Author's note: I have decided to once again publish a Christmas story where I post one chapter per week.

I am nuts about this season, and I want to get as many people in the Christmas mood as possible.

This time, the theme is "people who never thought they would spend Christmas with Sherlock".

It will make more sense once you read the story. Hopefully.

The stories probably won't be in chronological order, but I'll explain if it comes to that.

I don't own anything, please review.

Sally Donovan had long since grown accustomed to the fact that she would always be the one who was stuck with the Christmas shift.

She was neither married nor had a significant other (not that she'd had one during the years she'd been seeing Anderson, but at least he had wished her a Merry Christmas before going home to his wife – these days, he was barely civil) and therefore it was logical that she should be the one sitting around in the Yard on Christmas Eve.

All in all, it wasn't so bad; at least she would be able to spend Christmas Day with her sister's family, and she didn't really want to visit their party this evening anyway.

But it was so utterly boring.

She had had this shift for a few years now, and she was once again telling herself that wishing for a murder just so she could do something different than sitting at her desk and reading files was wrong.

She knew someone who wouldn't see any problem with it, of course –

Or, rather –

She sighed as she realized that her thoughts had once again led her to Sherlock Holmes, who had risen from the dead two months ago, cleared his name and was back at 221B with Doctor Watson.

Naturally, he was also back to solving crimes, which meant that DI Lestrade was employing him even more often than before.

And just like that, just like nothing had changed, Sherlock Holmes paced around crime scenes and insulted police officers once more.

Only that something had changed.

It wasn't simply her opinion of him, although that had been changing for a long time, probably from the moment he seemed to jump from the roof of St. Bart's; no, there was something else as well.

Something she was sure not many people had noticed, aside from Sherlock Holmes'... friends.

It wasn't that she thought herself more clever than most, or even a better police officer than most; but, since she had become a Sergeant, one year after DI Lestrade had met Sherlock Holmes, she had seen him often enough to – well, not directly to know him, but to know a few things about him.

And something was different.

She couldn't pinpoint what, exactly; she couldn't say if it was his posture or the look in his eyes, but she could say for certain that he was acting differently.

Not that people like Anderson, who still insisted on calling him a psychopath (albeit not in public and never to his face, these days) would notice that the viciousness had gone out of his insults, or that he was more patient with witnesses. Or that he took care not to grin too brightly at crime scenes. Although he still enjoyed himself.

It might not be much, but it was enough to make her blame herself even more for what had happened years ago.

She had hated him. She wouldn't deny it.

But that gave her no excuse for ruining his life.

And, looking back, she had to admit that she had no evidence at all to implicate Sherlock in the kidnapping. All she'd had was a suspicion and years worth of resentment.

She had convinced herself that she wanted justice, when all she truly desired was revenge. So she dragged Lestrade to the Chief Superintendent.

And then Sherlock Holmes was dead, and nothing could change that.

Or so she had thought.

For three long years, she carried this burden, the burden of his death, well aware that no one, not the Chief Superintendent, not DI Lestrade, and – most importantly – Doctor Watson would believe her change of heart, that she truly regretted Sherlock Holmes' death.

At first, she hadn't. But then –

Learning that most of the cases he'd solved held up.

Learning that there were many clients who proclaimed he hadn't been a fraud.

Watching countless graffiti pop up around the Yard.

And slowly, over the course of months, she had realized what she had done.

She had destroyed a good man, even if he would have denied that he was one.

She had not only destroyed his, but Doctor Watson's life as well.

She had destroyed the reputation of the man she'd always looked up to, and who, to his credit, still tried to be polite to her, after everything.

Sally had not told anyone that she would do anything to bring Sherlock Holmes back to life; she hadn't told anyone that somehow, the consulting detective had become a ghost that followed her around.

She had slowly withdrawn from the Chief Superintendent as well as from Anderson; the one only wanted proof that Sherlock Holmes had been a criminal, and the other – well.

Soon, she had realized that withdrawing from them meant that she had precious little friends left. At the same time, she had noticed that she kept looking for a tall man in a dark coat to appear at crime scenes, a man who would never show up again.

He came back, however. Sherlock Holmes once more defied everyone's expectations and came back, and she was happy, relieved, but couldn't say a word, because nobody would believe her.

At least she hadn't cost him his life.

In a way, this year had made her happier than she'd been for a long time, she reflected, just as she realized that it was past three am and that she was alone on the floor.

She suspected that her colleagues were in the cafeteria, celebrating; she didn't mind. She had come to appreciate solitude in the last three years.

No one judged you when you were alone. At least no one but yourself.

She decided she had wasted enough time and concentrated on her file again –

And then she had the sound of the elevator arriving on her floor.

Had one of her colleagues forgotten something?

She didn't look up, not at first; most likely whoever had anything to do at this floor at this time of the night would ignore her and mind his own business.

As it turned out, it wasn't to be.

Because suddenly, a voice of someone who hadn't spoken to her directly for three years and two months said "Sally".

She stared up at the man who had just greeted her – far more politely than she would have expected, far more politely than she deserved – and swallowed before answering, uncertainly, "Sherlock."

He looked back at her, and she wondered if he could deduce her regret. A question she would never have asked herself before – before his death.

Somehow, she believed that he could.

It wasn't that his eyes softened, not exactly; but they got as close to it as she could imagine them to.

The next words to come out of his mouth were as to the point as ever, though, and she took comfort in the familiarity.

"The Stenson robbery file is on Greg's desk, I trust?"

She nodded and watched him walk towards the DI's office. Since he had returned, her boss had only been "Greg" to him, and if that didn't prove that Sherlock Holmes had changed, she didn't know what did.

He might be working at – she looked at her watch – almost 4 am on Christmas Eve, was it really that late? It was already Christmas Day –but she couldn't say anything against that.

She didn't expect him to take further notice of her; he was probably going to take the file and leave.

But once again, she had underestimated him.

She more felt than heard moving towards her; he certainly hadn't lost his ability to walk without making a sound.

When he arrived at her desk, he stood still.

She looked up to find him staring at her again, and there had been a time when she would have complained or called him "freak".

Now she simply returned his gaze.

She didn't know how much time passed; maybe a few seconds, maybe minutes; but she was just starting to wonder if he would eventually get tired of her and leave when Sherlock cleared his throat and began, "I do not know if you are aware that your colleagues are in the cafeteria".

Formerly, her answer would have been an eye-roll, but now that she had come to see him as a human rather than a psychopath she realized he was trying to be considerate.

"I know" she said. "But I am here, so I might as well get some work done. And I'm spending tomorrow at my sister's anyway."

She didn't know why she told him. He had most likely deduced it already anyway.

He nodded, then looked down at the file in his hand.

She couldn't keep herself from stating, "You could have looked at it after the holidays".

He frowned, but there was no malice in her voice, and after a few moments, he simply answered, "Greg had the case on his mind".

"I see" she replied, even though she didn't until she remembered that a few days ago, she had overheard the DI telling Gregson that he and Doctor Hooper were invited for dinner on Christmas Eve at 221B, and that they would probably spend at least part of the 25th there too.

And they had indeed been working on the Stenson robbery case for a week now, not making any progress. She had considered it to be above Sherlock's notice –

Looking at him browsing through the file, she suddenly realized that it was. He was apparently confident that he could solve the case in the five minutes it took him to read it. And she had no doubt that he would.

Sherlock had come to Scotland Yard in the middle of the night, when he had been sure no one was around, to solve the case so DI Lestrade could enjoy the holidays.

She had to swallow, and the consulting detective looked up.

Sally cleared her throat.

"Do you want me to send a car to – "

She stopped and waited for him to continue, and he said, "Richard Coulston."

"The second victim?"

"He staged the robbery, with the help of a friend, I assume, but I don't have enough data to be absolutely sure. He wanted to appear rather early as a victim so no one would suspect him."

She nodded because she was convinced he was right. She quickly called down to send a car to arrest him and could have sworn that, as she looked back at him, there was something like surprise in his eyes.

He put the file on her desk.

"I will text Greg in the morning".

He had almost reached the elevator by the time she called out, "Sherlock – "

He stopped but didn't turn around, and she found that she didn't know what to say. There was so much she wanted to tell him; that she was sorry, that she didn't expect him to forgive her, that she would never forgive herself, that she shouldn't have believed Moriarty's life –

But all she managed to say was "Merry Christmas, Sherlock".

He nodded, and without turning around entered the elevator.

A few minutes later, she decided to go down and wait for Coulston's arrival. She might as well do something productive.

Half an hour and an angry criminal being dragged to a cell later, she returned to her desk to find a cup of non-alcoholic Christmas Punch on her desk and smiled.

One of her colleagues hadn't forgotten about her.

Only as she raised the cup did she see the note it was standing on.

Merry Christmas, Donovan.
SH

Author's note: Happy third of December.

I hope you liked it, please review.