Sally called the Yard as soon as the driver dropped her off at her flat. She told DI Dimmock that she was fine, but she wouldn't come in to give her full report till the morning. She informed him that the perps had gotten away, but she did give him a full description of all four men. It turned out that the fourth man, the one who had assaulted her in the alleyway, had already been picked up by police, and two of the other men had been found as well, using the fourth's information. So it hadn't been a total disaster.

Sally tossed and turned all night. At around 4, she gave up sleep as a lost cause, and logged on to the computer. She looked at John Watsons blog for the first time since the Hound of Baskerville's case. She watched the video Moriarty had posted, and felt her breath catch in her throat again when she read John's final blog.

"He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him." No doubt Sherlock would have some sort of comment about the grammar, Sally thought, a bit uncharitably, albeit most likely, quite accurately. She typed "Jim Moriarty" into the search engine. There was nothing there. Absolutely nothing that might be useful to anybody. A few articles about how Sherlock had paid the actor Richard Brook to play the part of Consulting Criminal Richard Brook, but nothing substantial.

How was anyone fooled by this? She wondered. There was practically nothing there, and "Richard Brook" offered almost no proof. There were a few articles about him, but nothing going back more than a few years. It was as though he had simply appeared out of nowhere. Which, as she had just learned, he had. It seemed as though Moriarty hadn't really been planning for the long run. Which meant that he hadn't planned on outliving Sherlock for long. As soon as Sherlock was dead, there really wasn't reason for him to live either. He probably hadn't intended to end it on the roof so…inelegantly—though the fact that he had brought the gun at all proved that at the very least he had considered the possibility of things not going to plan.

But, oh, it was clever. Throw a shadow on Sherlock's name, just a little bit of doubt, with just enough proof to back it up, two days later, Sherlock is dead, suicide, tantamount to a confession, and Rich Brook would disappear just afterwards. No one would go digging around into two such unlinked occurrences. No one but Sherlock, and Sherlock would be dead. Sally sighed. Sherlock had no doubt already figured that all out, but Sally wanted to reason through it anyway. She had played her part in getting Sherlock into this mess, now she would do what she could to get him out of it again. Even if she had been wrong, and he hadn't been the fake she'd believed him to be, even if maybe he wasn't such a freak, she still didn't want to be in debt to him. She had a feeling that when he came back, and she had no doubts now that he would, he wouldn't be kind or forgiving to people who had been his enemies. She was determined not to fall into that category. Plus, once she had helped him, she could go back to hating him. This thought comforted her a bit, though she had a feeling she would never despise him as strongly as she had. She hoped that he wouldn't hate her as much either.

The next morning, she arrived at the Yard, extremely tired, a bit nervous, but still resolved. "Here you go," said someone, bumping into her slightly, pressing a coffee into her hands. He swept into the yard ahead of her, leaving Sally slightly stunned on the sidewalk. The man wore a hat, had a rather bushy beard, wore sunglasses, and dressed in a long tan trench coat and jeans. Cautiously, she followed the man inside. He was talking to one of the officers, who handed him an envelope, supposedly with a check inside. The man walked brusquely out of the office, sliding his sunglasses back on, giving Sally a brief nod as he passed her. Sherlock.

"Who was that then?" she asked the officer who had given Sherlock the envelope.

"Hamish Taylor. It was the reward money he got for giving a tip on a rather big case." Sally glanced at the door. "Odd bloke that one," continued the officer. "He calls in tips every so often, comes in to collect the money if it's been offered, and leaves. He never says much, just flashes his ID, gives his name and leaves."

"What do you know about someone called Adrian Beck?"

"Oh, him, I like him. He's a cute one. He comes by me too. Ginger, gorgeous brown eyes, freckles. He's got a slight Scottish accent. God," she sighed, "I am a sucker for an Scottish accent." Sally smiled at the other officer, then walked up to DI Dimmock's office to give her report. She was a bit surprised that Sherlock had taken on two new identities. Probably more actually, if he could fool people with just the two, it was very much in character to make things as complicated as possible. He probably had four or five false identities. She couldn't decide if she liked the fact that he had given her a coffee. She couldn't figure out if he was being nice, or showing off—proving that he knew she hadn't slept, but would still come in to give the report. Sally sighed. It was too complicated to try and figure out Sherlock.

She passed Lestrade's office on her way back from Dimmock's. He was bent over his desk, one hand on his face, the other drumming out a slow rhythm. He was staring at nothing. It was not uncommon to see him in this mood. Even since Sherlock had jumped off the roof at Saint Barts, Lestrade would have these moments where he just drifted away. No one knew what he was thinking about, but of course, everyone had a guess. Sally was sure he was relieving that last day. This time, for the first time, she allowed herself to push open the door.

"Sir?" Lestrade jumped.

"Sorry. Sorry. What can I do for you Sally?"

"Nothing. I was actually just wondering if I could do anything for you."

"No. Nothing."

"If you're sure sir," she paused. "I just wanted to say I am sorry. I am so, so sorry. And I'm sorry I haven't said it before." She gave him a last look before leaving his office, trying to tell him with her eyes that she meant it, but mostly, he just looked a bit surprised. Lestrade hadn't been exactly cool with her since Sherlock had jumped, but all the same, their relationship had felt strained. They had definitely had more friendly conversations, before. It seemed everything was split that way—before and after. Before, Lestrade had joined them for drinks occasionally, laughing about the face Sherlock had made when he'd realized that he'd made a slight miscalculation, griping a bit at the rudeness the detective had shown them all, but mostly, when Lestrade was there, there was an underlying respect for Sherlock. Even Anderson tried not to say anything too mean about him. Lestrade had only ever joined them once Sherlock had helped them solve another case. Sally had never quite understood why Lestrade let Sherlock treat him as he did—never a kind word, never even a thank you or an appreciative glance. Only ever criticism and cruelty seemed to fall from Sherlock's lips when speaking to the Detective Inspector. And yet Sherlock had pretended to die for this man—he had been willing to take the risk of dying for a man for whom he had shown nothing but contempt. Sally didn't quite understand, but she was beginning to. She understood now what Lestrade had meant when he'd said that Sherlock was a great man, and might even be a good one someday. Well, Sally figured that someone like Sherlock would probably have good and bad days, but he had proved that his core at least, did deserve the respect that Lestrade had always paid, and Sally never had.

Anderson stopped by her desk later that morning. She was on her third cup of coffee. "Hey, are you alright? It's just, I heard what happened last night."

"I'm fine Anderson, thanks for asking." She wasn't quite sure what made her do it, she could never say afterword, but she then looked him square in the eye, and asked, "How's your wife?" She had never seen Anderson look so shocked. It was surprisingly hard to keep a smirk off her face. The only person she had ever seen shut Anderson up so effectively was Sherlock Holmes. She almost shuddered to think he might be rubbing off on her already, but she managed to keep her face carefully blank, looking at Anderson, as if waiting for his answer.

"She's…fine, but…"

"Good, I'm glad. Thank you for your well wishes, but I do have a lot of work to do," she said pointedly, and began purposefully leafing through papers on her desk, moving them around and all around pretending there was something vastly important she had to do. She didn't look up until Anderson's footsteps were gone. Sally chanced a glance at Lestrade's office again. His door was closed, but she could still see him through the blinds. She glanced around the office. OK, she thought. Who would have been in a position to potentially shoot Lestrade on the day Sherlock jumped? It couldn't have been someone outside this office, a thought that frightened Sally even more than being chased around by thugs in the middle of the night. Two years ago, but not much had changed. Two people had left in the interim two years, both rather quickly and under slightly suspicious circumstances. Well, Sally had thought them a bit odd, but no one else really seemed to care. One was Captain Link, who had mysteriously won the lottery, even though she had never played. The other had been a man whose name she couldn't remember. He hadn't worked there long, only a few months. He'd kept to himself, and didn't make friends, but he was, to Sally's recollection, a good officer. He had clever ideas, and took orders well. But he had simply left. A memo had appeared a few days later saying that he had been transferred, but there was no information as to where he had been transferred, and none of the other departments admitted to having him working for them. Where had he sat? Where had his desk been? Sally's eyes roved over the office, trying to remember. Sherlock would have solved it by now an annoying voice in her head whispered to her. Strange how the annoying voice in her head, that doubting, nagging, critical voice that yelled at her whenever she was angry or frustrated with herself sounded exactly like Sherlock Holmes. Oh hush, she thought. He's not here, and I don't need him critiquing me inside my head as well as outside it. There! The little self argument had seemingly unlocked a memory. The officer had sat just a little ways down from her—though she hadn't been at her desk that day, she'd been with Lestrade, in his office. But from his desk, the officer would have had a perfect, straight shot into Lestrade's office. If the blinds had been cracked, like they were today, it would have been easy. The placement of the man's desk gave him a perfect vantage point into Lestrade's office, but no one would be able to see him pull the gun and shoot. Then he had disappeared….Sally quickly pulled up the personnel files of the past three years. It took nearly half an hour, but she found him. Andrew Clements. She glanced at his credentials. He had served in the war, she noticed. A sniper. If he was the man who had been gunning for Lestrade, it was almost definite that his name was a fake. Still, if Sherlock didn't have this information, she would give him what she had. Even if he did already know about Andrew Clements, then at least he would know that she was on his side and trying to help. She printed out the relevant information, then erased her internet history, just in case.

Sally clocked out early, citing exhaustion from her ordeal the night before, and made straight for Molly Hooper's house.

"Adrian?" God it felt weird to call him that. "Adrian, I have something you might find interesting." After what seemed like hours, the door slowly opened.

"What? I thought when you left you were gone. As in, not coming back."

"Sorry to disappoint. May I come in?" Sherlock sighed, but stood aside and let her into the hallway.

"What is this oh so breaking news that you have for me Sergeant Donovan?"

"I know who was meant to kill Lestrade." She handed him the file. "His name is Andrew Clements—at least, that is the name he gave, and he worked on my floor. He would have been in a prime position to kill Lestrade without being seen himself. Plus, he disappeared not three days after…everything happened. Said he got transferred, but there is no record of it. Might be he was giving Moriarty information the entire time he was at the Yard."

"Oh, wonderful, thanks so much for that brilliant deduction." Sally glared at Sherlock.

"I am trying to be helpful you know, there isn't a reason to…oh forget it. Look at who I'm talking to."

"Don't end sentences in prepositions, it makes you sound stupid." Sherlock was already glancing through the file. "Hmm."

"What?" Sally asked, unable to help herself.

"We've got him—found him ages ago." Sally braced herself for more scathing comments. "But we didn't know exactly what part he played in this whole scheme." He stared at the picture some more. "He was there, that day," Sherlock announced suddenly. "The whole time, I remember. He talked to you a lot. Or was standing near you anyway. Horrible pink shirt. He was there when I figured out where the children were, when we found them…." Sherlock trailed off. "What did he say to you?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't remember it was years ago!"

"Try! It might be important. Dig deep into that silly little brain and remember what he said."

"You know, people might be inclined to help you more if you didn't insult them all the time." But she obligingly closed her eyes and tried to remember. "God, I don't know, alright? It was the same old shit everyone always said about you. 'He's such a jackass isn't he, Why does he treat everyone like idiots?, Freaky how he does that, yeah? Gets everything from nothing.' Just the usual stuff."

"Yes, but all day, just talking to you? OH!"

"What?"

"He was using you Sally! Manipulating you the whole time. Oh it wasn't hard, wouldn't have taken much work—just a thought here and there—it's sort of impossible that he can do that, don't you think? No one is that clever. Uncanny how he always manages to know something even though he's got nothing to go on….Don't you see?" Sally just stared at him. "Oh God, you're slow today—come on. He knew you didn't like me, knew you already were sort of suspicious, or at least looking for a way to discredit me or embarrass me in some way. He kept planting the idea in your head that no one could possibly know what I knew without being somehow involved! Then, when I did the impossible—again, with the shoe—though you actually can get quite a lot of information from a shoe, if you just pay attention—you already had that seed of doubt, planted deep by your hatred of me, and that seed took root and grew. You got Anderson to see it your way immediately—of course you did, he hates me more than you do, and you went running off to tell Lestrade. Of course, being a good policeman, he had to come and arrest me. You planted a bit of doubt in his mind too, Sally, that's the problem with weeds, they spread, and now he's feeling guilty, isn't he? Don't answer that, I've seen him. You always hated me Sally, then someone gave you some more ammunition, and the poison spread and now it is making Lestrade sick!"

"So now it's my fault that Lestrade is miserable all the time?" Sally was quaking with fury. "Fuck you Sherlock. Just…fuck you. I am here to help, and you just…accuse me of things that I am trying to make amends for. Sorry," she corrected herself sarcastically, "for which I am trying to make amends."

"Oh please, I am not blaming you. It's Andrew you see. I mean, yes, you gave him the foundation, but he chose you. He could have picked anybody—God knows enough people hate me, but he picked you to carry his…seed of doubt. That bit isn't your fault." Sherlock paced around the room for several minutes. "I am going to get this information to Mycroft. Thank you Sergeant Donovan for bringing this, I think it will be helpful." It was a clear dismissal, but Sally wasn't done with Sherlock yet.

"I think you should tell Lestrade." Sherlock froze.

"What?"

"You have to tell him you are alive. He could help you know. He really could."

"The whole point, Sally, is that no one knows. Not unless it is strictly necessary."

"And I think it is. He could help you, and it would help him too I think. With Lestrade, you would have access to police resources that I wouldn't be able to get you. He wouldn't even get in trouble for it, not if he was careful. And he would be. He'd be able to pretend that you were dead, even if he knew you weren't. I'm not recommending telling John or Mrs Hudson. They wouldn't be able to go on as they have been since you, er, died. Lestrade could. And it would help him. You just have to tell him that you don't blame him or anything, that you don't care that he doubted you, even for an instant, that you are alive and you need his help. He might even smile again." Sherlock didn't answer. "Sherlock?" No response. He didn't even move. Sally sighed. "Just think about it, OK?" She let herself out. Was she doing the right thing, telling Sherlock to let Lestrade in on his secret? She wasn't sure, but she hoped so. He would be a useful ally, and it would make him feel better. Sally chanced a backward glance at the flat. She hoped she had done the right thing, but more than that, she hoped Sherlock would.

End Chapter 2. Will Sherlock tell Lestrade? Who knows? Well, of course, I know, but if you want to, keep reading. If anyone is still reading. Review please, reviews are food. Flames are OK too. Though not encouraged.