I would like to apologize for this fanfiction. I am neither English nor black. All aspects of Sgt. Sally Donovan's personality were completely made up on my part. Really don't know much about her yet. I did my own Sherlock-esque examination of her. Also my first story in this fandom.

Sargent Sally Donovan hated Sherlock Holmes with a ferocious passion. She hated his intellect, his personality, his possessions, his obsessions, his appearance, and, well, everything about the bastard. She hated that smirk he got when he knew that he was smarter than you. She hated his disinterest in almost every human being alive. She hated his look of utter joy when he solved a case. She hated that innocent little look he gave when he'd just upset someone without intending to. She hated that scarf he wore everywhere he went, that purple shirt that looked so amazingly dashing on him. She really loathed that black coat that billowed out from his person dramatically, and flew along behind him wherever he went, unaware of how lucky it was to not be forgotten in his rush, like so many insignificant human beings had.

Okay, so maybe she didn't hate him nearly as much as she pretended she did. Maybe she actually really pined for him, longing for his soft lips to be pressed against hers yet again. Maybe she actually thought back to those lovely nights in his apartment when the lights were low and the soft sound of a violin caressed her ears, tickling her mouth into a smile. Maybe her eyes brightened considerably whenever she thought back to those rare moments when she actually understood one of his little puzzles, when she saw what he saw at a crime scene. Maybe she pictured those nights of lust in her very own bed, his hands covering every inch of her at once, when she shyly touched herself, the room dark for shame.

Maybe when she called him a freak she knew that doing so actually hurt him, though he wouldn't allow her to see it. Maybe all her snide remarks were meant to cut his heart. Maybe her flings with various men on the force were meant to provoke him into asserting himself over her, and whisking her off to be his wife. Maybe everything she did now was to provoke him into something- she wasn't sure what. She didn't know if she wanted him to be sorry for what he'd done. Or if she wanted him to loath himself as she loathed herself. Or maybe she wanted him to want her back, pining for her as she did for him. Maybe she just wanted retribution through his pain.

To really know why she hated him, you would have to go back to the beginning of their relationship. When she had just been promoted to a Sargent, she met him. The great Sherlock Holmes came barging into the office, and slammed the door closed behind him as he entered detective Inspector Lestrade's office. His eyes were burning, and his face was a mask of fury that somehow scared Sally, while making her heart flutter. She kept her eyes on him through the glass walls as he moved his arms around in the air, motioning to a clipping from a newspaper. Anderson was sitting next to the young Sargent, examining her. He was lusting after the young woman, and he could see the small crush forming behind her eyes.

"He's Sherlock Holmes."

Sally looked back at Anderson, surprised by his voice. "Sherlock Holmes? The great Consulting Detective?" Sally had heard rumors about him, bad rumors. But she was willing to look passed them. They were just rumors after all, they didn't have to be true. Anderson's lips curled as the word "great" did not pass unnoticed.

"He's a slimy bastard, that one. Hates everyone, 'Cause they're not smart enough for the git." Anderson scuffed, shooting a glare at the Consulting Detective as he swirled dramatically on his heal, heading for the door of Lestrade's office.

"Well, I think you're the slimy git." Sally spat, standing up. "I bet you don't even know him! I'm not like you! I like to make my own decisions on the character of people!" And with that, Sally turned dramatically on her heal, attempting to illustrate her point, smashing head-long into the chest of one Sherlock Holmes. Sally's cheeks were instantly engulfed by a hot fire that left a comely pink tinge on her brown face.

Sherlock smiled kindly down at her, a genuine smile, which Sally would later discover to be rare and hard to discern. He placed his hand out in front of him to shake, as Sally got herself under control and stepped back a few inches. She took his hand in hers, and gave a firm, confident handshake, matched only be his own.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective," he said, as Sally took in his entire appearance. His face was long, his cheek bones high and pronounced. His messy, dark curls framed his face, and seemed as if they had the feeling of a soft blanket. Soon she would come to love those curls. His light blue eyes seemed to always have thoughts flashing behind them, and they examined Sally blatantly, thrilling her.

"Sargent Sally Donovan," she said confidently. A bright light seemed to go off behind Mr. Holmes's eyes.

"You're very confident, Sargent Donovan," Sherlock said in a deep, almost seductive voice, which thrilled her even more when she found that it was his normal voice.

"Sally, please," she said. He cracked another smile.

"Sally it is. You're quite outgoing, Sally. You went to a good university, yes? Probably an honors student, got a scholarship. You've always known what you've wanted, and you've done everything necessary for it. Your father's dream, I believe. Your mother died? Maybe, but she wasn't around for your childhood, so your father raised you. You had a few older brothers that helped drive you into police work. You've transcended the racial boundary. Although all this success came with a price. You now feel alienated by your cultural roots, and lonely in your new world dominated by white men. But you try to mask that lonesomeness with confidence and control. Good for you," Sally stood, dumbfounded.

What had he said? He just told her her life story in a nut shell! Who told him that? He couldn't have told all that from just a handshake! Could he? He was an amazing detective. She'd heard the stories. They said that he could tell you your life story by just looking at you. Was that really true? "Wow." It was more of a sigh than a word. She felt acknowledged for all her hard effort, yet laid out for everyone to see, even her darkest pains. She blinked a few times, and regained her composure. "That was... amazing," she breathed. "Except that I'm an only child, Sherlock."

Sherlock's face fell. "No brothers? Close cousins, perhaps? A family of older boys that lived in your neighborhood?" He was grabbing at straws, and Sally couldn't help but to chuckle.

"Yes, my cousins lived with us."

"Of course."

Only a few weeks passed, though to Sally it seemed like months. She saw Sherlock often, and he conversed with her at crime scenes. His brilliance enthralled her more and more into his character. She wanted to know anything and everything about the tall, slim man that flitted in and out of her life in a black tail coat. But Sherlock was a hard nut to crack.

So she followed on his heels during his investigation. She was amazed at the fluency in which he conducted himself. He bounced ideas off of Sally through out the investigation, and it thrilled her that she could keep up, as much as she did, with his mind. The case ended with a mad dash to the police cars, as they led the criminal to the back up Sally had requested. He hadn't known what happened. Sally laughed aloud, her face bright, and gasping for breath, as Sherlock leaned against a wall, recovering himself after the run. They were alone, as the police attended to the criminal. A nasty young man, brilliant in his dastardly way, who had murdered his own mother by poisoning her tea over many months for his inheritance.

"That- was- amazing," Sally said between gasps, looking giddily into his eyes. He smiled down at her. "You were- simply- brilliant!"

"I couldn't have done it without you," he said, fixing Sally with a look that was seductive and made Sally's stomach flip. That face meant something. They both knew what it meant. And Sally acted on it, pulling Sherlock's head down to her level, pressing their lips together in a needy way, devouring his lips. He kissed her back just as readily, pulling her hips against him, sucking her lower lip, and producing a quiet moan. This only excited Sally, as she led him back to her flat. There they spent the night, a glorious night full of lust and love.

They kept their relationship quiet, but they frequented each other's flats. Sherlock was not afraid of their relationship getting out; everyone was far to stupid to pick up on any hint of their sex life. Throughout the next few months, he used her, subtly, as he knew she was smart enough to know when a man was using her, but he used her none the less. He gained more leverage in Scotland Yard, and constantly had the favor of a few police that could do anything he asked of them. He only had to exert himself sexually once or twice a week, which he could manage. It was not hard for him to hide his real intentions. Women could easily be deceived when blinded by a silly emotion like love. Although over time, Sherlock did grow attached to her. He really did enjoy her intellect, and the fact that she put up with him and his sociopathic tendencies.

But something happened that he had not planned on.

The condom broke.

And neither noticed.

It didn't take Sally long to realize she was pregnant. She almost couldn't believe it, but the test was positive.

When she saw Sherlock next, he immediately knew something was wrong.

"I'm pregnant," where the first words out of her mouth.

"Get an abortion," was his only response.

It wasn't at all what Sally had expected. Well, actually it was. But it wasn't what she had hoped for. She had hoped that he would say they would keep the baby, and maybe even get married.

That was the end of their conversation. A total of five words. It was the last conversation they would have as a couple. The last conversation Sally would have with Sherlock where she wasn't calling him a freak.

All that happened next caused both pain. Sherlock really had cared about Sally Donovan, the black Sargent. What he felt was not love, but it was the closest Sherlock had come to it. And it hurt him even more when she called him a freak, because he really had cared. She just couldn't see. Couldn't see that he did, and still does, treat her differently than he treats other people.