he finally opened his mouth, his voice gentle, perhaps even…remorseful. "I will never understand how a woman so young got stuck in a hell-hole like this."

I never quite understood myself.

After the doctors saw that I was well enough to be moved, they shipped me off to a much safer camp to heal. At first, I was sure that I would never be able to walk again; but I had never expected to see the soft moonlight ever again either. Recovery was slow and aggravating but soon, I was able to walk with a cane. I saw the way men stared at me in disgust at the hospital, and I knew what they were all thinking: A woman who has destroyed her future for a vain effort. I couldn't help but feel saddened. But where was I to go if I were to leave? I never had the choice. The general had sent me on the next train to London to meet up with a high ranking inspector, which is where this story comes to the present.

My full name is Joanna Watson. I am 23 years of age, a doctor that receives no respect, single and now officially homeless. And as I write this, while staring out the train's window, I am nervous. There was no smoke from artillery in the sky, and everything smelled clean, instead of metallic and dirt. The pen is twiddling in my fingers at a frantic pace and I do believe I am the only one without a companion. For a second, I have no idea how to react. Back at Afghan, my only leisure time was dragging the bodies to the back or reading softly to the men—and if I was lucky and met a charming fellow who was healthy enough to sit up, I'd actually play cards. Gambling was no woman's trade….But I must admit; I am bloody well good at it.

I silently reached for my purse, wincing as a sharp pain ripped through my shoulder at the effort; it was too early to act normal. I ignored it pointedly, until I managed to pull the small book from the bag that was curled lightly in my grasp. The cover of the book was etched with dried blood and a sad smile spread across my lips. I was never going back there. I was….home? The rest of the way to London was exhausting, and I fell asleep numerous times. Every time the train jerked to a stop, I would startle myself awake thinking they were bullets, flinching at the twinge of my shoulder and leg. We were about an hour's away from London, when I looked up from my dreary sleep and felt a sharp breath pass through my body. From the window, I could see my reflection staring back at me. I was well fit, due to my exercise running around the hospital, and I do admit…I was beautiful. Not gorgeous like a proper English woman…but enough. My long brown hair was down, the slight waves at the tips causing my thin face to allow my pale complexion to be hidden. My hazel eyes were nothing special, and they reminded me of the mud back at the battlefield. I was all brown, brown, brown. The only thing that stood out was my dark gray dress, which I had borrowed from an old nurse back at Afghan. She had insisted in me taking it—better than the blood stained gown. So deep in my thoughts I was that I hadn't even noticed the car had begun moving again.

About an hour and a half, I had finally arrived.

Stiffly reaching for my small bag of luggage with one hand, and my cane with the other, I limped out trying to ignore the stares. I was already out of breath by the time I fully off the train and leaned against the wall for support. My luggage dropped with a thump against the concrete flooring, my thin silver cane held weakly. Taking a deep breath, I heard my name being called from what seemed yards away.

"Miss Watson?" The voice was unsure, belonging to man.

I looked up and narrowed my eyes for a better look—oh yes; I was expecting an inspector to escort me to housing for the night. When my hazel eyes found the source of the voice, it took all self control to hold in a small laugh. He reminded me vaguely of a ferret—short, slightly stout, and beady eyes. He came running up to me and nodded, as if it were a sign he could approach closer.

"Inspector," He breathed, outstretching his hand. "Lestrade."

I smiled thinly, my fingers resting against his hand before drawing back. Usually, woman gave a small bow but with my leg, it would mean me passing out from the pain. "Ah, yes….well thank you Inspector. I assume I haven't cost you too much trouble?" I said with excruciating politeness. I was back in London. Swear words or rudeness could get me ridiculed more than I had to deal with already.

"Hmph. Could be worse. Where's your luggage?" The man asked, looking at her single bag.

I smiled halfheartedly, nodding. "You don't take much to war, Inspector."

He said nothing after that.

The ferret-faced inspector took me to a cab, helping me into the seat; I was pleased that I had contained my wince. My limbs were aching terrible once more and I needed to sleep soon. We had barely been driving for over five minutes, when the man cleared his throat once more. "Miss Watson," he began and I turned to look at him—and I could tell he was trying not to stare at the resting against the cab's door. "I am sure you must be utterly exhausted from your travels. But I do need to stop at someone's home for a brief second about a case…"

I let him trail off and then nodded, a warm smile dancing on my lips. "There's no need to ask Inspector. Another minute or so won't kill me." I noticed from the corner of my eye how he winced at the callous of my words, and I gently added: "To whoms house are we going to if I may ask?"

Lestrade seemed to relax, leaning back into his seat. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Another inspector?" I inquired, raising a thin brow.

The man snorted, shaking his head. "A madman."

I felt my eyes gleam curiously at such words. Obviously the inspector was bluffing—but what was Mr. Holmes like?

I was bound to find out and as the cab parked, I looked out onto the street and breathed lightly.

221 Baker Street.

It had a catchy vibe to it.

A/N: So, this is just the prologue, I assure you the rest of chapters will be much longer :D I hope you enjoyed, and I have the perfect plan how to add all the canon characters in this story. Please review! Nothing pains me more to see the view on a story and no reviews. Criticism is accepted but no bashing! I'll update this story weekly, and it should never take me longer than a month to ever update.

Thanks!

Until next time!