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Chapter Three: Sergeant Donovan

(Note: if you've read my other fanfic, Trust, ignore it for now – that Donovan exists in a different universe than this one. If you don't know what I'm talking about, don't worry about… Though feel free to read Trust if you would like to!)

She was the one who wouldn't change her mind.

Bloody Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, who obviously didn't give a damn about the victims in any of his precious cases, to whom the law was nothing more than a mildly irritating, easily-ignored list of rules. Sherlock Holmes, who humiliated her in front of her team, who drove Anderson off the wall, who nearly put Lestrade out of a job.

She refused to feel guilty – he had brought it on himself. He was a psychopath, and heartless besides, and he ripped anyone who got too close to him apart.

Like that one, she thought, glancing up as John Watson passed the window of her office. Sherlock Holmes had drawn him in and now look what had happened. Don't speak ill of the dead, part of her chided.

Why shouldn't she? Sherlock had certainly never shown anyone the same courtesy, and she had no doubt that if she was dead instead, he wouldn't spend any time mourning—or even thinking about it.

She didn't feel guilty, but she felt a bit sad, despite herself. She wasn't heartless, after all…seeing John wandering around the station like he did was enough to make anyone miserable, and on top of Lestrade's long silences and Molly's red eyes, the place was about as cheerful as a tomb.

She understood that, she really did. She understood grieving for a friend. But she refused to let this change anything, because even if he was dead, he was still everything he'd been while alive. One jump from the roof wasn't enough to erase everything he'd done.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," she called, swiveling to face whoever it was as the door opened. As Lestrade entered, she couldn't help but notice the bags under his eyes.

"Can I have a word?"

"Of course."

He sank into the opposite chair and looked at her for a moment, hands in his lap. She waited, doing her best to keep any snarky thoughts off of her face, while he collected his thoughts.

"Do you have anything for John Watson?" he said at last, bluntly.

She crossed her arms. "What sort of thing?"

"I don't know, something around the Yard, a… job or something—"

"What, a case?" Uncharacteristically, he wasn't looking at her, but out the window over her shoulder. "You know we can't do that."

"I know," he agreed, although he looked far from convinced.

"You almost lost your job over this, Lestrade."

Now he did look at her. "No, I almost lost my job because you started talking about Sherlock Holmes being a kidnapper without any conclusive evidence." He looked away and took a deep breath. "He's falling apart, and if there's anything we have that we can give him to work on…"

"He isn't Sherlock Holmes," she said, ignoring the accusation in his voice. This was ridiculous. "People die every day, Lestrade. John Watson's going to have to pull himself together like everyone else."

He rubbed his face and looked at her.

"This is different, you know it is."

"It's different because you want it to be. How many suicides have you seen working here? Fifty? A hundred?"

"We don't know it was a suicide—"

"He jumped off a building, you can't get much more suicidal than that. We have plenty of evidence."

Lestrade shook his head. "Not enough."

She looked at him, eyebrows raised. "So that's what this is? You can't accept the conclusion everything points to, so you're searching for some—what, some buried clue? This isn't a mystery novel, Lestrade."

"I know that!" he exploded. Taking a deep breath, he visibly calmed himself. "I'm just trying to help a friend."

"Maybe he doesn't need your help," she suggested, swiveling her chair back to face the desk.

"Sally—"

"I don't care what you do, but keep your priorities straight."

She heard him stand, then the click of the door closing, and slumped in her chair. She was just doing her job—taking care of all the people she was responsible for. They couldn't start bringing in every stray who lost a loved one.

She rubbed her temples and glanced at the clock briefly before turning back to her computer and pushing Lestrade from her mind.

X

It wasn't a particularly nice pub, but it was noisy and indifferent—good enough for ending an upsetting week. Anderson was off somewhere, probably having a covert smoke in the alley, and she was idly turning her drink between her hands, thinking about nothing in particular.

Looking up, her eyes fell on a lone figure across the room, untouched drink in front of him. It was clear that he wasn't waiting for anyone—and who, after all, did John Watson have to wait for?

She had no idea why she stood up – maybe she'd had a few too many – but her feet carried her to his table. He looked up as she approached.

"Donovan," he said somewhat coldly.

"Waiting for someone?" she asked.

He laughed bitterly.

"Come have a drink with us," she offered, mentally kicking herself. This…pity, or whatever it was, was getting out of hand.

"I was actually just leaving," he replied, standing and pulling on his coat. He tossed a few pounds on the table and was out the door before she could think of anything to say.

She did her best to shrug—it wasn't her business. Anderson and a more few drinks dismissed it from her mind for the night, and it wasn't until the next morning, thinking about nothing in particular with a cup of coffee in her hands, that she her mind turned once again to the army doctor without his detective.

Not that she gave a damn about Sherlock Holmes.