Author's note: Here I was, determined not to write anything today. And then I started thinking about Sally Donavan and realized there aren't many fics about her. Well, what can I say?

Except for: I don't own anything, I hope you enjoy the story and please review – I want to know if you think I captured her character well enough – we don't know a lot about her, after all.

She's told herself never to visit the freak's grave. She has promised it, sworn it, made sure she remembers the oath every minute of the day she spends at work by keeping the first newspaper article that declared Sherlock Holmes a fraud in her desk.

Of course, maybe she shouldn't remind herself of what happened. First of all, it's only been two months, so she still remembers everything with a startling quality.
And if there's something you learn in her line of work, it's not only to never cry over spilt milk, but also never to grieve over spilt blood. And, oh, how he'd spilt it. Typical of him, to commit suicide in a way that would ensure everyone remembers it. He couldn't just take an overdose (she's sure he was still a junkie, there's no way someone like him would give up something just because it was illegal) or shoot or hang himself in a nice quiet spot or – do anything, really, that was something different than jumping from a high building in front of several people and making his best friend (no, not his friend, he never had friends, she must remember that) watch.

It had been logical to assume, when she'd put the article in her desk, that she'd only be reminded of the freak at work, because she's only ever seen him at crime scenes, the Yard or his flat (And when they had arrested him, how... quiet he'd been, why? He must already have given up, he must already have planned to... She pushes the thought away).

She'd been wrong.

Though, in a way, she'd also been right (confusing, and yet it all makes sense, doesn't it? Good God, she's starting to sound like – no. Just no. Think of something else. And she does), because she certainly spends much more time thinking about the freak at work now than during his lifetime: She's the leader of the taskforce re-examining the cases he helped "solve". It's a reward for "bringing the truth to light", as the Chief Superintendent put it when he handed her the assignment. It's a great honour and important step for her.

Over the corpse of DI Lestrade's career, she sometimes hears in the back of her mind, and the thought of the now suspended and most likely soon to be unemployed DI is one she can't push away, no matter how hard she tries. She'd looked up to him when she joined the force, and through all the years of working directly under him, even after he started bringing the freak to crime scenes. But, in the end, Lestrade fell for his tricks and now has to pay the price. It's not her fault. It isn't. And yet – no, nothing and yet. That's just how it is.

Of course, she still pities the DI; just like she pities Doctor Watson. She's seen him in the street, once, and she's not sure if he didn't see her or didn't want to see her, but it's all the same, in the end, and she can understand his anger. After all, he's just a nice, normal guy who's been taken in. And you took everything from him – no she didn't. It was the freak. This is all his fault, and his death doesn't change that. Shouldn't change that. People tend to be too forgiving when it comes to the dead.

Like she said before: At work, she has to think about him, so she keeps the article at work. She finds out that she needs to look at it more often than she thought, because – because it turns out that the freak has been right more often than she'd like to admit. Sure, they have to release some people he's brought behind bars, but all in all – where there's evidence, real evidence – freak's been right. He helped put away the right people.

When she gets a report to tell her that once again, it helps to look at the article. On a particular bad day, when she got three reports that all told her the same thing – he'd been right, he'd been right, he'd been right – she even tried calling Kitty Riley's newspaper and talking to her and was told by the editor that she'd been picked up after work the day after the freak's funeral in a black limousine. She resigned her job the next day and lives now, the editor thinks, somewhere in Europe. Sally chooses not to think too much about that.

It's even worse when she talks to the Chief Superintendent, who has of course taken a special interest in the case and keeps shooting her disappointed looks when she tells him things like, yes, turns out he was right about the murdered man with the nervous disposition who insisted his doctor live with him, too, and she catches herself taking too much satisfaction in recalling the punch Doctor Watson sent his way when he insulted the freak (It's not like you didn't see it coming, you choose not to restrain him. You know you did. But that's not true. The ex-soldier had simply been too quick for her.
It doesn't help she fells more and more like a bloody traitor (why did it have to be DI Lestrade?) every time she enters the Chief Superintendent's office.

So, by now, she's used to think about the freak all the time. When she's at work. She'd never have thought he would rule her spare time too.

Her relationship with Anderson has deteriorated – to be honest, she always knew there was no future in it, and anyway, the only thing you really had in common was hate and envy (no) – because every time he came near her after the freak's death, every time she smelled his aftershave, she heard "So is Sergeant Donavan". Well, maybe it's for the best. If she's really really lucky, she might find an unmarried man now. And, no, she doesn't hear a deep voice chuckle in the back of her mind when she thinks that.

It's not only that. When she introduces herself, to friends of her friends, to witnesses, to anyone, really, there is always, always someone whispering "Sally Donavan. Old friend" in her ear.

When she wants to call someone and takes her phone, there is this ridiculous urge to give it to someone in a long black coat ("Freak, it's for you.")

She can't stand to hear or read fairy tales anymore. It's a good thing she doesn't have kids. She particularly hates Hänsel and Gretel.

More serious, because indefinitely more inconvenient: Eating chocolate has become a problem too. She hates herself for being so weak, sometimes ("Not weak, Donavan, just an idiot. Everyone's an idiot." Great, now she's inventing new comments. Really, if she didn't know any better, she'd think she misses him.)

And she definitely could do without the stupid graffitis saying "I believe in Sherlock Holmes" that seem to appear everywhere, and if she wasn't a police Sergeant and over thirty, she would probably take a spray can and write "I don't" under every single one of them.

But all of this – all of this put together – it's not the worst consequence of the suicide, the "Fall from Grace" as Kitty Riley put it before her sudden move. No, the worst consequence was the fact that Sally had to face the truth concerning her nickname for the consulting detective.

At first, she'd meant it as a result. She'd been convinced, until his death, until she saw the blood on the pavement, that it was still an insult. But it wasn't. Over time, it had become a nickname, and while she still knows he was a fraud and hates him for everything he's done to – everyone he ever came in contact with, she doesn't hate him for being a freak per se anymore.

My god: She doesn't know any better. She does miss him. A little. Not much, But she does.

So, it's true. Barely two months after the freak's death and she's living with a ghost. A ghost who has the annoying habit of being right and doing dramatic turns while wearing a long black coat.

But, still, she has sworn never to visit his grave. So she doesn't. Call it a visit, that is. She's just passing through.

They've given him a nice headstone, if you are allowed to call something like it nice. She quite likes its simplicity (and if the irony of So there is something you like about him after all makes itself known to her, she chooses to ignore it).

She never went to the funeral – she didn't think he deserved any mourners (and she knows Doctor Watson wouldn't have wanted her to be there, like his landlady and this brother of his Lestrade sometimes talked about, and even the DI – she stops there. There's no point in thinking about his funeral. It's over and done with, like his life), and she still doesn't, although, as before stated, she misses him. Barely, but she misses him.

She's never really believed in talking to headstones, but she does now.

"Hello f- Sherlock." She surprises herself. She's never called him by his real name, never. And here she is doing just that.

Grieving.

There's no use lying to herself anymore. She thought she was sad because Doctor Watson's limp is back, because DI Lestrade lost everything, because all those families of the victims in the cases Sherlock had solved had to suffer once again, and she is. That's just not the whole truth.

She's sad because Sherlock died. She's sad because he will never insult her again. She's sad because he will never slam the door in Anderson's face again. She's sad because of him.

At least, she has the consolation that he didn't blame her in the end. She knows that because she doesn't think she was important enough to him to show up on his radar.

That doesn't mean she doesn't blame herself just a little, now and then, though. And she should. Because she is not a high-functioning sociopath. She's just human.

Then, again, he's dead now, so he was probably more human than she thought.

She stands far longer at his grave, head bowed, than she thought she would. And when she finally decides to leave and turns around and sees Doctor Watson standing there, she doesn't know what to do, where to look, what to say.

He just looks at her, first with a hard, unforgiving look in his eyes, but then he sees something, she's not sure what, and simply looks at her like one looks at an acquaintance. And he nods.

She nods back and leaves the cemetery, telling herself she won't visit Sherlock again.

But she already knows she won't keep that promise, either.

Author's note: This was actually quite difficult to write, because it's not easy to make Sally appear in character and sympathetic at the same time.

Please review, and I hope you liked the story.