Okay. Here is is. I should have known that the MOMENT Sally appeared riding bareback on a plot bunny into the Mollstrade Universe that she was going to knock Sherlock for a loop and stir things up with my rabbit warren. This is my official start of DonoLock. One of the last pairings I would have ever imagined within my own writings. What can I say, I follow the damned bunnies!

Better Late than Never

Genre: Friendship, Romance

Pairings: Sherlock and Sally (official beginning to DonoLock in this universe)

Main characters: Sherlock and Sally

Sherlock Holmes approached the door of Sally Donovan's flat with the casual comfortable grace he had made his unconscious custom. It was their regular meeting night for the pub, the evening they had chosen to get together, share a couple of pints, hash out the week, and share amusing anecdotes. He had arrived to fetch her, intending to make the journey to their pub of choice together, as a proper gentleman should.

Admittedly, they had made a habit of getting together more than just once per week since Sally had been shot in the line of duty, and subsequently had spent 6 weeks recuperating with Greg and Molly at 221C Baker Street. Sherlock had been a regular visitor there, even spending nights falling asleep next to her on her bed, much to the frustration of everyone else living in the three 221 Baker Street flats.

The general consensus on that front, from 221A through to 221C, had been a deep desire for them to "shit or get off the pot", the chief obstacle being that neither Sherlock nor Sally even realized they were stuck on the loo distracted with a Reader's Digest magazine to begin with.

Sherlock waited patiently for Sally to open the door, and when she did, he smiled down at her warmly, taking in her smile, the welcoming warmth in her brown eyes, the seeming smooth and precise perfection of each of the small curls that adorned her head in a raven halo, and the bracing sound of her voice – meant to grab attention, and keep it.

None of these observations, including the form-fitted maroon dress she wore that hugged her curves in all the right places and was not exactly her usual pub night attire, however, spoke of attraction to him.

Sally, herself a little more excited this time for his arrival, welcomed him in with enthusiasm. She watched him as he removed his trademark Belstaff, admired how his long, nimble fingers manipulated the fastenings, and how the scarf brushed against his loose, unruly curls as he removed it, making them even more unruly. When he glanced back at her in greeting, his tri-coloured eyes seemed to dance in the dim light of her flat, and a crooked grin adorned his face, highlighting his cheekbones.

None of these observations, however, including the voice about 12 miles deep that would send the average woman straight to carnal ecstasy, spoke of attraction to Sally, either.

"I was um, well I was thinking maybe we could stay in tonight?" Sally said hopefully, scrunching her face a bit. "Greg recommended this wine," she said, strolling over to the kitchen counter, "he said it went very well with chocolate, and then he sent me home with some of the leftover truffles Molly made for Philip's re-in-statement gathering."

Sherlock smiled, nodding approvingly. "It makes no difference to me where we meet. As a rule, there are too many… people at the pub for my liking," he said, enunciating the word people a little too precisely. "This is actually preferable." Sally smiled at him, nodding in agreement. "Besides, Molly's truffles are bloody divine," he said.

(That Greg had sent Sally home with chocolate truffles and a wine recommendation, knowing full well it was her date night with Sherlock, had also most miserably failed to register.)

"Well, in that case, if you wouldn't mind opening this please?" she said, grinning and handing him a corkscrew and the bottle.

When they had settled with their wine, breathing comfortably from their glasses, ("breathe, schmeathe – it ain't drowning", Sally had said with a wink. Sherlock preferred scotch, as a rule, so it made no difference to him) Sally suddenly said, "Oh! I nearly forgot. Here," she said, handing him a gift-wrapped box. "This is for you."

Sherlock peered at her curiously, intrigued. "A gift? Why ever for? It isn't Christmas, it isn't my birthday, it isn't your birthday, Mycroft hasn't saved England yet this month, and there's no other national holiday. It's only the 20th of… oh…" he said, as the date sunk in.

"Six months tonight since you were shot," he said quietly, sounding almost embarrassed to have forgotten. "But you survived that, shouldn't this be your celebration?"

Sally smiled. "It is, that's why we're staying in. I wanted to thank you for helping Greg save my life, and for… well for being there, for never leaving my side. I appreciated that a lot."

Sherlock said nothing, merely nodding. "Well, let's see what we have here then." He shook the package, hearing only the softest of whooshing from the item within shifting softly. He lifted it up and down, seeming to weigh it, then sniffed it. He held it up to the light, examining the wrapping and mentally noting the dimensions of the box.

"Oh just open it already, you bloody Git," Sally said, exasperated.

"Patience, Old Plod, patience," Sherlock scolded, with a smile.

Finally, he removed the wrapping and opened the box.

"Oh… my. This is… this is beautiful," he said with raw sincerity, removing a hand-knitted dark blue scarf. He examined the stitching, which featured a fine thread of burgundy to set off the blue, and the fine weight and silk fibres of the yarn that had been chosen. He took special note of the size of the stitches, indicating a small gauge of needles and thus a great deal of patience and dedication, and noting the absence of a label – confirming his initial observation that this was hand made. "This took a lot of time, whoever made it does gorgeous work," he said, admiringly.

"Um… actually, I made it," Sally said, almost bashfully. "Yours was ruined when you used it the night I was shot. I figured I owed you to replace it. And I had loads of spare time recovering, so that's how I passed it. I hope it's okay?" she said.

"Okay? It's wonderful, Sally. I love it, thank you so much," he said, rising from his seat to kiss her gratefully, without even thinking about it, Sally returning the kiss reflexively.

Sally had heard of "WOW" moments from co-workers, she'd even heard of the below-the-radar relationship phenomenon known as "the slow burn", but Sherlock being Sherlock, it never even once crossed her mind that either could happen to them. But suddenly…

… Ohhhh, bollocks.

Sherlock, likewise, found it beyond his realm of consideration to think that Sally Donovan of all people, could ever inspire such feelings in him. Sally, the Old Plod. Sure, they'd made their peace after he'd returned from the dead, and then after Eurus, they'd become grudging friends. They'd even started spending time together. Then Sally had been shot and Sherlock had felt…

… Ohhhh, bollocks.

"Oh…" he said, gasping as he pulled away. Comprehension had just struck like a ton of bricks, and it stole his breath away.

So that was it.

Sally, experiencing an epiphany of sorts herself, sat like a stone, holding her breath.

She suddenly realized that this was not the first time Sherlock had kissed her, nor was it the first time she'd kissed him back. In fact many times, countless times by now she realized, she had initiated that friendly little peck that they hadn't even thought twice about before, during, or after its casual delivery.

"What the hell, Git?" she muttered softly, as Sherlock gently took her by the arms and urged her to her feet. Their faces moved back towards each other, and their lips met in a glorious confirmation of what they had both just come to realize. What they'd finally come to see.

"Well," Sherlock said as they finally broke away from each other. Reaching up to stroke her face with is hand, he smiled at her adoringly and reached down to retrieve their glasses. "Greg will be happy at least," he teased. Sally looked at him curiously, questioning in her dark eyes.

"He gave me a rather paternal lecture about observation, telling me what he knew about who completed me." Sherlock guided Sally towards the couch, where he sat them down and swung his arm behind her in a more familiar gesture, as he told her more of the conversation he and Greg had had.

"Greg is sometimes too wise for his own good," Sally said, laughing softly, "but damned if the old bugger is always worth listening to. Whatever he said to you, he was probably right. He usually is."

"I believe he is this time as well, on all counts," Sherlock said, thoughtfully, turning to kiss Sally lightly. "He told me there was someone else who completed me in another way besides the ways he mentioned, but he also told me that it was up to me to figure out who that was, and what part of myself they completed. I believe now that I have solved that."

"I think we've completed each other for quite some time," Sally said thoughtfully. "No idea why we didn't see it before now."

Sherlock turned his face towards her, pressing his lips to her temple, lingering a moment, while she closed her eyes and smiled at the sensation she'd felt before but never paid any attention to until now.

"Obvious, really," he murmured against her skin. "It's us we're talking about." He brought his head back as she turned her face to look up at him. "The Old Plod and the Git. Why on earth would it ever in a million years occur to us that we had fallen for each other?" Sally shivered as his voice hit that low note that she hadn't realized until now did odd things to her. "That you weren't just The Old Plod, that you were my Old Plod."

"And you're not just the Git, you're my Git," Sally nodded in agreement, taking his hand and kissing it lightly.

"I suspect everyone at Baker Street has had this figured out for a long time now, but I can't wait to see the faces at the Yard when word of this gets out. That is… if you want word of this to get out, I mean," Sherlock said, hopefully.

"Well, I wouldn't mind it to be known to every available female there that this particular Git is spoken for. He is spoken for, then?" she asked, cautiously.

"Oh yes. Most assuredly he is," Sherlock said, smiling. "Most assuredly. Better late than never, I'd say."