Here is the long-awaited Sally chapter! I had a bit of difficulty portraying her character, but it came out well with how I perceive her character. You can read for yourself and make your own decision. I can't wait to see her reaction in canon, especially after seeing Anderson's in "Many Happy Returns"! I am open to dissenting opinions on her character and would love to hear them!

Please review to tell me what you think (and who you would like to see in the next chapter).

I do not own Sherlock. Please do not sue.

Donovan stood on the ledge and looked over to the sidewalk below. The wind buffeted her coat and whipped her hair so that it flew into her face. This was the last thing Sherlock saw in life, a grey London sky over grey London buildings on a grey London street, until he hit the grey London concrete. The only spots of color she could see from here was the fluorescent yellow of police tape and constables' jackets, and the grotesque dark scarlet pool that marked where he had landed. Even that was more inky black than red. Of course Sherlock would not have seen this; he was the reason it was there. It did not seem quite right that the last thing he would have seen was so dull.

Though, he probably saw a million things in one glance that her lengthy inspection overlooked. The man watching behind the tape was probably having an affair with the A&E worker giving his statement. The woman writhing her hands must have had a relative commit suicide or something. The man sitting on the gurney wrapped in an orange shock blanket had just watched his best friend kill himself. This Donovan knew with certainty. They all looked like ants from up here, their own private dramas minuscule when compared to the rapidly spreading patch of red that dominated the grey scene. Sally wondered if this was how Sherlock felt all the time, and if that was why he was so distant. When seeing all of everything, perhaps focusing on the most compelling item was necessary for the preservation of sanity. For instance, Sally was now focused on the bloodied spot of pavement, though she fervently wished she could look anywhere else.

Unfortunately, it was from this vantage point that she was seeing Shelock Holmes for the first time. He really was a freak, to be sure. He could do things that simply were not normal. She resented him, certainly. She did not want to believe in that sort of brilliance, because it made her very best look pathetic.

Donovan wasn't sure what she was hoping to find on the rooftop. Perhaps absolution, or maybe vindication was a better word for it. Something that would prove she did not push an innocent man to suicide, that Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and a criminal mastermind.

Whatever she may have been hoping to see, it certainly was not the body of Richard Brook, or James Moriarty, she was not sure anymore. They would just classify his body as John Doe for now. It did not take Sherlock Holmes to deduce that the gunshot wound was self-inflicted. Unless the freak moonlighted as a contortionist marksman, he could not have been the one to pull the trigger. Could he have suddenly been overcome with guilt over the crimes he was Holmes' accomplice for? Possibly. Be he Brook the actor or Moriarty the consulting criminal, we was deeply unwell. There was an insane glint on the vacant dead face that was profoundly disturbing.

She turned away from the body to scan the roof, but what she found was perhaps even worse. The freak's mobile was sitting by the ledge where he had jumped. She remembered Lestrade saying that John had seen it all, that he had been on the phone with Sherlock when it happened. Horrible. Though Sally had no love for Sherlock, John was always a good guy. He did not deserve that. She had pulled on her exam gloves and retrieved the phone. She browsed through the recent activity. She saw the call to John, time stamped moments before his death. She also saw a recording from the minutes leading up to his jump. Her hands were trembling as she pressed play.
Brook's voice... Or Moriarty's, rather... Crackled over the speakers. "Ah. Here we are at last – you and me, Sherlock, and our problem – the final problem."

Sally shivered at the insane lilt in his voice. He continued to rave about life's dullness and the distraction Sherlock's cleverness offered. Sherlock did not say a word.

"I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them. Ah well. Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"
Any hopes that Sally held for having accused the right person vanished. This was an insane man talking out of his head, not an actor reciting lines.

"Richard Brook," Sherlock said wearily. Short and simple. Not the lengthy deductions she was accustomed to.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do." Sally was ashamed now to be one of those who did bit get the joke. The freak was dead because of it. She knew Moriarty was goading Sherlock, looking for the deduction.

"Of course,"he answered dismissively, as always unable to ignore a challenge.

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name." Even his deduction lacked his usual flair. It was so obvious, infuriatingly so. She should have seen it, but she was blinded by her resentment of the freak.

Moriarty and Sherlock continued to trade jibes, and Moriarty confessed that the key code was a fake; a decoy to distract Sherlock. Sally had swallowed that hook, line, and sinker, too, but even that had taken a backseat to her suspicions.

"Now, shall we finish the game?" Moriarty said abruptly, and Sally knew they were approaching the end. "One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

"Do it? Do – do what?" There was a pause, and Sally could envision the look of fleeting triumph as he solved the puzzle, "...Yes, of course. My suicide."

""Genius detective proved to be a fraud." I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairytales. And pretty Grimm ones too." Moriarty was truly insane, yet collected, and that made it all the more unsettling. He continued to urge Sherlock to jump, that it would just be easier, and foolishly Sally's heart began to hope, because when did the freak ever do anything the easy way? Sherlock seemed to hold on to some hope of survival, because his voice was more animated than it had been. Sally could not help growing hopeful as well, though she knew how it ended. She never would have guessed she would one day put herself in Sherlock's corneR, but now her was pulling for him. Please don't be dead.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," Moriarty interrupted, "Your friends will die if you don't."

"John." Sherlock whispered, and seemed to know in that moment, as did Sally, that all hope was lost.

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson."

"Everyone."

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There's no stopping them now. Unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..."

"... unless I kill myself – complete your story," Sherlock finished, seemingly resigned. Sherlock Holmes had died for his friends, not to escape prison. The man she had thought was heartless gave his life in the place of the precious few who showed him any friendliness. Sally had felt even more wretched, and not just for her actions over the last twenty four hours.

"You've gotta admit that's sexier," Moriarty said with what Sally could image was an insane smile.

"And I die in disgrace." Sally had bitten her lip to hold back the moisture in her eyes.

"Of course. That's the point of this." She had been a pawn in this evil man's scheme. Less trade was right, she was more dense than even Sherlock gave her credit for. She saw exactly what she wanted to see, and did not bother looking for anything else. She had been fooled, and it did not make her feel any better that she was fooled by a genius. If she were not so ordinary with her petty motivations, maybe she would have seen the truth.

"Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy? Please," His voice, usually so smug, was so resigned she could not hold back her tears.

Sally had stopped the recording then. She could not bear to hear another word. She had clasped the mobile in her hands and stepped on to the ledge, the last place Sherlock had stood. She felt it fit the situation. She was standing on a metaphorical ledge, too. She could quietly dispose of the phone, and the evidence it held, evidence of her failure, and her career would profit over her victory against the fraudulent genius detective. Perhaps send it to follow its owner to the concrete below? He was dead now; he would not care. But Lestrade would care. So would John and Mrs. Hudson. He had died for them and they did not even know. What if they began to wonder?

Sally shook her head and stepped down from the ledge. She joined New Scotland Yard to uphold justice, and she had failed. Her own prejudice had been her downfall. She may have contributed to Sherlock Holmes' fall, but she could still save his name. It was time to return for the fight for justice. It would be her penance.

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and Sally doesn't seem OOC. Please review!