A/N Surely there was some investigation of potential police misconduct in connection with the Fall. This is the scene that I imagine (hope) took place, with a MI5 agent in play to help the investigation reach the right place. Sadly, I'm not British. So if this sounds more like Law & Order American style than an inquiry into English police misconduct, that is why. If anyone would like to Brit-Pick or just plain old pick at this piece, I'd appreciate the feedback!

PROTECT AND SERVE

John Watson shifted in his chair, fighting a rising tide of nausea. The atmosphere of the Independent Police Commission interview room where he was seated was stifling, not least due to the fact it was seriously overcrowded. Inquiries into police misconduct claims rarely drew a sizable audience—often, not even the complainant bothered to attend.

But this was an inquiry made for headlines, one into whether actions of the Metropolitan Police caused or significantly contributed to the suicide of Sherlock Holmes, perhaps the most notorious dead man in London. Everyone with nowhere else to be and representatives of every news rag in town filled the room and lined the halls. John couldn't help but think that Sherlock would have hated the attention. His stomach lurched at the thought and he closed his eyes.

Sitting at the opposite end of the front row from John were the subjects of the interview, Police Commissioner Patrick Hillsborough, Sargent Sally Donovan and Forensic Examiner Philip Anderson. Donovan stared straight ahead, the grim line of her mouth the only indicator of her stress level. Anderson looked ill, his poorly shaved jawline surrounding shaking lips. Hillsborough looked seconds away from a stroke, sweat beading on the brow of his very red face. As if he couldn't help himself, his head swiveled occasionally toward Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, who sat in the second row, head bowed. If Hillsborough hoped to make eye contact, he wasn't getting any cooperation from Lestrade.

The main door to the room opened and closed with a muffled click. Vaguely curious about who'd managed to squeeze into the space, John glanced back and felt a wave of anger replace his queasiness. Despite the crowd, Mycroft Holmes moved easily through it to the second row. He stood briefly, looking at John with an implacable expression, then seated himself near the center aisle. Not quite on the side of the police, but not quite on John's side of the room either. John dragged his gaze away with a strict internal admonishment not to allow the SOB to distract him from the proceedings.

A side door opened to the operating commissioner in charge of the investigation. Normally, the commissioner would preside alone, serving both as investigator and juror. But a gasp among the gallery was the first sign that these proceedings would be far from typical. Joining the operating commissioner was the Chief of the IPCC, Dame Godar. None of the members of the press could remember the Chief gracing any prior inquiry, much less running one. Their predatory instincts for a great story were whetted and a low buzz swept through them.

"Order," snapped Dame Godar, and the room fell silent. She made a great show of shuffling papers on the table in the front of the room, which had been raised just enough to give it the feel, if not the dimensions, of a magistrate's bench. Just as she opened her mouth to speak, the sound of a vibrating phone rang out, almost blaring in the silence. Dame Godar's mouth fell open as Mycroft Holmes glanced at his phone then nodded to her, saying "Apologies, Madam." When she looked away, he rapidly entered text then tucked the phone into the pocket of his waistcoat.

We don't have time for sideshows, Mycroft—SH

May I remind you, brother mine, that this particular sideshow is the result of a complaint made by John?—MH

There was no response.

"As I was about to say," the Dame began with a glare toward Mycroft. "This is a Special Requirements interview of police officers accused of misconduct, intended to obtain additional information for the investigation of this body while giving the accused an opportunity to address the investigation report to date. This is not an inquest- the cause of death of the investigation subject is known." John breathed heavily through his nose, mouth clamped shut.

Counsel for Hillsborough jumped as though poked, which he had been by his client. "Madam Chief, I would like to repeat my objection to this proceeding for the record. We do not believe that the preliminary investigation report evidences proof of misconduct or a connection to the death of the subject sufficient to justify referral of the complaint against Commissioner Hillsborough. Furthermore…" he paused to see if Dame Godar was in any way receptive to his comments. Her face remained blank.

"Er, furthermore, we object to the manner of the investigation, specifically to the appointment of the investigator, who is understood to be an employee of MI5. As you know, the decedent's own brother is a senior member of MI5 and so a clear concern regarding potential bias has been raised by the appointment. We…".

With a glance toward the clock, Dame Godar interrupted. "Yes, counsel, the Commission is well aware of your objections. You may consider them to be made of record, however unnecessarily given their extensive briefing prior to this proceeding."

Donovan stiffened. Was the unwillingness to entertain argument a sign of hostility toward the police? Surely not, the IPCC was well-known to be friendly to the force in misconduct inquiries. Maybe Godar only intended her comments to demonstrate lack of bias to the press. "Showing off," Donovan thought, uncomfortably aware that this case was high profile indeed, and she was at the dismal center of it.

The operating commissioner spoke up. "We shall begin. It is the intention of this panel that this interview last no more than an hour. The participants are therefore asked to keep their responses brief and to the point." Commissioner Smythe looked at counsel for Hillsborough and Donovan in turn before stopping in confusion at Anderson, who was not represented. With a raised eyebrow, Smythe continued.

"This interview is the final step of the Commission's investigation into a complaint of police misconduct leading to the death of a subject. The complaint was submitted by Dr. John Hamish Watson, a member of the public. The subject decedent is Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Certain facts from the initial preliminary investigation report have been stipulated to by the accused, which I shall summarize now." Smythe began to read from a typed sheet.

"First, it is agreed that the decedent was 37 years of age at his death, which occurred on July 19, 2013. The death was the result of a fall from the fifth story roof of the St. Bart's hospital pathology department building."

Hillsborough's counsel leapt to his feet as if he might impress a non-existent jury. "Madam Chief, we object…".

"Yes, yes, we understand that the accused object to the characterization of the incident as a 'fall'" said Dame Godar, fluttering her hand at counsel's table. "However, it is the position of the Commission that no conclusion as to whether or how Mr. Holmes departed from St. Barts' rooftop is made or implied by the word 'fall'." Greg Lestrade raised his head and winced.

"I remind counsel that this is not an inquest; we are not here to determine the physical details of Mr. Holmes' death. A pathology report has been made which establishes its immediate cause. As counsel is quite aware, the accused have stipulated to the report, which Mr. Smythe will now read into evidence."

Smythe returned to his paper. "Pathologist Dr. Molly Anne Hooper examined the decedent's body within 2 hours of his death." John felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He touched it lightly, but didn't turn to look at Molly Hooper, who was sitting behind him. "The cause of death was blunt force trauma to the head and body, consistent with a fall from a great height. Mr. Holmes is believed to have died on impact with the St. Bart's walkway." John's hand tightened over Molly's. Mycroft shifted slightly in his seat, then stilled.

"Dr. Hooper," Smythe said, directing his attention to Molly. "Have I given an accurate account of your findings?" Molly jerked out of her chair. Voice quavering, she stammered out "Yes, sir" before dropping back into her chair.

"It is not necessary for witnesses to stand during these proceedings," observed Smythe. Molly blushed deeply.

Smythe continued. "It is also agreed that Mr. Holmes consulted with Detective Inspectors of the New Scotland Yard no fewer than 122 times, DI Gregory Lestrade being chief among them." "Lazy sods," muttered a reporter from a small town paper.

"Mr. Holmes was credited by those Inspectors with assisting in the resolution of 120 of those cases." "More like resolving them by himself," Molly harrumphed to herself.

Before counsel for Hillsborough could again rise fully to his feet with another objection, Dame Godar intervened. "It is also agreed and acknowledged that there is a dispute within Scotland Yard about Mr. Holmes' role in cases in which he consulted, specifically as to whether he was as responsible for their inception as for their resolution. The Commission will weigh the existence of that dispute against the evidence as it makes its determination in this matter."

Anderson moaned audibly, not noticing the glare it earned him from Godar and Smythe.

"We will now proceed to the interviews. Counsel for Sargent Sally Donovan, do you have any objections to this questioning of your client?" Smythe asked.

"No, sir," he replied. "We will, however, reserve the right to object to individual questions, as may be necessary."

"Thank you, counsel. Sargent Donovan, you were employed with Scotland Yard at the time of Mr. Holmes' death, is that correct?" Smythe inquired.

Donovan straightened and responded in as formal a tone as the question had been posed in. "Yes, sir."

"Did you know the decedent?"

Despite her best efforts, Donovan couldn't quite avoid frowning. "Yes, sir, I did." There, that was an ambigous answer. She reminded herself to avoid disparaging Sherlock at all costs. It was becoming clear that hostility toward him would only be paid in kind by the Commission to her.

"Did you work with the decedent?" Ah, that one cut a bit closer. Donovan opened her mouth, intending only to affirm that she had, on occasion, been asked by her superior to work on cases with Sherlock. "Yes…" she couldn't help herself. "Yet in all honesty, no one really worked with Holmes. He worked alongside us, but rarely worked with us." Damn.

"Thank you for your honesty, Sargent." Smythe said sardonically. "Did you volunteer to work 'alongside' Mr. Holmes or, if not, who asked you to work on cases he was involved in?"

The memory of Greg Lestrade being berated by Chief Hillsborough over Sherlock's involvement in cases intruded into Donovan's thoughts. She'd been so exhilarated at the idea of getting Sherlock out of Scotland Yard for good. Reporting her suspicion that he'd actually been behind many of the crimes he'd solved (or, as Anderson opined, behind all of them) had felt like redemption for all the times Sherlock had insulted and demeaned her. Greg had been instrumental in putting Sherlock in her path, therefore it felt right that Greg would suffer for Sherlock's behavior.

At least it did at the time. Now, she was horrified at the fallout—Greg, demoted. Anderson, losing the plot. And Hillsborough, being pressured to resign. All of them, the focus of a misconduct investigation. But…but…it all came down again to Sherlock, didn't it? If not for him…

"Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade," Donovan answered in a firm voice. She listened for a reaction from Greg, sitting just behind and to her left. Nothing. "He brought Holmes in to consult on cases and we had to…," Donovan couldn't think of a way to describe being with Sherlock on a case that didn't damn them both. "We worked the case as best we could," she finished.

"Yes, thank you," responded Smythe. "The record indicates that you worked on cases in which Mr. Holmes was involved 89 times. Is that accurate, Sargent?"

"So far as I recall, that sounds about right," Donovan said. Hillsborough snorted beside her and she unconsciously leaned away from him. The sheer volume of cases Greg had involved Sherlock in without the explicit blessing of higher-ups (some of whom also consulted with him from time to time) had been the death knell for Greg's career in the homicide division. He was now working on minor crimes. As was she.

"In any of those 89 cases, did you ever see any behavior from Mr. Holmes which suggested that he was attempting to actively thwart their resolution?" Smythe's tone was even, but a chill ran through Donovan nonetheless. "Yes," she responded, her tone a bit defensive. "He would run off during cases, collecting evidence on his own without telling, much less involving, the Yard team."

"On balance, did that activity on Mr. Holmes' part slow resolution of any of the 89 cases?" Smythe asked.

Donovan's counsel found his voice. "Objection, Mr. Commissioner. My client can't know whether any case could have been resolved more quickly than it actually was."

"Oh, come now, counsel. I see no reason to believe that an officer as seasoned as Sargent Donovan couldn't render a considered opinion as to the average time to resolve cases of varying types, do you?" Counsel wisely refrained from offering reasons, none of which could put his client in a good light. "Sargent?"

Donovan sighed to herself. "No, sir," she admitted. "On balance, cases seemed to get resolved more quickly with Holmes on them." A light bulb went off in her mind. With a quick glance to her counsel, she continued. "But that's the point. It's easy to solve a crime you committed yourself, as I think Holmes did, as often as not."

A rumble broke out among the press corps. Virtual pens flew—now they were at the real juicy part of the day. The master detective as the architect of the crimes he solved! Sherlock Holmes, menace to society! With one exception, the fifth estate was electrified. Every one present, especially Kitty Reilly. She was their current darling, the one who'd had the initial inspiration to eviscerate Sherlock Holmes by tabloid journalism. Never mind that her "exposé" was formed solely out of rumors crafted by James Moriarty to destroy Sherlock. Kitty was on top, and that's what mattered.

"Yes, Sargent. The Commission is aware of the allegations against Mr. Holmes made by yourself and Examiner Anderson." Anderson sucked in air. "They are serious ones, which we are taking seriously. But, answer this, if you would please: why didn't you report your suspicions about Mr. Holmes earlier? Surely, as experienced an officer as yourself would have had some suspicions before you completed 89 cases with him?" Smythe's tone was now perceptibly cooler.

"Holmes is—was—a genius," Donovan snapped. "He was using that intellect to fool rather than help us. He never slipped up until…" The end, she thought. Remembering that Sherlock was dead briefly stole her breath away. I won't be upset about him dying, I won't, Donovan mandated to herself. "The last case."

"The last case," repeated Smythe. "The stipulated facts concerning that matter indicate that the perpetrator of the kidnapping of the Ambassador's children which you were investigating was identified by Mr. Holmes from footprints, is that accurate?" Smythe asked.

"Yes," Donovan responded.

"And that discovery triggered your suspicions that Mr. Holmes was the actual perpetrator, did it not? Why was that?"

Donovan leaned forward eagerly. Anderson wilted next to her.

"It was too easy, too neat. Holmes said that one of the kidnapped kids had used oil to create a trail for us to follow of the perp's footsteps." Donovan didn't seem to realize that she'd slipped into cop-speak, but Hillsborough scowled at her informality. "A lot of the…Holmes' leaps of logic were crazy, but this was ridiculous. How could he know that the kid would have done that with the oil unless he orchestrated it? And the footsteps themselves—he said they came from a specific closed chocolate factory way across town based on some dirt found in them. How is that even possible?" Donovan knew she'd raised her voice, but she was on a roll. "The answer is that it isn't, not even for the boy genius. Unless he'd put the kids there, which he did."

There was no getting around it, Donovan's tone was clearly spiteful. The excitement among the press corps shifted en masse to doubt, then back to excitement. If the police had caused the death of Sherlock Holmes in any way, well, that would be almost as good a story as detective-turned-criminal.

"That remains to be determined, Sargent." Smythe broke the silence which followed Donovan's proclamation. "I note, however, that no actual evidence linking Mr. Holmes to the abduction of the Ambassador's children has yet been submitted to us by Scotland Yard. As to your belief in his culpability, I must wonder…you said, "the" in reference to Mr. Holmes. You had a nickname for him other than "boy genius", did you not?"

Donovan looked anxiously toward her counsel, implicitly asking if she had to answer. He shrugged.

"Yes," Donovan said sullenly. Smythe raised an eyebrow. Gritting her teeth, Donovan elaborated. "I called him The Freak." Murmurs emitted from the press area of the room. John's fists clenched and Greg shook his head.

"The Freak," Dame Godar broke in, her tone flat. "Explain, Sargent."

Donovan blew out a breath, then spoke quickly and challengingly, "I called him that because it's what he was." Referring to Sherlock in past tense no longer bothered her. "He was a rude, obnoxious jerk to me, to everyone. Even people who tried to be his friend, he blew them all off." She looked toward John, then rushed on. "It was true, John, you should know it was. Greg Lestrade supported him and look where it got him. Holmes never cared. He treated us all like idiots and never willingly cooperated with the Yard, ever. The only thing that mattered to Holmes was his own ego, showing off, being smarter than everyone else in the room. He solved everything and never let us forget it-" Donovan sputtered then stopped, hearing her own words.

Silence echoed through the room.

"And did he?" asked Smythe softly. "Did he really solve everything, all those cases?"

Donovan stared back, aghast, her mouth slightly open. "Oh, God," moaned Anderson.

The testimony of Chief Hillsborough went quickly, comprising just three questions. Yes, he was still the Chief of Scotland Yard (barely). No, he hadn't known that several of his Detective Inspectors were consulting with Sherlock Holmes on cases. As to whether that made him negligent or just incompetent, he had no reply.

Anderson short-cutted the interview altogether by invoking his right against self-incrimination. When asked whether he was aware that doing so could infer that he had no defense against the accusations made against him, he merely answered "Yes, I do" in a fervent voice.

"The Commission would next like to question the complainant, Dr. John Hamish Watson."

Mycroft's phone vibrated against his chest. Turning away from the front of the room, where attention was focused on John, Mycroft scanned the screen.

Stop this now, Mycroft. He shouldn't have to dance for the circus—SH

Mycroft returned his phone to his pocket.

"Dr. Watson, why did you submit the complaint in this matter?" The question was posed by Dame Godar, who seemed genuinely curious.

John was quiet for several moments, then squared his shoulders and met his questioners' eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes was a great man who did great things, many of which made this City far safer for all of us. He didn't do it for glory—frankly, he didn't like most people and wasn't much fonder of their attention." Across the aisle, Greg smiled.

"He certainly didn't do it for Scotland Yard—he just liked the complexity of their cases compared to the ones individuals brought him directly. He didn't even do it for the money; I'm wasn't always sure what he lived on, since he often forgot to get paid. He did it because, even though he could be a jerk sometimes; hell, most of the time, he had the most magnificent sense of what was right and how to achieve it of anyone I've ever known. And nothing would stop him from reaching the goals he set for himself, even at the cost of his own health and happiness. Sherlock was just the most essential person I ever met, and the most…"

John choked.

No one spoke as he collected himself, although Molly may have been sniffing back tears behind him.

"He was a better person than those three," John gestured toward Hillsborough, Donovan and Anderson, carefully avoiding Lestrade's eyes "And he didn't deserve to die. No one does, but he's dead because they couldn't—wouldn't—believe in him. Even while they and everyone in this room was benefiting from Sherlock's life. That's wrong, and I won't let it lie. I can't—I owe it to him not to. He can't speak for himself, not anymore, so I will." John took a deep breath. "That's why I filed the complaint. So you can hear what Sherlock should have been here to say."

John looked at his left hand, then back at Mycroft. Then he left the room.

"Dr. Watson," came a voice from just outside the interview room door. It was Anthea, Mycroft's assistant.

"What?" said John, too drained to be polite.

"Mr. Holmes would like to meet with you. We have a meeting room reserved down the hall. If you could follow me?"

John startled at the "Mr. Holmes". After hearing the name in reference to Sherlock for the past hour, it was difficult to reconnect it to Mycroft. As soon as he did, however, he shook his head. "No, I don't have any interest in what he has to say. Not after…just, no."

"I think you'll want to hear this, John," said Anthea softly. "Please, follow me."

John stood, still in indecision, then his shoulders drooped. "Fine, but just for a few minutes." He followed Anthea to a door next two doors away.

Mycroft…-SH

No -MH

Yes -SH

NO -MH

"John. Thank you for coming," said Mycroft as John entered the meeting room.

How did he get here so fast?, John wondered, then decided he didn't care. He looked toward a second door in the room just as it closed. Anthea had passed through it behind what appeared to be a tall, blond man. Another of Mycroft's agents? All of John's nerves began to jangle, although he couldn't explain why.

Mycroft spoke more quickly. "John, I have something to tell you. Something I wanted to share earlier, but couldn't."

"About Sherlock?" John said dully. "Your brother, who you helped to destroy by revealing all his secrets to Moriarty?"

Mycroft ignored the last. "Yes, about Sherlock. About his death…about the reason for his death."

John stared, then snapped, "Oh, let me guess. You're going to tell me that he killed himself for reasons having nothing to do with you, yeah? Well, spare me, Mycroft. You betrayed him and nothing you can say or do now will change that."

Mycroft raised his chin slightly. "I am quite aware that there is nothing I can say or do to change what has happened, John. But I can provide you with more context concerning it."

While John was turning Mycroft's word selection over in his mind (Nothing he can do or nothing he will do?), Mycroft continued.

"My brother did not kill himself because of what the police did or in response to the damage done to his reputation. As you said, Sherlock cared little for what others thought of him." Still doesn't, Mycroft thought involuntarily.

"But he did care greatly for some people. Three, to be precise." John raised his eyebrows. "Gregory Lestrade, Martha Hudson and you."

"Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did him, didn't it? He still jumped—if he cared about us, we…I…must not have shown him well enough how much I cared about him." John breathed deeply. "He was my best friend, Mycroft, yet he killed himself in front of me. That felt more like hate than friendship from him." The last words were barely audible.

"John, I said there were three people he cared for greatly, and I meant it. Three people whose lives he cared about more than he cared for his own. Sherlock jumped that day for you, John. For you, DI Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. To save your lives, all of which would have been taken by Moriarty's snipers had Sherlock not leapt from that rooftop."

John said nothing.

"Don't ask me how I know this, John. It's…classified. But know that it's true, and that Sherlock," Mycroft stopped in an unusual search for words. "Sherlock may not have known that you thought him to be your best friend, but he surely considered you to be his."

Mycroft moved to the door, then stopped to think while facing it. Sherlock was working his way out of the building, he'd heard nothing of the exchange with John. Perhaps it would be safe to express just a bit of emotion.

"I don't regret his death, John. Mourn it yes; regret it, no. Because he died for a friend, and a friend is something he had wanted—needed—for a very long time." It was Mycroft's turn to take a deep breath. "Thank you for that."

He walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him.

John wept.

Sherlock, now blond and short-haired, exited the building into a black car. After being joined by Mycroft, he was driven away, face buried in his hands.

The Guardian, August 23, 2014:

The IPCC has suspended its investigation of police misconduct in the death of super sleuth Sherlock Holmes pending completion of an independent investigation into police allegations of Holmes' involvement in numerous crimes. Sources close to the latter investigation indicate that all may not be as it seems, and Holmes may have been innocent. Sanctions against members of Scotland Yard can be expected if that conclusion is reached.

~Fin~