Hello, Sherlock fans!

This is my attempt at a Sherlock story, so please let me know what you think!

Please read, review and enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock , if I did, he would make some really mean deductions about me and make me cry. (He's not insulting me, he's describing me...)

'Donovan!' Lestrade gasped loudly, even though they were not ten feet apart.

He'd run into the office where Sally was working a few seconds before, clutching his mobile and panting. He'd obviously run to find her.

She wondered why; he was always quite laid back, calm. It suited the work he did, because it meant he kept a calm head when everyone else was in a state of panic. Of course, it helped that he always had his safety net of the Freak to help him, so he never really had to work too hard.

Sometimes, of course, Sally wanted to shake him by the shoulders and scream at him for being so bloody calm. She knew he was in the right, to be so collected but sometimes he seemed indifferent, as opposed to in control.

That drove her insane, because you could say a lot about Sally Donovan, a lot of bad things, but everyone, everyone, knew she cared about her job.

She knew he cared too, though. She would never forget the look on his face when they found those two kids in the warehouse. It would haunt her forever.

'Yeah?' she replied absentmindedly, 'What?'

He didn't say anything, but continued to pant.

'Would you mind telling me already; I'm trying to help find the Freak. I told you he wasn't right in the head, didn't I?'

He didn't say anything.

'What?' She demanded, exasperated.

'Oh, god.' She said, drawing her own conclusion, 'He hasn't...' she trailed off.

'Hasn't... what?' Lestrade panted, straightening up.

'Killed anyone? I knew this would happen!'

She stood up, 'I told you, didn't I? And you didn't listen to me! It was finally not enough for him; he's finally lost the plot! I always knew he was a psychopath!' She stared to rant, not caring that Lestrade kept trying to interrupt.

'Great, just great, how many of the people we've put behind bars are innocent, do you reckon? How many people do you think he's framed? We believed him. We never even thought... Ugh, this is your fault, letting an amateur tell us what to do!' She continued.

She was infuriated, all these years, the great Sherlock Holmes was everyone's bloody hero, he could do no wrong, and oh, wasn't he so nice to help?

And no one listened to her when she told them there was something off about him, something not quite right. No one else doubted how easilyhe could figure everything out, they were in awe.

Sally was finally proven right.

So why did she feel so uneasy? Was it because she felt bad for him?

No, that wasn't it; she'd been waiting for something like this to happen for years.

It was probably because he'd made a fool out of Scotland Yard. And her, for that matter.

It was humiliating; a regular civilian capable of hoodwinking the whole police force.

She could see the headlines in her mind's eye. This was going to be awful.

'Sally,' Lestrade said, gesturing for her to sit down.

She stayed standing.

'What?'

'Sherlock is dead.'


She stood at the door of St. Bart's, shocked into silence.

Sherlock really was dead.

She saw it for herself, the blood congealing in his dark curls, the vacant, far-off look in his eyes that she'd seen in countless victims.

And on top of that, he'd killed himself.

Sherlock Holmes committed suicide.

Sherlock Holmes committed suicide.

No matter how many times she said it, she still couldn't believe it.

John was sitting on the path, feet from where his best friend, had fallen to his death. His head was in his hands, resting on his knees. There was a blanket around his shoulders.

She sighed, wondering if she should say something.

What, though?

I was right; your friend was a fraud?

Oh, I'm sorry about Sherlock dying; at least he won't annoy us anymore?

Do you know how many of the people he'd accused were innocent.

Nothing that was nice was genuine, and nothing that was genuine was nice.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it turned out she didn't have to go over to talk to John.

John came over to talk to her.

He'd finally taken his head out of his hands, and had been looking around when he saw Donovan.

He stood up and, throwing off the blanket, strode over to where she stood.

'Happy, are you?' he said, standing so close to her, she could see the red lines crossing his bloodshot eyes.

'What do you mean?' she asked.

'I meant, are you happy now? That Sher- that he's de-dead?'

'Why would I be happy?'

'Oh, I don't know! Maybe because you hated him? Maybe because you did every damn thing you could to make people think he was a fraud? So, are you happy now?'

A nurse ran over and took John by the shoulders.

'Come one, Doctor Watson, let's get you inside. I'll make you a cup of tea,' she said soothingly.

She guided John into the hospital.

After a few minutes of looking at the pattern the blood made on the pavement, Anderson joined her.

'It would be a lot easier to be smug that we were right if he weren't dead, wouldn't it?' he said with a humourless laugh.

'Yeah,' she agreed, 'Yeah it would,'

'You alright?' he asked.

'Me? Yeah, yeah, of course,'

She knew she probably looked awful. Not at all like her usual focused self. She probably looked grief stricken, and that annoyed her. She wasn't supposed to be upset, but she was.


She stood at his grave, weeks after the funeral.

Everyone had visited before this, but she didn't want to run into anyone.

Apparently, John Watson was visiting a therapist.

That made her sad.

There was no one there, that was good.

She stood in front of his grave, not sure what to say.

'I'm sorry,' she said, 'I hated you, I truly did, but I never wanted... this.'

She took a deep breath.

'Goodbye, Freak,'

Sally Donovan once said that one day Sherlock would be the one who put the body at the crime scene.

She just never thought it would be his own.