What do Anderson and Sgt. Sally Donovan do in their spare time? Badmouth Sherlock, of course.

A/N: My first oneshot! Somehow I seem to have a thing for writing fics about supporting characters, even ones I don't really like, or at least when I'm trying to sleep... Ah, anyway. This was just for fun, and I imagine it does happen to the pair often.

Disclaimer: I will own Sherlock for Christmas. Or, at least, the DVD. Until then, I don't own Sherlock. At all.


There is a sturdy knock on the door. He walks over, pulling it open, smiling.

"Hello" he says, with a partially pleasantly tone to his voice. "Do come in."

Candles and ambient lighting are set throughout the interior of his flat. A bunch of mismatched flowers from the shop stands in a slightly cracked vase on the kitchen counter. Besides that, there are obvious objects strewn around the place that indicate the ownership of certain people, and, well.

He stands back and lets her stride in, purposely, slightly huffily, then locks the door. "You alright?" he asks with a hint of concern as he goes over and pops in a Celine Dion CD (his wife's, not his!).

She scowls for a bit before going to the sofa and falling down upon it. Untying her scarf, she nearly spits out her next words. "I hate the Freak. So much. Even more than before."

"What did he do this time?" he asks, as he sits next to her on the couch and smoothly slides his arm around her shoulders.

"Made me looking like a sodding idiot in front of Lestrade, that's what. The-" She breaks off with a few angry growls, crossing her arms.

"I don't know what Lestrade sees in him. He just guesses everything and happens to be right. There's no science in it," he says in return, scowling slightly.

"Exactly! So he happens to be right and I happen to be wrong. It's not like I'm not doing my job for God's sake! I swear they're shagging or something because there's no way anyone could put up with him."

He shudders in response. "Bad mental image."

"Sorry. Anyway, so today he goes on about some - some author or something who's - I have no idea what it was but it was obviously not true. So Lestrade, as he does, trusts Sherlock not me, and they go on and check the bloke's flat. Turns out he killed his wife then fed her to his family members! Can you believe it?"

"It's not like Sherlock does anything that far off, with that bloody skull on the mantle."

"Actually, I think it's gone now, thank God."

"Oh that's a relief. Wine?"

"Please." He gets up and goes to pour them both generous amounts of red wine. "Like I was saying, obviously that's not what someone does. But Lestrade checks it out anyway and it turns out the Freak is right. I swear he killed that woman himself and put all the evidence there because that just doesn't happen. But it turns out it does and the Freak gets a big gold star for figuring it out, ooh. Then Lestrade pulls me over afterwards and asks me to lay off opposing the Freak. Thanks." She takes the glass and drains a good portion of it.

"He did? He can't let him run free like that."

"Well apparently he can. Ugh." She takes another long draught. "Mm, this is fantastic." She swishes the wine around in the glass before finishing it off. He does the same and they sit in a sort of silence for a bit until he too clinks the glass down on the coffee table.

"Want some more?"

"Not yet." Suddenly, because she's like that, she turns and basically begins attacking him, in a very good way.

Except partway through he winces and jumps away.

"What? What's wrong?" she asks, in a briefly irritated manner.

"Can you climb off for a sec," he says. She does so but is now looking at him with a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

"It's because of the Freak isn't it?" she asks, reading his mind.

"How did you know?" he replies sarcastically.

"What happened?"

"Somehow, all the electricity in my lab went bust today. No lights, no computers, nothing. It was pitch dark in there and I had to stumble around, bumping into things, until I found the front door. And he was standing right outside it and said something stupid, can't remember what, acting all innocent though it was obvious he was the one who did it. I was the only one working there in the morning and he knew it."

"Freak." she concedes.

They both jump at a loud knock on the door. There is a muffled PIZZA DELIVERY! shout from outside.

"Did you order pizza?" she asks, squinting at him suspiciously, "You know I'm allergic to cheese."

"No..." he says slowly. "I swear I didn't."

They both exchange a knowing glance before he goes to the door.

"Pizza delivery for... Mrs. Anderson?"