Much love and all the awards to my beta ArtsyChick.

Sherlock Holmes belongs to Moffat/Gatiss and Doyle, as much as I like to pretend otherwise.

His fingers tangled with hers as they both reached for the surgical gloves. It wasn't an accident.

"Come over tonight." he whispered in her ear.

Sally quickly extricated herself, snatching up whatever gloves her fingers came into contact with. As a result she ended up with far too many extras. Resisting the childish impulse to throw her collection of gloves in his face, she attempted to remain civil with a simple, "No."

Anderson took a step closer, lining his body against hers, "We'll have the place to ourselves. Open a bottle of wine, a bit of music…"

Sally quickly stepped away from him. "I said, no Anderson." she snapped, pulling her gloves into place.

His abysmal attempts at a charming smile melted away into a sneer. "Oh, so it's 'Anderson' now? That not what you said—" But he was cut off by another voice:

"Anderson, are you deaf as well as incompetent?"

Sally never would have thought it possible to be so relieved to hear that smug, caustic, and completely insufferable freak's voice. She would certainly never, ever admit it aloud.

"What do you want?" Anderson growled, "Come to contaminate my crime scene?"

Sherlock made no attempts to hide his disdain, "Lestrade has been barking for you for five minutes. I don't think he enjoys being kept waiting."

Anderson, torn between staying and defending his manhood, or leaving to attend to his boss, chose the latter.

In the resulting quiet Sally almost felt the need to thank the detective for his interference. Almost. As it was, she turned to go without acknowledging him. She didn't know what to say.

But apparently Sherlock did. "He's never going to leave his wife."

She froze in the doorway. What a night for first's because never had she ever heard his voice so peacefully mild.

She knew Anderson wouldn't leave his wife. Idiot. She knew Anderson was an imbecile. Great choice there Sally. The night she went home with him had been a mistake, a big, drunken, careless mistake. Bravo. But feelings did have a nasty habit of complicating things and she was now paying the price for it. Well done indeed.

But instead of saying all this she tore into the messenger, biting and harsh at his gentle reminder of her own idiocy.

"What of it? What do you care?"

His reply nearly knocked her off her feet.

"Whoever said I didn't?"

Sherlock turned away from her, effectively ending the conversation and reached for the surgical gloves, but his hand came up empty from the now vacant box.

A soft whiz was all the warning he got. His hand reached out and caught the gloves midair, right before they could make contact with his head.

The pair stared at each other. Sherlock decidedly bemused, Sally smiling, begrudgingly, for the first time in weeks.

She nodded, "Good luck Sherlock."


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