AN: I don't know where half of these ideas come from. Mature for the subject matter, but relationship-wise, it's honestly just fluff. Sherlock and John sneak in at the end a bit.

Anderson didn't dislike his job. It was interesting to him. He was a man, not a particularly sensitive man, who prided himself on the ability to detach himself from the deceased, or murdered, at crime scenes.

He also had a bit of sick fun in taunting Sherlock Holmes, clearly able to get underneath the detective's skin, if only to annoy the living daylights out of his concentration.

His wife, who he was, actually, planning to divorce, didn't care whom he slept with, where he slept or if he was dead or alive. She herself was gone half the year travelling for business. He came to realize one month when she got home and found a men's shirt and tie in her suitcase that business hadn't been the only reason for her frequent disappearances.

Sally Donovan was smart, beautiful, silver-tongued, and most of all, convenient. She wanted one thing from him, and he from her. They didn't go on dates. They didn't watch movies together. They didn't even eat dinner or meals together, unless one counted that brief cup of coffee shared after they'd rolled out of bed and directly to a crime scene.

Holmes had pointed that out, of course.

Not that had deterred Donovan.

They were still on last-name basis. It was an unspoken rule. Their relationship was only one thing to the both of them.

The phone rang early, around 3 in the morning and Anderson growled lowly in annoyance as he rolled to the left to pick up.


It was Lestrade.

Of course it was Lestrade.

"Will Holmes be there?"

The answer made his lip curl.

When he arrived, he found it odd that Lestrade was outside of the crime scene tape, expression abnormally grim and downcast. He looked very rigid, pissed-off even and Anderson wondered briefly why.

He thought he might have heard his name called by one of the other officers, someone he had only spoken to once or twice, but he ignored it and ducked under the tape with his suit on, so as not to contaminate evidence.

The photographer was snapping pictures, but Anderson wanted to snarl at him grumpily, because he appeared to be taking pictures of the bloody floor for God's sake. Wasn't there a body somewhere? Was it really necessary to take shots of a pile of pale blue blankets?

Anderson opened his mouth to bitch, because he was tired. It was 3 in the morning and he had finally fallen asleep, and Sherlock Holmes was on the way, but then the photographer gave a deep sigh and leaned back on his heels, bringing his camera in towards his chest. And Anderson was lost for words, for once in his life.

A baby.

It was a fucking baby.

The guy with the camera was muttering to him something in a resigned voice about what a shame it was, but all Anderson could hear was his own voice, spitting in his head, saying over and over: It's a fucking baby.

Lestrade was suddenly behind him. "One of the guys tried warning you," he said in that always-present, unnervingly calm tone he always had. "It looks like suffocation. I definitely don't think it's SIDs."

Anderson shook his head slightly, as if shaking Lestrade's calm tone off of him and knelt by the seemingly asleep infant.

It was a boy. He could just tell without unraveling the blue blanket or opening marble-sized eyes.

His hand shook uncontrollably as his fingers searched for the neck and he paused, wondering if Lestrade could see and at the same time, not caring.

The men were quiet until they had left the house. Lestrade walked past him stiffly and headed towards a woman. She was fighting one of the officers to get inside and ended up collapsing in Lestrade's arms, screaming and flailing. Anderson didn't have to be a highly functioning sociopath to know that was the baby's mother.

"Kind of a sick fuck to kill a baby."

The voice was achingly familiar and Anderson half-turned to see Sally Donovan's arms crossed, her posture almost exactly the same as the detective inspector's. She was gritting her teeth in suppressed anger and the sharp edges in her voice made him walk towards her.

She caught sight of him coming towards her and took a step back with a startled looking asking what he thought he was doing in front of everyone. But Anderson jerked his head dismissively and she let him wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her thick, dark hair.

That was the first night they slept together without having sex.

When Donovan turned to him an hour after they had slipped into bed, he brought his arms around her again and didn't flinch when he felt a tear drop onto his cheek and slide down his neck. Her shoulders shook and he tightened his grip, rubbing up and down the length of her back slowly and methodically until she fell asleep.

He stayed up a while longer, unable to burn not only the image of the baby from his mind, but the image of the mother, lost and distraught and unbelieving.

The disbelief got him every time.

In the morning, he made them both coffee and when he asked "Sally, would you like eggs?" she blinked and smiled weakly and said she would love some.

When she left, the phone rang and again it was Lestrade.

And there had been a suicide.

Anderson didn't need to ask to know whose it had been.

Sherlock stumbled into the flat at around 5 in the morning.

John watched in morbid curiosity from his place in his chair as Sherlock entered, threw his jacket onto the couch and paused thoughtfully. Suddenly, the detective whirled and rushed into the bathroom.

John tilted his head to the side in confusion, standing immediately when he heard a rough retching. "Sherlock?" He inquired in a concerned tone.

He walked into the bathroom without knocking to see Sherlock just leaning away from the toilet bowl, flushing and looking oddly solemn and pale. "What…are you sick?" John asked incredulously, but his friend shook his head slowly. "Did…" he searched his mind, before becoming increasingly guilty he had been on a date with Sarah and not responded when Sherlock had texted him. "Did something happen at the crime scene?"

Sherlock lifted himself into a half-sitting position, his long legs straight out in front of him. His head lolled heavily, his hand coming up to press into his face. "I don't…care to talk about it…"

John frowned, but deliberated for a moment before slinking down next to the consulting detective. He folded his legs to his chest, encircling them with his arms, clasping his one wrist with his right hand.

He did not flinch in any way when Sherlock leaned his head heavily on John's shoulder, fingers still covering his eyes.

They sat there for what was a good hour, before Sherlock spoke again and John's eyes narrowed. "Humans are disgusting creatures."

"Yes. I know," John replied without bitterness.

Sherlock's next words were quieter and he pressed his hand closer to his face, simultaneously down casting his eyes. He requested John to bring him a beer if it wasn't too much trouble.

The alcohol was behind the jar of severed fingers.