After my rocky start, I was determined that the rest of the day would go better. In my defense once again, this would have been easier if certain people who are named Anderson just didn't exist.

"What's she doing here?" Ah, Anderson. If he has a first name I have no idea what it is, unless 'That Bastard' or 'Shit-for-brains' is what's actually on his birth certificate.

"I'm early," I said, pointing at the clock.

"Early for what?" he asked sharply.

"The pig roast, am I in the right room?" I said.

"Charlotte," Greg interjected loudly, "is here for the orientation, Anderson."

"No," Anderson said flatly.

"Anderson," Greg sighed impatiently, "she's-"

"A monster?" Anderson muttered.

"-not our division," Sherlock and I chorused.

"I promise to behave," I said.

"Last time you said that the fire department ended up coming."

"Last time I said that I was six. You really need to get over it," I answered. Greg cleared his throat.

"If you've all quite finished."

"We have," I said quickly.

"Good," Greg replied. "Sherlock, please go away and remind me what I pay you for."

"But I wanted to hear your inspiring words of welcome to our newest employees," Sherlock argued. "John says it rhymes."

"It rhymes?" I said, intrigued. "I didn't know you wrote poetry."

"Sherlock, go away. Charlotte, if you want to be helpful, put one of these folders at each seat." I took the stack from him, waved goodbye to Sherlock, and started passing them out. "I heard you were late this morning."

"I wasn't so much late as…unavoidably detained," I replied.

"By?"

"A long story involving my father and a midlife crisis."

"He didn't try to grow the moustache again, did he?" Greg asked in alarm.

"Oh God no," I shuddered. "Just…no."

"Excuse me?"an uncertain voice broke in. "Are we in the right place?"

"Ah, right-come in, please," Greg said hastily. "I'm Chief Lestrade, and this is Charlotte Watson, one of our new CO's." Too late, I realized that being early did not, in fact, make me look professional, it just made me look like a brown-nosing ass, like that kid who stays in to help the teacher clean the classroom during break time because she has no friends, not that I would know anything about that. "Take your seats and the presentationwill begin momentarily."

"And probably not rhyme," I said helpfully. Everyone stared at me. Probably because they were so grateful. I sat down. I wish I could say that I proceeded to pay attention and take notes on this riveting masterpiece of oratorical genius, but I actually just played myself in Tic-tac-toe. I lost. I tune back in just in time to hear Greg putting us in groups to go over our new hire paperwork and set up our phones and computers. And if you thought I got lucky and wasn't in Anderson's group, you haven't been paying attention. I followed the rest of the group over to where Anderson's standing. He can't quite keep himself from glowering at me. One of the other women in the group raised her eyebrows at me.

"You two know each other?" she whispered. I hesitated.

"In a manner of speaking," I said diplomatically.

"Watson, shut up," Anderson snapped.

"Yes sir," I said pleasantly. The remainder of the morning goes by quickly, if uneventfully, and at 12:30 we're dismissed for lunch. The rest of my group invites me to join them, probably because I haven't opened my mouth yet so they don't know any better.

They are about to know better.

"For the last time," a familiar voice is bellowing, "you may not just steal things from crime scenes. It's indecent."

"It was just a scar, John!" Sherlock protested.

"You have at least a hundred scarves already. Your ENTIRE closet was filled with scarves when we lived together. Why do you need a dead man's?" My father, despite having known Sherlock now for over thirty years, has not yet grasped the concept that this kind of logic is just not a thing Sherlock does. With all of their shouting, it's the tall, quiet man beside them who spots me first.

"Charlotte," he said mildly. I stifled a groan as the rest of the group turns its attention from the two grown men shrieking at each other like adolescent girls possessed by demons
to me.

"Hi, Mycroft," I said. Despite having known him since my infancy, Mycroft Holmes and I have never quite progressed beyond civilized handshakes and intense games of Words With Friends. Honestly, this is how it should be. One day, Dad got unexpectedly called into work, so Mycroft drove me to preschool. (In a Hummer. With three bodyguards). After a few minutes, he glanced up from his text message. "We're just going to make one stop," he said. That stop? Ended up being a rendezvous with an international drug cartel. "You took my firstborn child to fucking-fucking liaise with drug smugglers?" Dad was nearly apoplectic. Mycroft just shrugged.

"She's fine, isn't she?" So, you know. That's what we're dealing with here. (And in all fairness, he did buy me ice cream after). Dad and Sherlock stopped shouting. Everyone was quiet. It's very awkward, and I would have the sudden urge to breakdance if that was something I actually had any idea how to do. One of the guys in my group frowned at Sherlock.

"Hey, aren't you the one who told us there'd be a pig roast?" I stared at Sherlock incredulously.

"I thought it was funny," he muttered. One of the other guys raised his hand.

"I'm a vegetarian."

So there you go.