Author's Note: this is my first story that I've been pondering writing for a long time, please enjoy. I do not own BBC Sherlock. I hope you can tolerate Sally's skeptical point of view and not be too angry about her criticisms. Sally's thoughts will always be written in italics. Please excuse my Americaness while I attempt to use British slang words

Every life experience Sergeant Sally Donovan had ever had, had not prepared her for this. She had nothing with which to compare this enormous uncertainty, this doubt, this strange mixture of guilt and triumph, and this utterly nagging sense that something was wrong. So Sally had no idea what exactly she was feeling about the fact that Sherlock Holmes had jumped off the roof of Saint Bartholomew's Hospital.

The police station has gotten the call as soon as it happened. They had all returned to the station after fruitlessly chasing Sherlock and that Watson fellow through the streets of London for the better part of the night, and had been hard at work ever since trying to track down the man. Donovan was furiously rearranging an evidence board, about to tear her hair out in frustration, when Detective Inspector Lestrade stumbled out of his office quietly mumbling something, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. When asked to speak up he'd managed to choke out the simple words the silenced the whole office,

"Sherlock's dead"

'Good,' Sally had immediately thought. 'He was a kidnapper and attempted murder, a criminal, a fraud! The world's better off without him in it. He killed all those people, and just to make himself look good of all reasons! Killing out of greed or hatred is despicable, but my gosh, the sociopath did it just to be famous! Far less understandable. And sociopath is right, the man obviously had no sense of compassion, or decency, or regard for human life!' Sally's blood boiled and she cursed the dead man as she climbed into the car with Lestrade to go to the scene and all the way to it.

That is, until she saw John Watson.

He was sitting on the back of an ambulance, orange shock blanket wrapped around his shoulders, which slumped in an uncharacteristic manner. John usually held himself in such a regal way that quietly demanded respect. The man looked incredibly small now, as if his body could break at any second. He folded in on himself like he was literally holding himself together with his own arms, and it gave Sally the overwhelming impulse to hug him so that she could hold him together instead, even though she was not the hugging type. Tears were freely streaming down his face, the face that somehow emanated strength and endurance and steadfastness every time Sally had seen it. John Watson was not strong now. Sally thought he looked as though his life had been forcibly ripped out of him right along with Sherlock's.

And maybe it had, Donovan contemplated as she looked upon John with pity,

'The man was John Watson's best friend in this world, maybe his only friend, John never mentioned anyone else in his life. I've heard he has a sister..but otherwise I don't know much about the guy. I don't know anything about his past at all other than that he was a military doctor. Poor John, to find out that the freak was stringing him along the whole time...I did warn him. But still..Sherlock had called John his friend, and John had done the same to Sherlock. Even though that rotten git tricked John, he had to have done SOMETHING for the guy! John wouldn't have hung around if he didn't benefit from the relationship. John is respectable and seems to be a truly good person. Sherlock must have had at least some redeeming qualities to get a man like John to genuinely like him and actually care about him, even despite his terrible personality.'

Sally couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt that she had rejoiced so much in the death of someone's best friend.

'John's lost so much...and Sherlock was an actual person who meant something to someone. He might not respect other people's lives, but I should. And he left someone behind who's hurting, I've got to be mindful of that. How would I feel if my best friend died and someone thought all these things? Come to think of it, I don't really know who I would call my best friend..there's Lestrade, but he's my boss, and we're not really friends outside of work...there's a few girls from the station I have drinks with now and then. But I don't know who it would hurt so much to lose, gosh, I can't imagine how John's feeling.' Sally shook herself as if to shake away the sad realization that even Sherlock Holmes, a sociopath and first class prat, had someone who cared about him more than anyone cared for her, and more than she cared for anyone else.

John saw her, but made no effort to hide his tears (probably too much of an effort after all that he's been through, poor thing), but he did seem to take a few deep breathes, and that was good Donovan supposed.

Wait. John had been a fugitive with Sherlock, and was still wanted for assaulting the chief of police, so what was he doing here? The police should have taken him away in hand cuffs already if he had simply been caught. But he was still here, and that was strange. It slowly dawned on her that John was still here because he was being asked to give a statement...Oh no. The realization hit her in the chest like a hundred pounds of bricks. She should have known, but she'd been so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she didn't even realize the gravity of his presence. Sally was heartbroken for John for the second time today, over the fact that he'd seen the murder. Lestrade had dashed off with the other officers right away, ordering a search of the roof or something like that, and left Sally by herself. So she took it upon herself to question John, maybe a familiar face would be a bit more bearable for him. Although in the back of her mind Sally doubted that anything could lessen his pain even by a fraction.

They exchanged hellos, and Sally suspected that John really didn't want to be here but didn't really know where else to go either; he gave off the sense that he was frozen in time.

"John, I'm here to take your statement. I'm..er..sorry, by the way" 'oh gosh, I'm screwing this up' Sally fought back the urge to frown at her inability to find the right words and tried to look reassuring with a small smile.

John looked up at her with raw, wet eyes, seeming not to have noticed her stammered condolence and looking confused as if he hadn't heard her. She saw him piece together what she needed from him in his mind until a look of understanding crossed his features. Gosh he looked so much older; grief had taken all the wrinkles that had started in his skin and folded them in further just to make him look as worn down as he must feel.

"Yeah. Um." John rubbed his left hand on the back of his head as he spoke, it was shaking, "whadda ya need to know?" he said, his face lacking its usual slight smile and his voice completely serious, weak, and broken.

Sally bit her lip. This was hard, she'd talked to families of people who had died many times after they'd gotten the bad news, she'd even delivered it herself sometimes. But she knew John Watson, at least a bit, and it was harder to find the right words to say in this situation because she was even more afraid of hurting his feelings than she was of hurting strangers. Why was that?

Sally tried to think of what to ask first, feeling uncomfortable, and John was in such a bad state that he didn't volunteer anything. She assumed an officer had decided to look for the two escapees at Bart's (Sherlock did love to go there, they should have searched it sooner, dammit) and Sherlock had probably put up a fight and got himself killed in front of poor John. Yes, that must be why they were questioning John, because there was an investigation into the officer who did it, to make sure it was justified. All she had been told was that Sherlock had died, Lestrade had been silent and seemed to have turned his thoughts inward the whole ride over. Lestrade had actually seemed devastated about the whole thing, and Sally didn't really see why.

She settled on "where were you?"

John swallowed hard, and appeared to regain a shred of composure, at least enough to speak shakily, although he still sniffled and tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He kept his body huddled tight and his head bent mostly downward as he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes every few seconds. "I was over there on the sidewalk," he gestured limply behind them.

"What happened?" Sally prompted.

"He...he called me. And..uh," John furrowed his brows, anguish evident on his face as he tried to distance himself from what was all too inescapable. "He told me that..that everything they had said about him being a fraud was true, and he made Moriarty up, and, um, that he was sorry".

"Hang on just a minute, John" Sally was confused. If the freak had been killed in crossfire, he wouldn't have had time for that, or a reason to do it. Sally saw Lestrade walking quickly out of the hospital (he looked to be in a rotten mood) and strode over to him, trying to put a little distance between them and John.

" What happened?" she hissed, grabbing his arm. Lestrade blinked and looked taken aback. He recovered quickly and said, "Donovan, oh my gosh, nobody told you, in all the confusion and panic..I'm sorry"

"spit it out already!"

"It was all such a blur since I got the news! Really, I'm sorry." Lestrade paused, "Sherlock...he killed himself. He jumped off the roof"

'killed himself? Killed himself. KILLED HIMSELF! And he made John watch, that sick, sick bastard! AND he did it in the most graphic way possible, didn't he realize that will torment John for the rest of his life? Of course not, because why should Sherlock think of anyone else for even a second! I was right about him to begin with. He kidnapped those children so he could solve the "case". And the kidnapping case had been a "Moriarty case". Probably all those cases he told Lestrade were the work of Moriarty were the sociopath's own handiwork. So the four murders with the cabbie, that explosion and the explosion with the old woman that killedtwelve people, the murders of Carl Powers, the security guard, the astronomer, and the television host, the Janus Cars scheme, that incident with the British government and the terrorists, and the break-ins at Penterville, the bank, and the crowned jewels had all been Sherlock. My gosh, this freak-no, he wasn't just a freak, he was a MONSTER-had even admitted it to John, that his "intelligence" and Moriarty were fake. So that was proof then, I was right. And he lied to everyone, and so many people bought it! The sicko even had "fans". Lestrade had bought it enough to try to protect the monster. And John- John had been tricked worse than anyone. He had lived with Sherlock and spent all his free time with the monster and still didn't see it. And now he was crying over Sherlock's death like the horrid wretch was worth it. Even when I went after Sherlock for his crimes, John punched a police chief in the nose and got himself arrested just because the chief called Sherlock weird for goodness sake! Then, Sherlock held a gun to his head, oh John, how did you not know? He still doesn't realize. I had thought John wasn't so vulnerable, but there the monster goes again, taking advantage of him, using him like a lackey just because John had no friends. No, Sherlock Holmes is a cold blooded killer who simply took whatever he wanted from the world. Then, when there was no way out of his lies, he killed himself, took the coward's way out, scarring the man that he'd pretended to care for but truthfully abused. One last sick joke. I can't believe I almost felt sorry for hating Sherlock, I pity John that he was too naive and couldn't see that he was just a pawn to Sherlock. Maybe now that the monster's dead and John's free from him, he'll figure it all out and heal, and not be such a psychological wreck.'

"DONOVAN" Sally snapped out of it to look at Lestrade. She must have been visibly angry, and he must have called her name several times without her really realizing it. "That's not all," Lestrade said, "We found Jim Moriarty's body on the roof."

"Oh so the monster off'ed him so he couldn't talk then?" Oh. That one slipped out. Sally looked behind her at Doctor Watson who yes, had indeed heard her. His head had snapped up and he wore a pained expression on his face, mouth slack but with a defensive look in his eyes that would've managed to be an absolutely burning glare if he hadn't been in too much agony to muster it. He was listening now.

"No" Lestrade said through clenched teeth, wary of John. Then quietly, "self inflicted, just before Sherlock died. Did it right there on the roof top, blood splatter proves he wasn't moved, shot himself point-blank through the chin. Sherlock is...was too tall to shoot anyone from that angle unless he was crouched on the ground, seems unlikely don't it? And he could've grabbed Moriarty from behind and pressed a gun to his chin, but then he'd have the back of Moriarty's skull all over him and, well..., Sherlock's, er, his body didn't have that sort of mess on it." Lestrade visibly saddened at his corrected use of past tense describing Sherlock, and grew quieter as he spoke of the man's body.

'Why would the fake Moriarty kill himself?'

"Well maybe "Moriarty" thought he'd be blamed for Sherlock's crimes, that the monster would somehow pin it on him, or the police would think he's the one doing the dirty work. Or maybe he just felt guilty" not the strongest of explanations, but it was the best Sally could do. She turned to look at John whose glare was at a full-strength burn now, his lips twitched in that disconcerting little smile that she knew meant danger, she had learned that John only smiled like that when he was furious and about to explode. Just as quickly, the smile vanished.

"There's more," Lestrade said, "I got an anonymous text that told me where to track down 3 assassins. I don't know who sent it but I'm bloody glad they did." John chuckled and muttered "Mycroft" and shook his head. Sally didn't know what Mycroft was, but John's actions made her uncomfortable. "I had my boys go round them up and interrogate them, and it turns out that they were recently given orders to kill John, myself, and Mrs. Hudson if Sherlock didn't jump off that roof OR if Jim Moriarty didn't give the lead assassin a signal to call it all off. Now, if Sherlock just wanted to die dramatically since he was found out, why would he hire assassins and give the fake-Moriarty the power to call them off? Now, he could stupendously outwit Moriarty into calling off the assassins, but nobody would be on that roof top so see it and who would believe it if he told the story? He couldn't possibly have gained anything from all that! The world already believed he was a fraud, one last rescue wouldn't be believed and it wouldn't make him a hero! He knew it had gone south, it's not like he was in the middle of the roof top scheme when it all went wrong. It wasn't a last minute screw up in a fake detective story. So, like Sherlock said once, "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth", and the truth is that Sherlock Holmes was a genius. And also a hero..he saved my life from the real Moriarty.."

It was a grand deduction that would most certainly have made even Sherlock Holmes proud; Lestrade had figured it out, now he just needed to get someone to listen. But at the moment Lestrade was frozen in place, sadly contemplating the man who had sacrificed his own life for Lestrade's, among others. A tear rolled down the Detective Inspector's cheek, he hadn't done enough to help poor Sherlock. He had put up a fight when everyone descended on the Consulting Detective, but in the end he had rolled over, given up. He should have fought harder, he should have fought the real bad guys, he should have fought like Sherlock did. Poor Sherlock...who died fighting.

Sally was stuck in the ultimate limbo of not knowing how to feel. She tried to disprove Lestrade, but every idea she had fell short and made no sense in comparison. 'The assassins could always be lying...but wait no, that's an awful lot of planning in ahead, even for Sherlock...and what would it matter to him anyway if he'd be dead? To live forever in the history books maybe? Seems unlikely, he couldn't ensure that someone would think it through and clear his name. And to fall off a building, he did love dramatics, but that's an awfully painful way to die, he could've just shot himself like Moriarty. He could've shot himself and then jumped, but maybe since they weren't his assassins he didn't know if that would protect everyone or not. I did this. Why was I SO proud of myself? But still what if there's something we didn't think of, some way that Sherlock was the bad guy that's cleverly hidden...UGH, I JUST DON'T KNOW WHAT TO BELIEVE! There's so much information and it's clouding my head. I can't make sense of it and I don't know what's true...maybe this is how he had felt all the time, thinking as fast as he did. Even if he's the bad guy he's still exceedingly clever. Is he the villain or the hero? Did I kill him? It's so hard to believe that he was really that smart, or was that just how it was supposed to look!?' tears pricked her eyes out of sheer frustration and her skin seemed to itch as her irritation grew

Neither police officer had paid attention to John Watson.

At Lestrade's mention of the assassin trained on John, John had gasped, although between the military and Sherlock he was not unused to having guns pulled on him, not that surprising. When Lestrade announced that Sherlock had given up his life for John though, he had been utterly shocked. John knew he would put himself in harm's way for Sherlock, and he knew Sherlock genuinely cared for him, "I haven't got friends...I've only got the one" echoed in John's head whenever he doubted this, but to know for absolutely certain that Sherlock had given everything he had for John..it was overwhelming, John's heart swelled. And then it broke once again, harder this time, because Sherlock Holmes was dead. The person who had taken his life and made it worthwhile again. The person who cared about John more than anyone in the world did, the person who cared for John more than he cared for his own life, was gone, forever. All of a sudden, visions of Sherlock, still alive, plummeting towards the ground, flashed in front of John's eyes. Then Sherlock's blood, so much blood, all over the concrete. The feeling of a warm wrist that had no pulse. Wet, matted black hair. Red across a pale face, and wide open, pale eyes, terrified eyes...he was scared when he died. no. No. NO! John lost his balance on the back of the ambulance, his legs gave out and he fell to the ground screaming the most awful scream anyone had ever heard. It was deep and piercing and full of pure heartbreak. Then, Doctor John Watson, former captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers did something that Sally thought she would never see him do.

He fell on his face and cried hysterically.