A/N: So this isn't technically a Johnlock story, but it discusses it enough for me to have an excuse to shove it in here. You'll have to excuse me for this one - I saw a bit of fanart on Tumblr and I had theinexplicable urge to write this. And, if you were wondering, I have these feelings for Anderson which have pushed so far into hatred that I've jumped to proverbial fence into this weird affection. I love to hate him, is what I'm saying. (I have trouble actually disliking most characters, OK?) Anyways, enjoy.

Word Count: 1,100+

Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Sally/Anderson, inferred Sherlock/Lestrade bromance, and a teeny-tiny-squitny-bit of Anderson and Sherlock seeing each other slightly OK human beings.

Warning(s): RED ALERT, RED ALERT, ANDERSON CENTRIC (not for the weak of heart)! Also, hateful!Sally, mentions of previous youth!homophobic!Anderson, angst, self-hatred, and vandalism. Also, Dimmock.

On Loathing and Therapeutic Vandalism

It was common knowledge that Anderson hated Sherlock Holmes. It was true: he really, really could not stand the man. (He hated him even more than his elusive first name, which is a lot.) Anderson hates him for the obvious reasons – contaminating his crime scenes, calling him out on his adultery problem, making him look like a fool on a regular basis, planting that seed that made Sally Donovan stop seeing him, manipulating Lestrade so easily, (probably) being the one that started that damn dinosaur rumor, and generally being a twat. To be frank, Sherlock Holmes was the bane of Anderson's existence.

There were limits to his hatred, however. Did he want him off his crime scene? Yes. Out of his personal life? Definitely. Behind bars? If he deserved it, with relish. Out of England entirely? You wouldn't see him complaining.

Dead?

Well, he is a sociopath.

Against all will Anderson 's mind palms at a memory. His memory is not the best of the bunch (he does not fool himself with notions of grand intelligence) but it's these images that he remembers with great, reluctant clarity: That doctor John Watson on the ground, wuffed out by a punch to the gut and a cloth to the face; he'll be fine, of course he will, but when Anderson looked up at Sherlock Holmes it was as if the world had ended. It was only for a second, barely a glimpse of horrid, raw emotion – Oh, God – before the usual calculating smirk reappeared; it was brief enough that Anderson is shocked that he caught it at all. He's almost convinced he imagined it. But Anderson did see it and once he's seen beneath the mask it was impossible to forget that it was there.

Sociopath? No he's not. Anderson shuddered; it was always these thoughts, no matter how hard he tried, haunting him against his will.

John was the big issue. The wild card that threw the routine off its track, broke the easy cycle of use-and-be-used between the Yard and the genius – the genius and everyone. Anderson tried to hate John by default at first – the friend of an enemy is an enemy by association, as it were – but it turned out to be impossible. The doctor lived and breathed Likeable Guy; even Sally's bitterness faded to pity. Anderson couldn't even do that – pity. It was easy for Sally to do that, all she saw was the one side, the love, singular, unrequited, that radiated off the doctor in near-visible waves in the presence of someone who could not comprehend (and, if he could comprehend, reviled). It would have been easier to see it that way, but no – Anderson had seen the way Sherlock looked at him, had taken a peek under the mask and found, against all odds, love.

A younger, stupider Anderson might've found it gross, honestly. But he's past caring if they're both men and (despite his efforts to the contrary) the way John looks at Sherlock, like he's the reason for living right there before God and anybody, like he's the whole Universe compacted into one beautiful person, like he's everything and more, triggers nothing worse than jealousy. Anderson finds himself even sort of rooting for them, in his own way, placing his bets in the "shagging" pool and exchanging glances with Lestrade when Dimmock and Donovan exchange scorn.

So, yes – Anderson feels guilty about the Fall.

In fact, he feels more than guilty – he's plagued by thoughts of it constantly, riddled with awful emotion over the incident. Perhaps rightfully so, he thinks. His scorn for Sherlock honestly hadn't put much play into the way he reacted to the suspicions – he was being a good cop, following evidence leads, his job – but he admits that it made it easier to swallow; he wakes up some nights suspecting Sherlock was right about him. He really must be a fool to be so easily deceived by Moriarty's plots. And he knows that's just what they were – if he knows anything about Gregory Lestrade he knows he wouldn't try to clear Sherlock's name if he wasn't sure and, even if it would be far easier to think otherwise, Anderson realizes with painful clarity that Sherlock being a fraud simply didn't add up.

Of course, Anderson realizes much too late, too slow. When John punched him after the funeral, he was almost glad.

Anderson feels sick thinking about it. And think about it he does. The guilt eats him alive for months without an outlet, clawing out of his chest with nowhere to go. There's nothing to do now; there's nothing he can do for the dead detective, certainly (he wouldn't have wanted his help even if he was still alive) and John doesn't want anybody's pity, least of all Anderson's. He tried to discuss it with Donovan, once, late one night. She laughed at him – "Don't get soft over that freak now. John will get over it." – and, when that failed to silence him, shoved him out of bed and told him to go home to his apartment if he was going to be a pussy. His empty apartment. When his wife walked out of him, he hadn't chased her. (She did deserve better than him didn't she?)

The hatred inside of Anderson builds more and more each day. He very nearly pulls a Watson on when he tried to get an interview with him – "Are you happier now that Mr. Holmes is out of the picture?" and "You were part of the investigation that brought him to justice; do you wish you'd acted earlier?" and "How do you feel about the statements recently released by your superior? Do you think it's possible his name will be cleared?" He's lucky that he's carrying groceries at the time or he might have spent the night behind bars for assault. He hears these things every day and can say nothing; he's not like Lestrade, he can't risk his job, his reputation, for Sherlock Holmes. It's a matter of sink or swim and, to be truthful, Anderson doesn't know how he should be reacting anyway.

That night he found it – the outlet.

Honestly, he really shouldn't be happy about finding graffiti on his apartment building. It's vandalism, after all – he's supposed to be a cop. Yet there he is, grinning like a maniac over five hastily scrawled words.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

Anderson stared at it for a long time, mouth dry and grinning until he's laughing irrationally. It's good, he decided – the people are turning on the press, finally, as the "facts" on Rich Brook started not to add up. It isn't much, this small cult following, but it's something and it's growing and when the graffiti is covered up by gang slogans the following week Anderson comes back with a hoodie and some paint.

When Sherlock comes back from the dead, the first thing he says to Anderson is that he's a moron. But Anderson swears he's smiling a little, too. Not much, but something.