I don't have a thing to be ashamed of. Not a damn thing. All of the evidence was pointing towards him, everything made sense if he was the culprit, and he even dove off a roof out of guilt. I did my job and I did it well, and I'll be damned if anyone is going to tell me differently.
Things are almost never that complicated. Do they really expect me to have taken criminal masterminds, elaborate schemes and triple bluffs into account? I'd end up a conspiracy nut, thinking like that, looking at every dead body like it is part of some huge web. I'd never solve as many cases as I do. And I do solve a lot, no matter what certain people might think.
John's going to hold it against me until the day I die, but that's to be expected. You could see from day one that he was hooked on him, trailing behind him like a limping little puppy. He had decided that Sherlock was innocent without looking at any of the facts, and you just can't solve crimes with your heart. Through no merit of his own, he turned out to be right.
Lestrade's upset with me, has been for three years now, but he at least has the decency to be subtle about it. He's retreated into himself, these few last years, constantly second-guessing his own work, looking over his shoulder for some brainiac to wander in and lay it all out clear as day. Before his anger was all turned inwards, mixed up with guilt about causing the death of a "friend". Now that the freak's back, I'm a better target, but Lestrade and I have our share of history. I've covered his back and he's covered mine. And he's too good a man to let me hang for this alone.
Darren doesn't talk about it much, although I can see him preparing for the backlash, bracing for a return to barked insults and casual shouts of "Anderson!" We stood together on the upswing of this whole debacle, and we'll be there for each other now. There's not even a wife in the picture to worry about now. Just us.
And him. Always him. When Sherlock Holmes makes his way into your life, it's not your life anymore. It becomes a tangent branching off from his story, a footnote in his novel. Years in the force, a struggle to gain the title of Sergeant, a constant battle to stand up against all of the shit that comes against you, it all gets swept away by a passing glance from his coattails. You become one dimensional, a side-character, the constant counterpoint to the only point that matters. Even for the three years I had free, the three years for me to remake my own name, his ghost hung over the Yard in Lestrade's empty eyes and Watson's constant visits. And now he's back in the flesh, a miracle worker who managed to survive. I should have known he was too permanent to kill.
I have nothing to be ashamed of. I have nothing I need to change. I did my job and I stand by my work. I don't run away from the consequences of my actions, like some people I know.
"Ah, Sgt. Donovan, how nice to see you again. Tell me, did Anderson buy you those earrings to celebrate your rise in prominence after the case of your career, or to celebrate my death? Either way, I sincerely hope that you kept the receipt."
"Hello again, Freak. See you haven't changed at all."
"I don't have to."
"And neither do I."