"Milk, no sugar," Sally mimicked in a high-pitched, angry voice. The spoon clinked against the sides of the mug that she had found in the staff room ("A paper cup?" Freak the elder had said last time, and Sally had to fight down the rage). "Earl Grey tea. I almost miss Sherlock. Who does this guy think he is, ordering me around?"

Sally looked down at the tea, and a smile twisted her lips. She could still have her revenge. Contracting the muscles at the back of her throat, she built a ball of spit in her mouth and then dropped it in the mug. A few more stirs, and there was no trace of evidence in the steaming liquid. She smiled smugly, put the spoon in the sink, and picked up the mug.

Sherlock's brother was still standing in the same spot, his hands still pressed together against his lips, his gaze studying first one photo and then moving to another. Sally fought to keep the smile off her face as she presented the mug to him. He didn't move.

"Sergeant Donavon, I suggest you try once more. I have no desire to ingest your salvia."

"Wha-?" Sally started, and set the mug down. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Then you should look for a new career."

Sally opened her mouth for a comeback that would have probably been a very bad idea, but suddenly the umbrella was in Holmes's hand, pointing to a photo of the blood that had been left by the hole in Sherlock's head.

Was he still alive?

Sally pushed the thought away.

"Those bins were moved. There's a sewer grate under them, and that's where the shooter hid the gun."

Sally looked at the photo, her eyes narrowing. "How do you know that?"

"This was not a planned attack, Sergeant. Our shooter panicked. Naturally, a panicked man – or woman – would want to get rid of their weapon. Now, in order to surprise my brother the shooter cannot be the usual idiot that you lot track down, and so they would know that police search any possible escape routes for said weapon. A panicked shooter would want to get rid of evidence immediately, a smart shooter would hide the gun at the scene itself."

Sally's jaw hung slack, and she stared at Holmes. "What?" she said.

Freak the elder rolled his eyes.

"How do you know about the sewer grid? And that the bins were moved?"

Holmes placed his umbrella back at his side and looked at the sergeant. His expression was one of such condensation and superiority, Sally wanted to pick up the mug of hot tea and splash it in his face. But that would not be professional, and if there was one thing Sally Donavon was, it was professional.

"Isn't it obvious? And throwing hot tea in my face would be a very grave mistake."

"I-" Sally started, but couldn't think of how to proceed. "You're more of a freak than your brother."

Holmes turned back to the photos. "Thank you."

"Thank you?"

"Obviously you refer to Sherlock as a freak because of his intelligence. Your referring to me as more of a freak means that you consider me even more intelligent, and so thank you. Now, if you could get me a proper cup of tea?"

"I don't call Sherlock a freak because he's intelligent, I call him a freak because he is a freak!" Sally shrieked. "He's a psychopath, and- and- you're a psychopath and-"

"The tea please, sergeant."

Sally marched over to the photo and yanked it down. She studied it. There was hardly a corner of the bins to be seen. How could Holmes know they had been moved? Unless... maybe he had moved them! Maybe Sherlock got shot by his own brother! That was it! It had to be. And Sally Donavon would figure it out, she would arrest him and then-

"I didn't shoot Sherlock."

"I didn't say you did," Sally replied cautiously. Surely this was more evidence to his guilt?

"You were thinking it."

"Oh, so you're a mind reader now?"

"Don't be ridiculous. You think on your face."

"I think on my face?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Sally whirled around to see Watson standing in the door of her office. She felt her face grow hot. It was bad enough that she couldn't keep her professionalism intact when interacting with Holmes, but to have it witnessed! At least none of her team had viewed her embarrassing outburst. If this got back to Lestrade, she would never be left in charge again.

"I brought everything that I could think of that Sherlock used, like you asked," Watson told Holmes, setting a large duffel bag on Sally's desk. Sally couldn't help but notice that Watson's face looked rather drawn. Worry lined his forehead and tightened the corners of his mouth.

Sally put her hand on his shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting manner. Her anger at Holmes was dwindling somewhat in the light of how worried Sherlock's friend clearly was. Her interest was piqued by the duffel bag. What sort of things did Sherlock use when he was investigating? She knew he kept human eyes in the microwave, and had an extensive array of impressive-looking science equipment, but-

"Is that a fork?" she asked incredulously as Watson opened the duffel bag.

Holmes turned to view the contents.

"Yeah, it's a fork," Watson snapped at Sally. "Sherlock once solved a case from nothing but a needle. I tried to be as thorough as possible. Anyway, he didn't use that fork to eat or anything, he had some experiment with it... and the light socket."

"Thank you, John," Holmes interrupted, gazing at the junk Watson had brought. His expression was superbly unimpressed for a man whose brother was possibly dead in the hospital-

Stop it, Sally told herself. Just stop it.

She quickly tried to convince herself it was because Mycroft Holmes was her number one suspect.

"This is most enlightening," Holmes murmured, inspecting the fork carefully. "Sergeant Donavon, are you going to order your people to get that gun or not?"

Sally glared.

"The gun? You've found the gun?" Watson said, looking from Holmes to Sally.

"In the sewer grid under the bins. They were moved there to hide it."

Reluctantly, Sally handed Watson the photo. He frowned at it, his eyes searching the area carefully. Eventually he looked up, his light blue eyes confused. Sally was glad she wasn't the only one. "How do you know? Are there scrape marks in the ground or something?"

Holmes rolled his eyes and pointed at another photo with his umbrella. Both Sally and Watson looked at it. It was just a dirty alleyway. She opened her mouth and was about to say just that, and to vocalise her beliefs that perhaps psychopaths liked to shoot their psychopath brothers when she stopped. She narrowed her eyes and suddenly she realised exactly why Holmes said that the bins had been moved.

"There's a clean patch. Well, cleaner," she murmured. She glanced at Watson and was happy to see him beginning to understand. They both turned back to Holmes.

"How could you see that from way back there?" Sally asked him, feeling, for the first time since the man arrived, amazed.

"Like you said, I'm a bigger 'freak' than Sherlock."

"You said that?" Watson sounded shocked. He looked at Sally as if she was the one who ran around with freaks solving (and possibly causing...? No, Watson was a doctor and was far too sweet for that) weird murders. Sally stared right back, confused by his reaction.

"Of course I did. I call Sherlock a freak all the time."

"Yeah, but-"

Holmes interrupted. "John, you should go to the hospital."

Watson turned to Holmes. "What? No, Molly and Mrs. Hudson are there. I want to help."

"Then help by going to the hospital and making sure that Sherlock stays safe. He surprised his attacker; they didn't check to make sure he was dead. By this time their panic will have cooled and they would have heard by now that he was taken to the hospital alive." Holmes looked at Watson, and his cool blue eyes were intense and the stoic expression on his face was just like an order. "Sherlock knows who attacked him, and if this is any indication as to what he's been up to, then he knows a lot more about them as well."

"You think they'll try to kill him again," Sally confirmed.

"Wait, don't you have people-" Watson started.

Holmes sighed. "This conversation is taking up precious time, John. Please, go to the hospital and make sure Sherlock stays safe. As for you, Sergeant Donavon, get that gun and fix me a proper cup of tea."

Sally opened her mouth to argue, but decided against it. She pulled her mobile out of her pocket and grabbed the mug of spit-tea on the desk. She phoned her forensic team that was still on-scene as she headed towards the staff room. But as her mouth relayed the information about the gun and her hands made Holmes his proper cup of tea, her mind was busy working.

Watson had mentioned people for Sherlock's protection. People. Normally, Sally wasn't a crazy conspiracy theorist, but she had an inkling as to what that particular phrase meant. It made sense now, how Sherlock and now Holmes knew so much. They had connections to the criminal world. That posh way of speaking, the expensive way of dressing, that curious condescending twinkle in their eyes... It all made sense now.

Author's Note: Thanks to everybody who has favourited, followed, viewed and reviewed! I am overwhelmed by all of your support!