It had been two weeks since Sergeant Sally Donavon had received the Call. In that time, a brunette Canadian had turned herself in to Scotland Yard, admitting to be an international cat-stealing jewel thief. At her room at the Waldorf hotel – room 406 – they found several million pounds worth of jewels, and five cats.

There was also another body found in the alley where she had discovered Sherlock. A man, mid-forties, with a knife wound across his chest and a bullet hole in his head. Officially, the man was never identified, but Sally was suspicious that he was one Pierre Lafreak. She never told anyone her suspicions, though.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had returned to duty. Sally happily welcomed him back, looking forward to the relaxing no-longer-in-control days ahead. Honestly, being is charge was overrated. Or at least, it was when people you hated (who you actually didn't hate) got shot.

Sherlock Holmes had regained consciousness. Sally heard about it. In fact, his road to recovery was what brought her to St. Bart's hospital, a cheap bunch of flowers in hand. Sally had debated with herself for a long time before she had convinced herself to see him. Maybe it was a part of her that wanted to be sure that he would still be a genius. She couldn't imagine how horrible it would be for her to suddenly take a dip in her IQ, and she didn't even wish it on Sherlock. Even though she sort of hated him, she had come to realise that he could be worse. A lot worse.

Sherlock was lying in his bed, his head swathed in white bandages. His pale grey eyes were fixed on the ceiling, and there was a fierce scowl on his face. Sally was glad that he was alone in the room. She knocked on the doorframe, and his gaze snapped to her. His gaze narrowed on her, and she knew he was picking apart every detail of her image.

"Flowers, Sally?" he demanded. "What are you bringing me- Oh."

Sally set the flowers on a nightstand, not bothering to try and figure out why he suddenly looked very pouty. "Hello, freak."

"Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. "This is his fault, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft took over the case, didn't he?"

Sally didn't see any point in denying it. "Yeah. He did. He solved it, actually. And you know what? He's a bigger freak than you are."

Sherlock sat straighter, winced, and glared furiously at Sally. "He is not!"

"Why- never mind." Sally shook her head and sat down on the edge of the bed, if only to enjoy the uncomfortable look on Sherlock's face. "You're both freaks, how's that?"

Sherlock didn't look mollified. "He is not smarter than I am."

"How's your head?"

"They shaved it," Sherlock whined, leaning back on his pillows and his scowl deepening. "They shaved my head! Why did they do that? They didn't need to. I bet that was Mycroft, too. So did he tell you to come annoy me or were you just rude to him before you realised that he could have you fired in a heartbeat?"

"What-"

"Sally, you wouldn't be here unless for the sake of your career. Obviously you're afraid that my brother will fire you for one reason or another so now what is it? Did he tell you to come?"

Sally shook her head. "I was actually a little concerned for you, freak," she muttered.

Sherlock obviously didn't believe her. "So you were rude to him, and you're afraid that he'll take a personal vendetta against you. That's right, isn't it?"

Sally shrugged. "Maybe a little."

Sherlock studied her for a moment. "Did you make him tea?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Sally grouched.

"The state of your career could rest on it, sergeant. Did you make him tea?"

Sally nodded.

"Did you spit in it?"

Sally hesitated. "Once. Or twice... or more."

Sherlock grinned, but the smile was quickly gone. "And did you make him another cup?"

"Yes."

"What did he say about it?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing!" Sally exclaimed, rolling her eyes. She couldn't believe she had wasted four pounds on a bunch of flowers for this freak. "What does that matter?"

"Oh, it does, Sally," Sherlock smiled in a smug way. "He's not going to fire you."

"How could you know that?"

"He didn't say anything about the tea."

Sherlock settled back and nodded once.

Sally hated him. "What's that about?"

"What's what about?"

"What does the tea matter and what was that nod about?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at her. The tea means that Mycroft isn't going to fire you. I nodded because I'm certain."

"But how?"

Sherlock sighed in a long-suffering manner. "Sally, my brother may be a lot of things, but if there is one thing that I am absolutely certain of, it is that Mycroft Holmes does not fire people who make him a decent cup of tea. Especially after they try to sabotage it. It's one of his idiosyncrasies."

"I don't know why I came here," Sally muttered, standing up. "You're alive, and now you're just going to keep bothering me and it's never going to change! Good-day, freak."

She turned around, glaring over her shoulder, and walked right into Mycroft Holmes. She gasped in sharply, blood draining from her face. Her throat went dry and she tried to mumble an apology, but the words kept getting stuck in her throat. Mycroft Holmes, her boss apparently, rolled his eyes and stepped to one side.

"It is perfectly all right, sergeant. Obviously you didn't see me. I see you've brought flowers for my brother."

"I don't want them," the freak replied harshly. "Did you make those doctors shave my head?"

Freak the elder rolled his eyes again, looking very annoyed. "Sherlock, you had a bullet in your head, they had to shave it in order to operate on you. You know that. Stop trying to make everything my fault."

Sally knew that she should leave, but there was something terribly fascinating about seeing the two freaks in the same room. Given Sherlock's glare and the elder Holmes's annoyed return glare, they didn't get along with each other any better than they did with her. And that was something that Sally just couldn't tear her gaze away from.

"Everything is your fault," Sherlock pouted. "And you've solved my case, too, without asking my permission."

"The man wanted to kill you. But let's not dwell on that, Sherlock." Holmes reached into his pocket and pulled out a fork. The fork, the one that Dr Watson had brought to Scotland Yard.

Sherlock's scowl deepened. "What did John give you that for?"

"He gathered everything that he thought might be relevant to the case." Holmes set the fork down the stand beside Sally's flowers. "Really, Sherlock, how many times do I have to tell you not to break into Downing Street?"

"It would have worked."

"I know it would have. But after the incident with the slith-" Mycroft broke off suddenly and shrugged. "Well, we can discuss that later, can't we?"

Sally's eyebrows knitted together. A fork and Downing Street? Shaking her head, she left the hospital room.

She was still convinced that, despite the fact Mycroft Holmes was her boss, he was also an international terrorist leader, and that his little brother was his second in command. Obviously this bickering between them was to cover up that fact, or something like that. It didn't matter, because now that Sally had convinced herself of the truth, there was nothing that was going to stop her from taking down the freaks, whatever means necessary. One of these days, she would find the clues she was looking for.

A smile broke across Sally's face. Then she'd be famous and always in control. Best of all, she would no longer have to deal with freaks.

#

END

Thank you all for taking this journey with me! I hope that you all had as much fun reading this as I did writing it. Ten points to everyone who can find the Doctor Who reference in this chapter!