A/N It's been around six months but I finally found the time to write an extra chapter for this story. Apologies for the very long wait. I'm finding trying to imagine the reactions of these characters rather interesting so I may continue this further. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this additional chapter :)

Disclaimer: I still don't own Sherlock :(

The woman now lying in an old disused basement had died of strangulation, according to the information that had been reported to him before he'd entered the room. She'd been dead at least three hours it seemed and perhaps the finger-shaped bruises that had formed on her pale throat would tell him more later. However, try as he might, Anderson couldn't glean any more information from the unfortunate victim at this exact moment. And that irritated him greatly.

He could hardly tell if the wedding ring on her finger indicated a long, happy marriage or a troubled one. Whether this woman had been a hard working businesswoman or a stay-at-home mum or even an international criminal. Where she'd been earlier that day. Whether she was even native to London at all.

No, it would take at least a day to fully break down this woman's life story and even then they'd need to rely on outside links. It was hardly like they had their favourite psychopath let loose around the crime scene like a dog without a leash, dancing around the body with a childlike glee as he revealed her most intimate secrets to the bewildered onlookers. They could hardly rely on a man who'd thrown himself off a building and cracked his head open. However it seemed that even the dead detective would be of more use here than Anderson at this precise moment, judging from the recent attitudes of his co-workers.

Still, he did what he could. He examined the body and gathered as much evidence from her as he possibly could before reporting his newly discovered information to Lestrade, who had spent the entire time looming silently in the doorway. Even with the weak source of light in the basement Anderson could clearly see the small smile that crept across his boss's face but he knew that it was hardly an expression of pride for his co-worker. He had that familiar faraway look in his eyes that suggested that he wasn't entirely present in the room. No, as usual his thoughts were with Sherlock.

Or rather, the imaginative and colourful insult that the detective would have predictably thrown at Anderson in response to his useless observations.

A lot of his co-workers treated him that way now, often more harshly than Lestrade who'd managed to keep any of his distaste towards Anderson fairly concealed. The others had generally been less tactful.

Anderson didn't understand it. They'd all despised the detective while he was still alive. Each one had leapt at the chance to arrest him following the kidnapping of the two children. He'd even spotted two of his fellow police officers hiding in the corner, making bets on how they imagined Sherlock would react. Neither had won. Sherlock's refusal to protest hadn't been predicted by many. That still hadn't affected any feelings towards him though. Sherlock had made them feel inferior and they'd relished the chance to make him feel the same way, gathering together at 221B like a pack of wild dogs.

And yet now, after he'd only been dead a year, they all missed him terribly and spoke fondly of him as if he'd been a god.

It was the longer hours probably. Working at Scotland Yard had grown considerably more difficult lately with the absence of their favourite detective. The information that would have taken Sherlock mere seconds to obtain now required several late nights. Cases which would have been wrapped up in a matter of days now dragged on for weeks. Anderson had tried to tell himself that he didn't mind, the extra work provided some well needed distractions. His co-workers begged to differ. They didn't willingly forgive when their holidays were at risk of becoming non-existent.

Anderson had taken the brunt of his work-mates scorn without complaint. After all, his involvement as one of the people who'd tried to convince Lestrade that his old friend was a dangerous criminal hadn't gone down too well as time went on. He had remained certain of that fact for a long time until recent developments had turned everything upside down. He could remember that in the earlier days, when the absence of the detective still loomed around the office like an unwanted burden, Sally had received similar treatment from their co-workers for her involvement in Sherlock's downfall. However over time she had eventually shown remorse for her actions and had appeared genuinely guilty for Sherlock's death, as if she was in some way responsible. Anderson had never betrayed any remorse. He'd simply got on with things, learning to ignore the sideways glances and childish giggles that were sent in his direction while he worked on crime scenes. He'd even ignored the frankly annoying pranks that had gotten old fast and had lost their fun after a while. He'd refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction of letting the actions of others get under his skin.

Or at least that had been his general attitude. Until, barely a month ago, Sherlock had finally been declared innocent thanks to the combined efforts of a police investigation, an unnamed source who had gained Lestrade's trust and the general public.

At first Anderson had tried to laugh about this and move on. After all, it was a year too late. Sherlock was hardly capable of showing gratitude for having his reputation restored.

However he'd allowed himself to dwell on the detective for too long, had finally let his co-workers words get to him. Now all he had left was a numb feeling of guilt. Because, irrational as this admission was, he had helped to kill an innocent man. And he hadn't even been doing it for the good of others. He'd wanted to impress Sally and improve his reputation at work. Finally get recognition he felt he deserved. Fat lot of good that had been.

In some strange, twisted way he almost missed the detective now. Yes, they had hated each other with a passion and he'd been forced to take every insult under the sun for the mere crime of being in the same room as Sherlock. However he realised now that there must have been some underlying level of trust within the detective, no matter how slim that feeling of trust was. There was no other reason he could think of for Sherlock continually allowing what he perceived to be a blundering idiot intrude on his precious crime scenes. Hate each other they may have done but never to the extent of wishing the other man dead. And that realisation stung.

Anderson owed Sherlock. There was no point denying that. From the moment the detective had started working on cases Anderson had received more attention, had been trusted with more interesting cases which had taken him away from the tedious monotony of office work. He'd even received a slight pay rise for his efforts after Sherlock's fifth case; not that he'd ever indulged Sherlock with this information.

And now the detective was gone. And, in the eyes of his co-workers at least, Anderson was barely worthy of a name.