Author's Note: I've re-written this chapter with a few extra additions because I realised that I'd made a few grammar and punctuation errors, which have now been corrected. Apologies!

"There was no need to do that to her, Sherlock, or to Anderson," chastised Lestrade.

Sherlock looked exasperated, obviously unaccustomed to being scolded by the detective inspector. Or anybody else, for that matter. "She was relentless, Lestrade. How on Earth am I supposed to catch this culprit for you if I have Sally Donovan's incessant whinging interrupting recall from my memory palace?"

Lestrade folded his arms, the word 'confused' practically dancing above his head to label the facial expression that Sherlock saw. "Your what?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Lestrade thought the better of it and interrupted him. "You know what? Never mind. And Sally wasn't 'whinging', Sherlock. I gather from witnesses that she was only trying to tell you that she is attracted to you."

Sherlock had raised an indignant eyebrow. "They're the same thing, aren't they? From what I have observed, suffering that has been caused by emotions, such as the aforementioned 'attraction', is a primary source of said whinging. And by 'witnesses', you mean Anderson. His opinion isn't particularly unbiased though, is it?" sneered the detective.

Lestrade chose to ignore that last comment and only answer the first. "No, Sherlock, they're not the same thing! Do you realise how hard it was for her to do that, to confess her innermost feelings to you? You, of all people!" Sherlock's only response was to scoff, and Lestrade belatedly realised what a stupidly naive question he had just put to the detective. "Actually, don't bother answering that. It doesn't take somebody with your deductive skills to work out that you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about!"

"Obviously."

Lestrade sighed. "What actually happened between you two, Sherlock? I know bits of it, but I can't see what you could have possibly done to cause Sally to file an official complaint against you. If it goes through, then I won't be able to permit your presence at future crimes scenes. This is serious. We both know that..."

"That I'm likely to relapse if I don't have enough intellectual stimuli, which will happen if I am prohibited from attending crimes scenes to solve things that ordinary people can't. Yes, yes, I know. Mycroft seems to have made it his mission in life to remind me of this daily." Sherlock waved his hand impatiently, dismissively. "I was simply crouching over the corpse, looking for all the clues that your team had undoubtedly missed, because you know as well as I that Anderson is the biggest..."

"Yeah, thanks for that," interrupted Lestrade, speaking dryly. "You've made your thoughts regarding Anderson quite clear. Let's skip the bit where you insult my team and I, shall we, and move on to what happened after that?"

"Sergeant Donovan kept trying to engage me in conversation." Sherlock pulled a disapproving face.

"How awful," said Lestrade, managing a little sarcasm before the incredulity seeped out. "Seriously, Sherlock, is that it?"

"No, of course not. Not only did she insist on bugging me with her trivial topics of conversation, but then she insisted on telling me that she had developed..." Sherlock shifted, looking uncomfortable.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Developed what? Telepathy? Because I'll be needing to develop that in a minute if you don't hurry up and tell me what's going on!"

"Do I really have to spell it out for you? She developed feelings for me. Specifically, the feeling of attraction that you have already mentioned."

There was a short pause before Lestrade resumed speaking, as he took the time to gather himself before rashly saying something that would make the situation worse. He'd expected something a bit more drastic than that, but then he supposed that the younger Holmes coming into contact with a woman who had feelings for him was drastic in Sherlock's eyes. "You mean to say," he began slowly, "that you rejected Sally's advances - presumably through your normal route of snapping a scornful, unchivalrous remark - and then tackled Anderson to the floor when he tried to defend her?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes. Well done, Lestrade, you got there eventually!"

"But I still don't understand."

Sherlock scoffed. "Not surprising."

Lestrade ignored him. "If that's the case, then why is Sally the one filing the complaint against you instead of Anderson? It was Anderson that you punched in the face. If anybody has the right to file an official complaint here, surely it should be him?"

Sherlock shrugged, absentmindedly flexing the hand that he had used to pummel Anderson. Lestrade could see that it had been wounded, but knew that Sherlock would point blank refuse any medical treatment. "I believe that the popular saying 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned' would be apt here. I rejected her, she wants revenge. I do It is irrelevant, anyway. Mycroft will see to it that no official complaint is ever lodged against me, or if it is, it will not remain on my record for long."

"It must be nice to have friends in high places," commented Lestrade, allowing a tiny bit of resentment to seep into his words.

Sherlock gave the older man 'a look'. "Mycroft is not my friend. He's my brother. There is a difference, though I don't expect you to understand, as it's clearly evident that you're an only child."

"How could you possibly...?" Lestrade began to ask Sherlock how he knew that the detective inspector had no siblings, but again realised that this would be another pointless question. He was talking to Sherlock Holmes of all people, after all!

"Now that you've finished boring me, forcing me to relive every dull moment I've shared with Sergeant Donovan and that idiotic Anderson, can I move on to the interesting information?"

Lestrade nodded tersely in agreement.

Sherlock smirked. "I'd deduced several things about your victim before I was so rudely interrupted by Sergeant Donovan bleating my name," Sherlock temporarily refrained from revealing his deductions in order to mimic the sergeant. "'Sherlock, Sherlock, I need to tell you something that I'm afraid I can't keep hidden any longer' - as a matter of fact, I'd already worked it out before she even broached the subject; I had just been hoping - in vain, it seemed - that she wouldn't mention it. As I have never expressed any interest in a relationship of any form, I don't understand where she got the notion from that I might be receptive of her advances!"

"Alright, Sherlock, calm down. It's over now. You said yourself that Mycroft won't let this get any further than it has to."

"I'm not a child that needs reassurance, Lestrade."

"Could have fooled me," murmured Lestrade, hoping that Mycroft's surveillance cameras were positioned at an angle that ensured it was impossible to lip-read what the detective inspector had just said. He didn't really want to be responsible for any smiles on the elder Holmes' face - especially not ones that were at the expense of his younger brother, because their sibling rivalry really was ridiculous - and certainly not after what Mycroft had forced him to endure recently. Lestrade shook his head before the memories could come flooding back. His complex relationship with Sherlock's brother was best left alone at present for two reasons. The first being that Sherlock stood in front of him, and would be able to deduce what was going on between Mycroft and Lestrade instantly if the detective inspector was foolish enough to allow his emotions to become readable from his expression alone. The second reason was that Lestrade was determined to prove a point to the elder Holmes, but knew all too well that he would relent if he thought about Mycroft for much longer. "What can you tell us about our victim, then? After all, that was the whole reason that I called you down here in the first place."

Sherlock smirked, inwardly relieved to be moving on to what he undeniably did best. "Your victim was a thirty-three year old male veterinarian who, incidentally, had a phobia of snakes. They're not the most common animal for a vet to treat, and the man was perfectly happy to treat any other kind of animal, which is probably why he continued with his chosen career. Judging by the lack of wedding ring in a man who otherwise had no qualms with wearing jewellery, he was not married, but did have three biological children with his long-term female partner. He knew that she was planning to propose to him at a 'surprise' party that was no longer a surprise to him. He was trying to keep out of the way to allow the preparations to go ahead, which is why you've found him in a location that was not part of his usual route or activities. Therefore, you're looking for a perpetrator who was spectacularly jealous of this situation." After reaching the bottom of his list of deductions, Sherlock took a deep breath, not being able to resist one last snide comment. After all, Lestrade had been on the verge of sympathising with Anderson and Sally. Anderson and Sally, of all people! "There you go, inspector. Now try and convince me that there's no positive correlation between whinging and attraction. I can tell you now that it will be a fruitless endeavour, given that - as usual - I am right and you are not. It's just unfortunate for your veterinarian here that this murder ended up being the result of the perpetrator's 'affection' for him. The only difference is that this perpetrator chose to expel their consequent 'whinging' through murder, rather than a good old-fashioned verbal moan."

And with that, the sarcastic-but-triumphant detective turned to leave the crime scene, knowing full well that he would be invited to another one very soon. Usually when he left a crime scene, he was accompanied by a series of polite goodbyes, either from people who were scared of him - and therefore felt obliged to be polite to him as he fulfilled their unspoken wishes and left the crime scene - or from people that were evidently in awe of Sherlock's deductive skills, and mistakenly believed that he would teach them his talent if they were polite to him. However, this time was a little different. Two voices rang loudly and clearly across the crime scene, earning a few chuckles at Sherlock's expense with their words.

"Goodbye, freak," chimed Sergeant Donovan and Anderson.

To all those watching, Sherlock appeared to remain calm, maintaining his typical aloof appearance as he walked away. However, Sherlock's mind began to whir into action again. It had only been one little word, one little insulting nickname given to him by two people that he already disliked, but it was causing untold devastation to Sherlock's fragile self-esteem. 'Freak'. Just when he had thought he had found somewhere that his skills could be of use, which would in turn cause people to accept him, maybe even respect him, he'd managed to mess it up again somehow. It wasn't all his fault. From an early age, Sherlock and his brother had been taught that sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side, and therefore the brothers strived to permanently repress it.

This is what Sherlock had done with Sergeant Donovan tonight; he simply couldn't let anybody get too close. Even if he had been romantically interested in her - which he wasn't and never would be - he had already deduced that she intended to embark on an extra-marital affair with Anderson anyway, even though she knew that he was married, so obviously his rejection had not been as detrimental to her wellbeing as everybody had seemingly interpreted it to be. Sherlock had not revealed these particular deductions regarding certain future adultery to anybody yet, knowing that they would be useful leverage or ammunition against Sally or Anderson if he ever needed any. Although Sherlock knew that Sally was probably only going to continue with her plan to seduce the more-than-willing Anderson in order to make the detective jealous, knowing that he would pick up on the signs that it had taken place, it made little difference in Sherlock's mind. As far as Sherlock was concerned, Sally and Anderson were welcome to each other.

As loathe as the detective was to admit it, this latest rejection threatened to trigger the darker side to Sherlock; the strong possibility that he would relapse back into his addictions, both the smoking and the drugs. Remembering the promise he had begrudgingly made the last time that the temptation to relapse had been great, and before he could do anything rash, the detective took out his mobile phone and text the only person that he had; his brother.

It's happened again. Considering relapse. SH

It was, admittedly, a blunt message, but Mycroft would understand what was meant by that handful of words. Sherlock saw no point in using many words when a few would suffice. It was illogical, and neither Holmes brother had time for sentimentality. Sherlock had barely had chance to put his phone back in his coat pocket before the text alert sound bleeped. Tentatively, he opened his brother's response.

Thank you for informing me of the current situation yourself instead of relying on my surveillance team to do it for you. I'm sending a car to your location. We'll talk more when you reach the Diogenes Club. MH