Here's Part 2-Sally Donovan.

She always knew he'd end up killing someone.

She'd known it right from the very first time she laid eyes on him-standing in his trench coat, dark curls against pale skin, that sneer curling at his mouth as he looked at her. She remembered how he talked over her the second she started to speak, relating the entirety of her previous evening activities-and just as she'd opened her mouth, to demand who the hell he was, Lestrade had stepped over, placing a hand on her shoulder, to tell her that this was the consulting detective-this was Sherlock Holmes-and that yes, she did have to put up with him.

Consulting detective-Sally Donovan snorts at the word. Not content with being different from everyone already, he'd actually had to set up his own career-as if it were just one more way to prove that he was too good for other people.

But there'd always been something about him-just something about the way he talked, the way he knew everything before anyone else had so much as taken a look, the way he stared at crime scenes, his eyes wide and bright, dancing with an almost unhealthy excitement-it sent a chill down her spine. It was bizarre. He was bizarre. And yet whenever she voiced her concerns to Lestrade, he shrugged them off, telling her that bizarre or not, Sherlock Holmes was the best detective he knew-which she interpreted as a thinly veiled insult to her and Anderson's abilities.

And yet she had to admit, she was grudgingly impressed with the man. Freak did know what he was talking about, most of the time. But there was something about it, something about the relish in it, the way he looked when he was solving something-as if he were enjoying it too much. And she'd heard him speak of murderers and crimes with a strange-admiration in his voice. A fascination.

Almost, if she was pushed to say it, a love.

And so she'd known. She'd always guessed that one day it wouldn't be enough for him-not enough to simply lead them triumphantly to a killer, figure out all the clues on his own. One day, he'd have to be the killer. One day, he'd have to be the one running from them, watching them scratch their heads, seized with delight whenever he managed to outwit them.

Because that was what he did, didn't he?

And so that was what she kept in her head-every time he made her feel like an idiot, every time he forced someone to turn their back so he could think clearly and every single time he got to the answer before they did-which was nearly always-she forced herself to remember that one day, she'd be the one arresting him.

But he didn't seem to care.

He didn't seem to notice any of them. Not properly. He didn't seem to realise what they thought of him, her and Anderson-didn't seem to notice that Lestrade, on occasion, barely tolerated him-didn't seem to care.

And that got under her skin. He should care. Why shouldn't he? Other people cared. He should care.

But then he wasn't like other people, was he? He didn't feel like they did.

She tried over and over again to get him to make some response-the words fell out of her mouth as easily as they had when she was a teenager and was struggling to elicit some emotion from some poor quivering kid in a playground. Something about it-these people, people that didn't care what she said, didn't want to be like anyone else-got to her. How could they not care what people thought? She did. Her entire life was based on what people thought. From her friends as a kid, to her colleagues as an adult-from making fun of Niamh, the kid with the lazy eye in primary school, to hiding the class nerd's textbooks in secondary, to whispering with Anderson in the police, she'd gone by what other people thought. What the safest option was.

And the safest option was not to be like Sherlock Holmes.

But he didn't care. He never cared.

And, for some reason, that made her needle him more and more.

And when he'd been arrested, she hadn't regretted it. In fact, she'd been proud. Triumphant, almost. She'd said it, all along, she pointed out. She'd always said he'd end up killing someone.

She just hadn't expected it to be himself.

And when she'd heard that-she hadn't moved. She hadn't spoken. Because, for some reason, even when he was being arrested, she'd always taken it for granted that the freak would be there.

And now he was gone. Now he was dead.

And she hadn't expected that. She'd just never expected it. Of all the weird, out-there stuff that had freaked her out about him-suicide had never been on the list. Never.

And when she thought about that-it was harder than she'd imagined.

So, she just tried to forget, mostly. Just tried to move on. He was gone. She'd never see him again.

The freak was gone, and that was all she'd ever wanted, wasn't it? Since the first moment he'd shown up, she'd been thinking about the day he'd never show up again.

And now it's arrived.

But for some reason, something Sally tries to push out of her mind, as time goes on and there's more cases, more cases that drag on for weeks instead of days, more murderers that go unpunished, more calmness at crime scenes, more peace, more sanity-

For some reason, Sally can't welcome it nearly as much as she expected. For some reason, it's sometimes a lot harder to forget than she anticipated.

For some reason, there are moments-just sometimes-when she almost catches herself missing him.

But Sally Donovan would never tell anyone that.

After all-what would they think of her?

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