A/N: I was overcome by Donavan and Lestrade feels after The Sign Of Three so I decided to write this. I have always believed there is a reason why Donavan hates Sherlock, so I might do a sort of sequel to this, explaining deeply why she hates him, and what happened on that horrible night. I have used Anderson's first name in this, because I think that's what Sally would have called him when thinking about him. Please review, this is my first Sherlock story.
Life had never been easy for Sally Donavan. But at this moment she felt it was the hardest it could ever be.
Once the freak killed himself, the pride and smugness Sally had felt when Lestrade had gone to the Chief Superintendent to report him, had completely disappeared. Instead, she began to question herself and Anderson more than ever.
She was just about to get a cab home when she got a call from Lestrade to come to St Barts. He had never sounded more tired in the almost five years she had known him.
The only reason Sally had gone down there was because of Lestrade. She had always respected him, he had taken her in when she felt no reason to live anymore.
6 years previously, her whole family had died in a house fire, on Christmas Day. It was an accident, that's what the police had said, but there was always something not quite right about it. Since then, Sally had had to live in extreme poverty, and had been homeless for two weeks when Lestrade found her. He had taken her in and eventually given her a job, a job which she loved and adored, shown unimaginable kindness that Sally had never even knew was possible.
And that was why she owed that man her life. Without him, she would probably be dead.
That is also one of the reasons she hates Sherlock Holmes. He was born into first-class riches, and had his life set out before him. He had never known pain, or suffering, or poverty, or worrying about how you would put food on the table. He had always taken his rich life for granted, and that's what she hates most about him.
On that bright sunny day, Sally had got a cab down to St Barts, to see what all the fuss was about. She was tired, and fed up, and wanted to go home. That was until she saw Doctor Watson.
She had always respected him, but never really understood why he had stayed with Sherlock, no matter how horrible Sherlock could be to him sometimes, she knew, Lestrade would tell her overheard conversations and such, in which Sherlock would treat John like something you might find in the toilet, not knowing or understanding how it hurt him. That was always the problem with the freak, he never knew or understood anything about human nature, and Sally knew that first hand, but that is a whole different story.
Doctor Watson looked destroyed. Infact, he probably could be mistaken for a corpse. His cheeks were hollow and his eyes were sunken, he looked as if he was suffering a pain way past crying.
Then she spotted Anderson, and ran over to him.
"Phillip, what's happened, what's wrong with Doctor Watson?"
"Oh god, Sally, we did this, it's all our fault Sally, oh god, god." Anderson looked terrible.
"What? What did we do?"
But Anderson just stood there, and looked through her, like she wasn't there anymore.
Sally scanned the crowd, looking, looking and then she saw him, Lestrade. She ran over to him quickly.
"Sir," she said, confused, "What's happened?"
He turned to look at her, and she nearly gasped at what she saw.
She was looking into the face of a helpless man, and he looked so tired.
Slowly her mind began to piece things together.
Doctor Watson, with grief past tears, Anderson, saying it was all their fault, this huge crime scene, Lestrade, looking so tired of everything. One big thing, person missing. Oh god, but it couldn't be, not him. It all made sense, but it all made no sense. Did someone kill him? Why would they kill him?
"Oh god, Sir," Sally gasped, "the fre-, Sherlock, is he dead?"
Lestrade just looked at her, and she knew her suspicions were right.
"But how, Sir? Who killed him?"
"No, Donavan, he killed himself."
"What?!" she exclaimed loudly, "The freak killed himself?"
"Yes, Sally."
"But why, Sir? Why would he do that?"
"I don't know, Donavan, oh god, I don't know."
"Anderson said that it was our fault. Mine and his, I mean. Why, Sir, why does he think that?"
"Of course." Lestrade said.
Donavan could bearly hear his voice.
"You and Anderson drew him to this. You made him do this. Everyone thinks he's... he was a fraud, thanks to you. So he killed himself. To save the embarrassment, I guess." Lestrade looked nearly as bad as John.
"But the freak never felt anything. He didn't care what people thought of him." She protested.
She didn't know why she was defending him, if that counted as defending him. She hated him, for what he said about her. He often humiliated her in front of her colleagues and the press. Ever since that horrible, horrible night, she hated him, and he hated her.
Her mother used to say that hate was a strong word, but what she felt for Sherlock Holmes was strong.
And now he was dead. But not because of her. She knew that from the beginning. 'Yes, Phillip can go blaming himself,' she thought, 'but I know that Sherlock Holmes would never kill himself because of what people thought of him.'
This was not going to drive her crazy. She was not weak anymore, not messed up like Phillip, not desperate like Lestrade, and not lonely like John. She pitied them all deeply, but she was above them. Well, maybe not Lestrade, she still owed him so much. But Phillip, he was seriously messed up. 'Poor guy,' thought Sally, 'and I used to love him.'
She was brought back down to earth by the sound of sirens. She glanced at Lestrade, he looked exhausted.
"Go home, sir." She told him.
"What, what?" He said looking around.
"Go home!"
"Oh, right."
"I can get peoples statements, you're exhausted."
"Okay, thanks Donavan."
"It's alright, sir. Now go, go get Dimmock and ask him to drive you home, I don't want you having an accident."
Lestrade smiled at her but it only lasted for about a second.
"Goodnight, Donavan."
"Goodnight, Sir."
Please review if you have the time.