"I know," A voice drifted from the entrance of the morgue.

Sherlock's eyes fell upon the figure, but paid it no mind as he returned to the clue ridden body in front of him.

Donovan .

He had not spoken to the woman following the events of the week before, when both Donovan and himself had found themselves hostages for a slightly deranged murderer who was intent on wealth and power, something that he thought capturing the incompetent officer and Sherlock would bring.

Really, Sherlock believed that the man had rather over estimated his worth, but had decided against voicing this opinion the moment Donovan had thought it prudent to open her mouth and start yet another argument between the pair of them.

In such a moment most would have an epiphany of whole-hearted goodness, which (if movies where anything to go by, which they rarely were.) would be shared by those around them and (to increase drama) repair friendships between enemies.

Sherlock and Donovan had experienced no such epiphany, and if anything the already intense hatred had multiplied severely leaving mere tatters of any civil behaviour that they may have been able to achieve if given the correct motivations.

Not that Sherlock was particularly bothered by it, for all intents and purposes the harsh tone Donovan used when speaking to him during the week had allowed Sherlock to stay connected with the world that had been left behind them, something which (although he'd never voice it) he was slightly thankful for.

Sherlock was shook out of his reverie when Donovan gave a slight cough, and he looked up startled having not realised that she hadn't left.

Sherlock spared her only a momentary glance before looking back down at the cold body that was laid over the concrete slab.

"I said, I know." Donovan repeated the word 'know' emphasised by a slight change in tone, which Sherlock cared little for.

"If this is how you go about questioning your suspects, I believe we may have discovered why you seem to get no-where without assistance on your cases, aside from the usual incompetence that is." Sherlock's voice came out as a monotone, a sign that this conversation had him bored, at best.

"I know, about John." A slight scowl had accompanied her words, probably due to what Sherlock had said.

He faltered slightly, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion as he threw her another glance. "I should hope so, he has been present in your company many times,"

"Don't play dumb with me." Donovan replied.

Another insult was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back in favour of entertaining Donovan's conversation for a little while longer. He considered examining her appearance and stance for clues to what she had meant, but in the dim lighting of the allegedly 'locked' morgue he was allowed no such courtesy, and so he was stuck waiting until Donovan had deemed it an appropriate time to 'cut to the chase'.

Donovan had taken a step closer, allowing the light from a lamp to throw her features into relief. Sherlock's eyes snapped to her face immediately, but his attention was caught in its entirety by the smirk that was spreading across her face.

"You talk in your sleep, where you aware?"

Sherlock's lip curled down on one side, he could sense that this was going in a bad direction but he wasn't entirely sure why. "I was not." He replied shortly.

"Well you do."

Sherlock's eyebrows had lifted disbelievingly, a sign Donovan had obviously been hoping for, as she cut to her next piece of prepared dialogue almost immediately.

"I can show you if you don't believe me." Sherlock wondered briefly whether he'd really be given a choice, but his suspicions were laid to rest as Donovan produced a small device from her pocket.

Sherlock recognised it immediately, but if anything it just sent another wave if panic through his chest ( a feeling he had experienced before, but was un-used to). "Been recording me sleep?" He let out a dry chuckle "that's an all time low, even for you."

"Let's just call it an experiment." She sneered back, dropping all pretence of being friendly.

The click of her finger on the play button was loud and echoed around the otherwise empty room but the noised that followed were far more so.

" Oh God,...ahh...like that...bloody HELL." The voice undoubtedly belonged to Sherlock, and the man in question felt heat rise to his face as Donovan grinned triumphantly.

" Ah...John."

A second click filled the room, leaving only silence in its wake as it consumed the sound of Sherlock's voice.

"Anything you'd like to say?" Donovan's smirk had taken on a new level of self-satisfaction, and Sherlock could do nothing to remove it; only stare wide eyed at the electronical recorder still held in her hands.

"It was clearly something the murderer had given me that made me...say such things...it means nothing." Sherlock covered smoothly, but he could tell that Donovan was not buying it.

Another step closer.

"I don't think John will see it that way." Her voice came out only as a whisper and Sherlock could hear the threat within her words.

"...What do you want?"

"I haven't decided, I'll let you know." And with one more look over her shoulder, Donovan took off out of the room leaving Sherlock to wallow in self-pity and quite frankly, horror.

xXx

Sherlock had returned much later than he had intended, the rain had been pouring from the skies outside, and he was now drenched from head to foot in ice cold water.

The coat wrapped around him had been little help in protecting him from the onslaught of rain, and had even failed in keeping him warm.

Still, Sherlock had welcomed the slightly numb pain only too gladly; hopeful that with any luck the water could wash away the events that had transpired earlier that day.

It was exactly 12 o'clock when Sherlock burst through the doors of 221b Baker street, and immediately Sherlock spotted the form of his room-mate (and incidentally the source of his distress) lying strewn out across the shared sofa.

His ever so slightly silver tinted hair was ruffled as if he had been running his hands through it, and Sherlock was forced to avert his gaze immediately as he made a beeline for his bedroom.

The sight of his room mate had only reinforced the impications of the sound track in Donovan's possesion, and a fresh wave of nausia began to overcome his senses.

What if she told Anderson? The mocking would be endless, and the whole of Scotland yard (and his brother no doubt) would find out within the hour.

That, he could stand. Sherlock had, after all, become used to the taunts that had been shouted at him at any given time, but if she told John...

Sherlock stuffed his face into the pillow that decorated the top of the bed with frustration.

It didn't take long before his over worked brain began to shut itself down, and allow him some peace.

The only thing he could think as he drifted off, his mind flickering back to the moment when Donovan clicked on the recorder, was why hadn't he been surprised to hear John's name emanate from the thing?