She stood by the punch bowl in the spacious, rented ballroom and frowned. Stuck working the refreshment table because of her recent injury, Sally Donovan felt cross and left out of the festivities. Which was odd because, every other year, she detested this fund-raising event and resented having to attend. New Scotland Yard, in order to prove its community spirit and fundamental concern for society, held this benefit event every year to raise money for a local rehabilitation centre. Sally had nothing against drug and alcohol rehabilitation, of course, but why should one be forced to dance for it?

She ought to have been grateful, oddly enough, that her cracked skull and concussion had prevented her having to help organize the tedious last-minute details of the benefit. But to add insult to injury, quite literally, her usual role in planning this event had been taken over this year by that insufferable Mary Watson. Sally knew her resentment of Mary was irrational; but she couldn't help feeling that the bank robbery that had taken place while she, Molly and Mary just happened to be inside it was somehow Mary Watson's fault.

Now she watched the Boss, dancing with Mary, and seethed. Lestrade was enamoured of that chit of a girl, who knew why, and let her get away with murder. She was allowed free access to crime scenes; she received special treatment when she managed to get herself into scrapes; blind eyes were turned towards questionable actions on the part of her husband and Holmes when she was endangered. Sally felt the Boss had been compromised by his affection for the trio, and Mary in particular.

John Watson appeared at Sally's side and took a glass of punch, smiling at her in a friendly manner. She had always found him to be more amiable than his partner in crime; but since Sally, in spite of her injury, had helped Mary and Molly defeat the bank robbers, he had become even warmer in his manner towards her. She had often felt a sneaking admiration for Watson, in spite of his incomprehensible and questionable attachment to Sherlock Holmes. He was unfailingly polite and gentle in his manner, but when the need arose, he was easily the most dangerous man she'd ever known. She smiled tentatively back.

"Having fun?" he asked mildly. She shook her head.

"I hate these things," she admitted freely. "All these stuffed shirts, pretending to get along." He snorted with laughter.

"Yeah, I'm not much for this sort of thing myself," he replied amiably. "I'm just here because my wife made me come." He pulled good-naturedly at his collar and tugged on his jacket, chuckling. She knew this was not true. Although the then newly-wed Watsons had skipped this event last year, Watson himself had faithfully attended the three years previously, stoic and grim-faced as if marching into battle. He had always brought a date with him, and had always left alone. How things had changed since Mary came into his life. Into ALL their lives. . . .

Sally watched the woman in question; Mary was tripping over the Boss's feet as they danced and they were laughing hysterically together. She had to be the klutziest person on the ballroom floor. "Doesn't that bother you?" she asked tactlessly.

John looked in the direction Sally was indicating and laughed affectionately. "What, that Mary can't dance to save her soul? Nah, nobody's perfect."

Sally frowned. "No, I mean, the way she and the Boss get on."

John gave Sally a level look and smiled grimly. "Mary grew up without a father in her life, you know. If she's found someone to fill that empty space for her, I'm more than pleased." Sally raised an eyebrow. Watson was a man of the world, wasn't he? Ex-army, world-travelled, experienced surgeon. How could he be so naïve?

John moved away, talking to some of the other guests, and Sally turned her attention to her sometime lover. There was Anderson, dancing with his own wife, of all people, that drab. His eyes, however, were roaming over the room, finally alighting on Mary Watson. Sally could swear she saw a bit of drool drip from the corner of his mouth. Bloody prat!

The Boss had accused her of being jealous of the Watson woman; and perhaps she was. And why shouldn't she be? What on God's green earth did everyone in London see in this little bit of fluff that they should stumble all over themselves to do whatever she wanted? Who, for example, was her own definitely EX-lover leering at this very moment? Not Sally Donovan; not, god forbid, his mousy little wife. No, it was none other than the (for him) tantalizingly unattainable weapons-expert Mrs. Watson that he was obsessing over, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth. Disgusting!

And who had done such a fantastic job of pulling this event together in a matter of weeks that she drew the admiration of the Commissioner himself? Not Sally, who had organized this benefit annually for the five years previous to this, without ever receiving any recognition whatsoever. No, Sally had been on sick leave, thanklessly recovering from the skull fracture she'd incurred during that bank robbery a month ago. It was the intolerably perfect volunteer event chairperson Mary Watson who had apparently performed a miracle in producing this unprecedentedly successful event.

And who had come up with the idea to capture the bank robbers, which Sally had admittedly gone along with? Because, damn it, it had been a good idea and Sally had been injured and could not do much more than lie on the floor and let herself be patched up by the annoyingly efficient Dr Mary Watson.

And who broke all the rules, collecting evidence by illegally breaking into a suspect's home, and received not censure but a mischievous wink from the detective inspector? And whose kidnapper was inexplicitly declared dead by his own hand in the official report of the chief pathologist, in spite of the fact the man had a bullet wound in the exact centre of his forehead, inflicted by a gun of a different calibre than the one in his hand—a hand suspiciously free of powder burns? Who was allowed to walk freely into the New Scotland Yard building and commandeer an interrogation room whenever she damn-well felt like it? That maddening, infuriating, exasperating, irritating Mary Bloody Watson.

She noted Sherlock Holmes stalking into the room with Mrs. Hudson on his arm, exaggeratedly stiff and formal and undeniably elegant. What a farce this whole thing was, she scoffed to herself. The freak escorted his landlady to a chair and then—oh, damn!—headed for the refreshment table.

"What are you doing here, Freak?" she snapped at him, aggrieved. "Did Ms. Watson threaten you or bribe you to come?" Even John, as proficient as he was at controlling the freak at a crime scene, had always been unable to coerce the psychopath into attending social functions; although, admittedly, perhaps the doctor had not really wanted to try.

The freak turned those weird, light-coloured eyes to hers solemnly. "I came because Mary asked me to. Nicely," he intoned.

Sally scoffed. "Are you saying you'd cooperate with anyone who is nice to you?" she demanded.

"I am not saying anything of the sort," Holmes replied with great dignity. "However, you'll never know until you try, will you, how cooperative I can be when asked nicely?" He took a cup of punch and carried it to Mrs. Hudson, who smiled at him with inexplicable fondness.

"How are you feeling, Sally?" came a familiar voice at her elbow. She cringed. Why did Mary have to be so nice all the time? And now, Sally had to feel grateful to the little so-and-so for treating her injuries at the bank, and for stepping in to help with this fundraiser while she was on sick leave.

"I'm fine," she lied. Go away. Go away, she thought belligerently.

Mary peered at the detective sergeant's eyes intently. "You should have a sit, dear. You're a bit peaky. That headache is still in effect, isn't it?"

Damn. Why did the woman have to be a doctor? And an astute one, at that? "I'm fine," Sally said more firmly, stubborn.

"I'll take over from you here. Go on and have a bit of a rest," Mary said encouragingly. Sally gritted her teeth. It was very tempting to do as the meddling little tart suggested—her head really was aching. But Mary Watson had shown her up too often already—capturing the bank robbers and organizing this benefit. At least let it not be said that Mary Watson could serve up punch better than Sally Donovan. She desperately needed to change the subject.

"Doesn't that bother you?" she asked, indicating the obviously straying John Watson as he waltzed with a lovely, strangely graceful Molly Hooper. The two glided effortlessly across the floor, drawing all eyes to themselves, easily the best dancers in the room and clearly enjoying themselves. Mary's dimples deepened.

"Oh, aren't they wonderful? I'm so glad they're having fun," she gushed happily. "I'm total rubbish at dancing. John's trying to teach me, but I just can't get the knack. It's not much fun for him, stuck with a partner that seems bent on maiming him." She smiled at Sally, ignoring the scepticism in her eyes. "Besides, this way I get to watch him instead of stepping on him. Isn't he beautiful?"

Love is blind, Sally mused, not seeing what Mary saw at all; but she did not voice her thought. She was capable of tact when she chose to be. "You don't feel jealous?" she asked tactlessly.

Mary laughed merrily. "Of course not. I know he adores me. And we trust each other entirely," she stated confidently. Sally shook her head.

"And when you and the freak went off alone to Cornwall together—John was okay with that?" she persisted.

Mary chuckled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. "My husband knows full well I worship the ground he walks on," she replied cheekily. Sally rolled her eyes.

"The freak tells me that this weird power you have over him to make him behave is that you're nice to him," Sally said sarcastically. "Are you asking me to believe that your control over him is just . . . niceness?"

Mary sighed, still good-natured but clearly tired of the subject. "I don't control Sherlock, or anyone," she declared firmly. "But I find that people respond well to kindness. They are more inclined to cooperate with you if they feel you have their own best interests at heart. People know it when you really care about them."

Sally considered this statement for a moment. She had always had to be extra tough, as one of the few women in a predominantly man's world. Being nice just didn't get you far in this job. It was true that Mary often got better results with kindness than Sally did with vitriol. On the other hand, Mary could be ruthless if she needed to be: Sally would never forget the look on that robber's face when Mary advised Molly to stab him if he moved and to keep on stabbing him until he stopped! Perhaps one could be tough with criminals and gentle with one's colleagues without losing their respect. Mary certainly seemed to have found that balance, with good results.

Mary giggled happily. "Watch this," she said confidingly, nodding to John and Molly. They were dancing closer and closer to where Sherlock was waltzing grandly with Mrs. Hudson. Sally noticed that John winked cheerfully at his landlady just as they passed closely by each other; then expertly, they smoothly traded partners, much to the obvious surprise of Sherlock and Molly, who found themselves suddenly dancing alone together as John and Mrs. Hudson moved swiftly away, innocently smiling. Mary laughed joyously. "There!" she cried triumphantly. "Mission accomplished!" Sally watched the new couple, looking awkward but not displeased, and thought they looked well together.

"You know what we have in common?" Mary was saying softly. "John and Sherlock and me and Molly and Greg: we were quite alone in the world before we found each other. Our parents are all gone, and we have two siblings among the lot of us, both fairly useless in the caring department. Not a grandparent, not an aunt, uncle, or cousin. Everyone needs family. We can be that for each other. There are many ways of caring other than romantically, you know. We all need those other ways as much as we need romance."

Sally had thought that Mary had simply been born under a fortunate star—blessed with a pretty face, a quick and clever mind, and a talent for manipulating people. But there was Sherlock Holmes, also easy to look at, admittedly more than clever, and a genius at manipulation. But only a very few would bend over backwards to please the freak the way they did to please Mary Watson. Perhaps it did pay to be nice.

Perhaps it would be worth trying.