Author's note: I'm not done with my Sherlock/Sally universe.

Now, if you are a new reader... first of all, I' honoured.

Second of all:

Sally felt guilty after Sherlock's death, then he returned and, because he had nowhere else to stay, he slept on her sofa for two nights. Then he started picking her lock and keeping her company when his other friends were otherwise occupied. And it progressed from there. If you are interested, any of my fics that have "Sally Donavan" in the character description are about how their relationship developed. Oh, or fics with "Anderson" in their description. Yes, you read right. His fics are also a part of this universe. I'm weird like that. I guess now I've alienated all new readers. If not, please please leave a review. It would mean a lot to me.

For my other readers:

I thought it was time to see Sherlock's side. Of course he's less emotional, but he's still invested in the relationship... I tried to show that while keeping him in character.

I don't won anything, and please review.

He never wanted a relationship.

He had been sure he never wanted a relationship; why would anyone – anyone, really – choose to entangle himself in something like a silly romantic relationship? Even in these three years of hiding, and chasing, and being chased, and torturing, and killing, it had never crossed his mind.

And then Sally happened.

Sergeant Sally Donavan, who had never called him anything other than "freak" – Sergeant Sally Donavan, who seemed to abhor him more than any other person, except Anderson.

At first, he'd been merely been thankful to her – after all, to get offered a sofa to sleep on after three years of hiding was something – but then, though even he can't explain how, it progressed.

She started calling him "Sherlock", and, though he had been quick to correct her, as he'd always been "freak" to her and didn't expect anything different, by the time she used "freak" again, it had become a nickname, and he rather liked it. He didn't know why, but he enjoyed the thought that there was something that just worked for him and her. Maybe that should have sent the alarm bells ringing, but it didn't.

She'd become something like his safe haven; someone he could turn to, when John had a date or was angry with him, when Greg was occupied, when he was left alone with his thoughts and memories – and they become too much, and threatened to drown him, and all the people he had to kill and torture and...

Talking to her was easy, which was a surprise in itself. The old Sally Donavan wouldn't have listened, would probably have arrested him, but here she was, trying to distract him with thoughts like "How is Rio?" or something like that, and it helped him forget. It helped him come t terms with what he had had to do, what he was trying to cope with. She was there, and she didn't judge him, and, unlike John, she hadn't been crying at his grave, though she had visited, which was a relief in itself, in a strange way.
And all of this – he found more than enough reasons to pick her lock and spend the night in her flat, when he was bored, or sad, or lonely. It was enough.

She loved hearing him play the violin, he could tell. She loved Beethoven, especially "Die Ode an die Freude", and he didn't know why, but he kept playing pieces out of his repertoire, just to see her smile and help her sleep. She had changed in the last three years, just like he had; she had become a different woman, and he – though he tried, God knows he tried, to hide it – had become a different man.

Slowly, he started speaking about the last three years and, somehow, she understood. He doesn't know or comprehend why; she just took his memories and his life for what it was, and that's it. Maybe it was her acceptance that had him coming back time and time again, he's not sure.

Then, they started meeting in coffee houses or to have lunch, to, as the called, "catch up" because they hadn't seen each other for more than a week. Again, he didn't know why, but he missed her when he hadn't seen her for more than a few days; not like he missed John or Mrs. Hudson or Greg or even Mycroft in these three years; it was a different kind of weird, and when they were mistaken for a couple for the first time, he felt... strange and he didn't know why.

Before long, there were rather embarrassing talks with his friends.

John was the first – naturally.

They were spending the afternoon in Baker Street – he'd solved the last case yesterday – and he was trying to read, and actually thinking about the fact that he hadn't seen Sally for three days, without knowing why, when John cleared his throat.

Sherlock put his book aside. "Yes? You obviously want to tell me something."

John looked rather embarrassed, in fact, which would have been enough to make Sherlock uncomfortable, if he hadn't been so preoccupied with... other things.

"I spoke with Sally today."

"Donavan?" Sherlock replied, rather proud of how casual he sounded. John just shook his head.

"Sally. You know you call her that, ever since you returned." He hesitated. "You remember the crime scene today?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I do. A valuable pearl hidden in a bust – it's rather difficult to forget or delete, as a matter of fact."

John wisely decides to ignore this answer. "Sally seemed on edge, so I asked her what happened. Turns out, Mycroft gave her the big brother talk."

"The what?" Sherlock was baffled.

"You know, "If you hurt him, I'll hurt you", John explained, patiently.

"Mycroft kidnapped Sally?" Sherlock didn't know why that disturbed him the way it did; it just did, simple as that.

John looked rather smug all of a sudden, for some reason. "And by the way it looks, not without justification." He was silent for a moment. "Sherlock... what is it between you and Sally, anyway?"

"Nothing Sherlock answered, perhaps a little too quickly. "We're friends."

John smiled – triumphant, rather pleased sort of smile. "Alright then".

Sherlock tried to delete this conversation, but for some reason, it didn't work.

Then Greg decided to ask him, when they were discussing a case in his office, "You and Sally – is there anything going on I should know?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, focused on the files. "Of course not."

"No" Greg answered, looking at Sherlock queerly, "NO, of course not. Silly of me to ask". But then he smiled just like John did, and Sherlock had the urge to punch something, but didn't.

The talk with Mycroft was the shortest and the most embarrassing at the same time.

Sherlock had asked him, "Did you kidnap Sergeant Donavan, by any chance?" while Mycroft was trying to make him take a case.

Mycroft smiled that condescending smile of his. "Yes, I did. She wasn't very forthcoming, however, as to the particulars of your relationship".

"There is no relationship" Sherlock answered, sharply, and felt a pang of – regret? No. It couldn't be.

Mycroft just smiled that smile of his – again – and said "I trust you will inform me of the developments". Then Sherlock was dismissed. Not that he went anywhere, immediately; he loitered just to annoy Mycroft.

But he thought about Sally. The whole afternoon, when he could have done experiments or caught murderers.

Instead, he thought of Sally Donavan, once his enemy, now his – friend? He wasn't sure.

So he decided to kiss her, because then, he wouldn't have to wonder anymore.

Thankfully, she held still, and he kissed her, and –

It felt good, wonderful even, and he just knew he didn't want it to stop.

They even had sex, about two months after their first kiss, and he didn't mind. He rather enjoyed it, in fact.

Though he still refused to call it love or anything silly like that.

But still – he doesn't like it when Sally won't talk to him.

Which is probably why he's currently pacing the living room of 221B, after a heated argument.

He doesn't understand. He caught the criminal, so why was she angry?

"Sherlock, you could have died today!" She looks angry, more than angry, in fact, and Sherlock has to admit he has never wanted her more.

"It was necessary to catch the murderer..."

"But Sherlock, he could have killed you!"

He shrugged his shoulders. "Occupational hazard".

She walks away without another word, and he doesn't know why he suddenly feels like crying.

"Sherlock" John interrupts his meditations, "You're thinking about Sally, aren't you?"

He settles for a curt nod.

"Well... you got a gun pointed at you, today, once again."

"So what? It happens on a regular basis."

"Sherlock, she's scared to lose you. She..." John hesitates. "She likes what you have, do you understand it?"

"The sex, you mean?"

John looks exasperated. "Yes. The sex. And a little bit more than that. So go and apologize to her". At Sherlock opening his mouth, he adds "Even if you don't mean it. Please. I like to..." He is silent for a moment, then he resumes. "I like to see you happy".

So – even though he doesn't mean to – he finds himself in front of Sally's flat and lets himself in with the key she gave him after a few months of lock-picking.

She's sitting on the couch, starring into nothing.

"Sally..." he says, slowly.

"No". She stands up, shakes her head, and for a moment, he's afraid she will break everything off, and why does this picture cause him so much pain?

But then she resumes. "I understand. It's how you are. It was silly of me. It's alright".

"No it isn't" he answers, to his own surprise. "I don't want you to be angry, I don't want you to be scared. But it's part of my... job, as some people would call it. For what it's worth, I'm sorry, but I can't stop."

"I understand" she says, and this time, she actually smiles. Then, out of the blue, she says, "I'm sorry for shouting at you... It's just... I... I like what we have".

"It's okay" Sherlock ensures her, I like it to.

And then she smiles that smile of hers, and Sherlock's stomach twists, though not in a bad way, and she kisses him and he returns this kiss, and just like that, everything is alright and he's happy in a very different way than when he returned from the dea.

It's fine, it's all fine, and it's enough.

Author's note: I never thought I'd create a Sherlock/Sally universe – and I don't even ship them, to be honest. It just happened... somehow. Don't ask. Regular Readers of my fics will know that my mind is a rather strange place.

Mind: Talk for yourself.

Me: Well, who decided to create this universe?

Mind: And that's my fault? You wrote it.

Me: I am you.

Mind: Who's sounding like Moriarty now?

Me: Let's just leave it at that.

I hope you liked it, and please review.