Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock BBC.
A/N: This was written a little while ago for a prompt on the kink meme. There will be five chapters.

He's gone and called the freak in again.

Sally Donovan fumes silently for days as they keep working on the case, because she refuses to give up. She exchanges a few words with the freak as per course, but other than that she doesn't say a word to anyone. Just keeps her head down and keeps going. Once or twice she catches Lestrade looking at her nervously, like he's waiting for her to explode, but he seems to know better than to ask and so he doesn't bring it up. Smart of him, Lestrade's always had good instincts, because if she gets the chance to unload on just how furious she is... well. It will likely end with a suspension at best and the loss of her job at worst.

Just once. Just once she wants to be able to solve a high profile case using the resources of their own team without depending on the freak for help. Why does Lestrade always have to go running to him? Why can't he bloody well give them a chance?

It all comes to a head when Lestrade gets a text from Sherlock informing him of a new crime scene. The bloody freak has got there before they even knew the killer had struck again! It takes effort to keep from grinding her teeth as they speed towards the scene, and that only because her dentist has repeatedly warned her about the effect it has on her enamel. She doesn't need a thousand pound bill to be the cherry on top of the fucked up cake that is her life.

The building is old and out of the way, just like the others, tucked in amongst several others by the water. Lestrade and Sally go in first, followed by the rest of their team. Upon first glance the room looks empty, but almost immediately, as soon as the lights flash on, it becomes obvious that it is not. There's a man in the middle of the room, sprawled in a heap on the floor. Normal procedure would be to check for a pulse, but in this case that's not necessary: the gaping wound across his throat makes it immediately obvious that he is very dead. The pool of blood around the body makes her feel ill.

"Jesus - Sherlock!" Lestrade says, instinctively flinging an arm up and stopping Sally in her tracks. She tears her eyes away from the body and follows his gaze over to the corner of the room.

Sherlock Holmes is standing there, wrapped up in his great black coat, the only bit clearly visible in the dim light his pale face and eyes. He says, "That man is the serial killer you have been searching for. I killed him. It was stunningly easy."

There's something a little off about his voice, but Sally can't put her finger on what it is. An uncomfortable feeling crawls up her spine and she shifts her weight, uneasy. She's been waiting for this moment for years, but now that it's here something does not seem right. So instead of marching over to the so-called great consulting detective and placing him immediately under arrest, she holds still and waits.

"Sherlock," Lestrade says after a few seconds, stunned. "What are you - where's John?"

"I killed him," Sherlock says again, ignoring Lestrade. "You can see from the knife wounds on his arms that there was a struggle. He knew that his killer - that I - was coming. Over there," and Sally can't help herself, glancing towards the set of solid copper pipes on the far side of the room that Sherlock is indicating, "there are gouges on the metal where it's been worn raw. The victim was handcuffed to the pipes but managed to get free. Dislocated a thumb and slipped one of the cuffs off, no doubt."

"Bloody hell." Lestrade looks utterly staggered. "Sherlock, where's John?"

"Upstairs."

Lestrade glances at the stairs. "Right. I - I'll go find him."

"And I'll just cuff the freak, shall I?" says Sally, unable to contain the note of glee as the shock begins to wear off. Sherlock Holmes has just confessed to murder. She knows Lestrade, knows that the kind-hearted detective who has a massive blind spot when it comes to Sherlock Bloody Holmes would just let the man walk around free until they've got evidence, as though a confession isn't good enough. But she's been waiting for this day for a long time and she's not going to let her chance pass up.

"Yes, that's good, just stay with him." He gives her a distracted nod and takes the stairs two at a time.

"Finally," Sally says with relish, reaching for her handcuffs. The other officers spread out and begin taking care of the scene. She pays them no notice as she adds, "I knew you would break someday, freak. You've always managed to act like you were one of us, someone normal, but I knew..." She supposes it's well enough he took a serial killer and rapist down but that doesn't matter, not when it comes to upholding the law. She lets the cuffs dangle from her hand, anticipating the moment when they'll close around his bony wrists. God she's had dreams about this. Everyone at the Yard is going to want her bloody autograph. "C'mon, freak, let's see them."

He doesn't put his hands up, but then she's not really expecting him to and it's fine with her if she has to get a bit stern. Sally approaches quickly and grabs his sleeves and jerks his arms forward, reaching instinctively for his wrist. Her fingers come into contact with his flesh and - at first she doesn't understand, why there should be wet and sticky and slippery warmth instead of dry. At first she thinks perhaps the murder was a little bit bloodier than she'd initially thought. But then she sees the handcuffs already there, still locked, around one raw and bloody wrist, and the thumb on his other hand that is pointing in the wrong direction.

Understanding comes in a horrific jolt, and when she screams it's not the sound of a stern, composed police sergeant but rather that of a frightened child.

"LESTRADE!"

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