Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Blanch
As a woman on the police force, Donovan had rules for herself about not showing emotion.
Seeing a dead man walk through the doors of Scotland yard seemed like the perfect time to break those rules.
"Jesus," she whispered.
"Hardly," Sherlock Holmes replied, striding past her. "But I understand your confusion. Is Lestrade around?"
The D.I. himself came around the corner at that moment. He noticed the look on Sally's face and followed her stricken look.
His eyes landed on Sherlock.
Lestrade turned the color of curdled milk. One of his hands scrabbled for a chair, and he sank shakily into it.
"Hello, Lestrade," Sherlock said, and there was something almost warm in his voice that caught Sally's attention. But she pushed the thought aside. Her boss was listing off his chair, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to vomit, faint, or cry. She wouldn't let him do any of that in front of a full squad room.
She grabbed the formerly dead detective by the arm and forcibly pulled him from the room.
"What are you playing at?" she said as she closed the door to the empty office behind them.
"I require police assistance," Holmes said, looking confused. "Naturally, I came to Lestrade—"
"Did you want to give him a heart attack!" she yelled. "You were dead!"