Sergeant Sally Donovan waited in the car, watching as her DI marched up the steps of 221B Baker Street. She wasn't sulking, as such. But they didn't need Sherlock Holmes. He was clever, yeah, but he gave her the creeps. It wasn't just the light in his eyes, the shameful eagerness at the sight of a crime scene. Her lynx daemon curled up in her lap, warming her against the chill she always got when she thought of it. Five years. That was how long she'd known him, and it'd been longer since he'd first crossed over. But now, when he emerged from the flat, trailing behind Lestrade and the DI's grey mutt daemon, the consulting detective was still distinctly alone.
"How can someone go that long without a daemon?" Baizem spoke Sally's thoughts aloud, in quiet discomfort.
"No one should," Sally said, stroking his ear, a nervous tick. Sherlock took a cab, Lestrade and his mutt Joule climbed back into the car.
He stood up, clapping his hands together once.
He didn't need a daemon to deduce who the killer was.