I Don't own Sherlock or John. Or the show. Or profit. Really, I am a sad little woman.

"Hello, Freak," Donovan greeted Sherlock, her eyes dark and malicious.

"So Anderson's back with his wife? What a shame, when he could be scrubbing the floors with his mistress. Obviously that was what you were doing last night, before he told you."

Sally's eyes flashed at the snarky offhand comment as Sherlock brushed past her. "Nice, coming from a psychopath who gets his jollies from murder." She pushed a strand of hair back from her dark eyes. Not caring that Sherlock was already gone, she spat a parting comment at his back."You're so pathetic."

With that one comment, she did it.

It was the last straw that broke the camels back.

John, standing unnoticed as ever, was tired of it. So incredibly tired.

He turned to Sally, stepping into her line of vision so smoothly that she jumped in surprise.

"It always amazes me," he murmured, his voice flat, "how a woman so beautiful can be so ugly."

"...Maybe it was your father. He always wanted a boy. I can see it in the way you sway when you walk, trying to look feminine but never quite comfortable in the ridiculous heels you wear to compensate, to feel feminine. You can never quite manage to look natural. Your mother left him, am I right? I see it in the way you pull Anderson away from his wife, how you demand his attention. You had no one to give you attention, just a father who wanted a son. You don't believe in the sanctity of marriage. You were awkward looking in school. I know enough about human development to know you were never THE girl. You were gawky looking, your bone structure left you with a round face and a short nose, your hair was far from traditional. You never felt beautiful..."

"...So you compensated. You try to compensate for your inadequacies and boost your self-confidence by proving that you are better than Anderson's wife, to make him choose you. Instead, he broke up with you last night, so you feel used, like a tool. You feel the same way at work. You're sent to 'babysit' Sherlock and watch the crime scenes and you don't make a bugger of a difference. You're useless. Sherlock steals that feeling of importance, of significance, that you thought you'd gain from being a cop from you. So you hate him. You hate that he has a friend, and you don't. His looks draw glances, from men and women, and those you really want-don't even pretend you care about Anderson, you're using him as much as he's using you- don't even spare you a glance. Deep down inside you wonder if maybe you're even worse than Sherlock is. So your skirts become shorter, your dress shirts tighter, and Anderson's wife spends more time alone and you think you're okay until you notice that you're skirt has a stain from where you indulged yourself last week and bought fish and chips from a grease shop down the road, until you notice that your push up bra has settled unevenly and everyone sees it. You let out the hatred you have for yourself at Sherlock. You tried to push me away, try to prove your better than he is. In trying to make yourself beautiful, Sally Donovan, you have become ugly where it matters the most."

John shook his had, his eyes almost sad. "What drew me to Sherlock, besides the mystery, was the fact that no matter how ugly his character seems to you, his heart, though it's hidden well, is absolutely incredible. It's what he has that you never will. Sherlock and I, we will always be friends. You, Sally Donovan, still have potential. If you didn't have a reason, you wouldn't still be standing there." Watson's face changed, a charming smile and his lumpy jumpered self should have looked benign... But there was something predatory under it all. Something that made Sally Donovan shiver slightly. "I'd make make sure of it, Lieutenant."

The beeping of a cell phone drew Watson's attention away from Sally for a moment, and she watched, seemingly forgotten, as he grinned and chuckled.

"Sherlock!" he yelled. "Seriously, you can't spare one moment to get me? Do you really have to send me a text when you're fifty feet away?"

The phone beeped again.

"Only if you're serious!" John shouted. "I've been trying to get those tongues out of the air ducts for weeks!"

He walked towards the door of the white picket fence style house that hid a grisly massacre inside.

After pausing for a second to wipe furiously at her eyes, Donovan followed, her gait stiff.

...

"John, why don't you take a guess?" Sherlock said casually, picking up a molar off the blood soaked carpet and tossing it casually back and forth.

"Anything I say at this point would be mere assumptions..."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Alright, Alright! I'll play along." John strode into the carnage, carefully avoiding the limbs that were strewn chaotically about. "I'd say five victims? And judging by the coloring of the limbs and the amount of blood, they may have bled to death."

"Good, John. Good." Sherlock nodded, he looked proud, but John could tell he was barely restraining his own observations.

"Go ahead, Sher-"

Sally Donovan, standing in the doorway, cut John off. "Come on, Doctor! Think. I know you can do better than that. Don't cater to Holmes."

The mention of Sherlock's actual name gave rise to the raising of not one, but two eyebrows as he pondered this sudden development.

Curious, Sherlock turned back to John. "Yes, do."

Eyebrows knitted in confusion, John said hesitantly, "Alright..."

"Look hard, John," Sally interrupted.

John smiled.

"Two men, judging from feet and arm proportions, all of their limbs are here, the first mainly concentrated in the left half of the room, the second in the far right hand corner. The first was approximately 187 centimeters, two hundred and ten to fifteen pounds. The tattoo on the ankle in something I saw overseas. He's American, a marine. White, dark hair, dead maybe..." John reached down and tried to rotate the ankle joint. "...four hours? The man on the right was smaller. One fifty two, one hundred seventy pounds. Darker skinned. Possibly middle eastern." Stooping to take a closer look at the limb, John exclaimed "Aha!" suddenly and without warning. "I've seen this before. It's rare in Middle Eastern men, especially ones under the age of forty, and it's obvious by his pelvic structure this man couldn't have been older than thirty-five."

Sally winced as he grabbed the dismembered calf, glad that she had already taken crime scene photos. "Look," John pointed to the bone that protruded from the limb. "I'll need an x-ray to confirm, but this was not a normal break. The bone was brittle. The leg shattered." John peered intensely at it. "Examine the density, the size... It's Paget's, I know it! That should make the search for our victim easy. Even in the U.S. where it's more common, Paget's only occurs in 1 % of the population and in only 3% of males over forty where it's most common. A thirty-three or so Middle Eastern male, 152 centimeters, one hundred and seventy pounds, with Paget's? An I.D. should be no trouble."

At this point, a shocked Sherlock stared at John in morbid fascination, who waved the brutalized leg about absentmindedly. Sherlock was struck suddenly, wondering if that's what he looked like when...?

"Now the other three victims, that's where things get interesting. Two are older women, you can tell by the width of their hips, greater in order to allow for the birthing canal... One is African, traveled here recently. You can see the band aid on the inside of her elbow from where she had her inoculations. She was fairly tall for a woman, and the callous on her finger says married, but the lack of a ring or a tan line says divorced. Sherlock would know for sure, but I'd say the last six months, maybe? She has a sixth toe on her right foot, another distinctive feature. She's another easy one. Eldely but still working and active. Someone will have reported her missing. She plays violin- or viola- as well. I recognize the chafing under her neck and the calluses on her fingers from Sherlock." John tilted his head thoughtfully, looking for all of the world like an innocent country doctor if not for the dismembered leg.

"Of the last two, one's Asian, one's Hispanic. One is in... her late seventies? And the Hispanic girl hasn't even hit puberty. She's young. Very young."

"There's two things that puzzle me about this scene, though. One, the variation in decomposition shows these people have all been killed in the last twenty four hours, each several hours apart, and two, the killer has almost made a point out of his variation. It's fascinating."

"Absolutely," Sherlock whispered, his face transfixed with awe as he stared at John. "Absolutely incredible."

In the doorway, Sally Donovan smirked. So Sherlock hadn't guessed how intelligent John was either. At least that was a consolation.

She glanced down at her shoes and frowned. They really did pinch her toes. Maybe she ought to take someone else's advice, just this once. Not that this meant Sherlock was any less of a freak... But maybe everyone was, just a little bit. John Watson certainly was. A sudden feeling of warmth spread in her, and she tugged at her shirt. It really was too tight, she realized.

...

Lieutenant Sally Donovan strode into Scotland Yard, and for once, she actually felt comfortable. She glanced down at her flats and her snug dress pants and felt her breath catch. Maybe... She could do this. She held herself back from tugging at the collar of her cotton men's dress shirt, the green fabric taunting her. She could do this...

"Sally!" Anderson sounded breathless as she turned around, her braid knocking at her back as she glorified in not actually having to brush the wild hair out of her eyes.

"You! I mean... Wow! I never noticed the green in your eyes... I was thinking-" realizing what was coming, Sally felt a chill wash over her. "My wife is out of town," he'd say. She'd smile and offer to share a cab so he didn't have to take the tube. He'd agree, and as she walked away, he'd pinch her ass, and she'd smile even if she really hated that...

"You know, I have some paperwork to catch up on." And Sally Donovan walked away, noticing as she did that in these shoes she had no problem with a feminine walk. With a coy grin, she added a little skip to her step. Charles from accounting whistled. She blushed. Maybe she was okay with this. Maybe John Watson wasn't so crazy after all. She could certainly understand his appeal to Sherlock... He certainly was a pleasant person.

...

In the range, Anderson frowned irritated at his target. Ninety-five feet and he couldn't hit the damn thing. Obviously regulation pistols must not be built with accuracy to match his own... He slid his earmuffs off, then jumped at the sudden report of rapid fire gunshots. Glancing at the other firing lanes, he noticed someone down at the other end. Curious, he crept over. That hideous jumper was oddly familiar, He thought as he ducked into a nearby lane to watch. "Watson!" He realized with a cry of surprise. The man didn't seem to notice.

Slipping closer, he saw the man was smiling amiably as always, the gun seemingly innocuous in the quiet man's hand.

"Out of ammo," Anderson heard John mutter, just barely ducking back in time as John strode past him. Making sure John was out of sight, Anderson ducked into the man's cubicle, raising his eyebrows as he spotted the meter. Forty meters? With a regulation gun? John couldn't have made a single shot! Curiosity grabbing ahold of him, Anderson pushed the button to reel the target in... and froze as soon as it drew close. Seven shots formed a perfect smiley face on the target's head.

"Satisfied?" Came the mild-mannered Doctor's voice in his ear.

Anderson whipped around. The Doctor cocked his pistol with a resounding click.

"An accident at the range... It would be fitting. Who would question the word of a war hero? I am the proud owner of the Victoria's Cross, after all. And you're a manipulative womanizer who never made Detective..." John smiled, tossing the gun from hand to hand, an eyebrow quirked and a soft smile. "Oh, Anderson. You sad little man." He shook his head.

"You do realize what you do to the people around you? Hasn't your wife suffered enough? What about Sally? She really isn't that bad. Deep, very deep, down. Just because your parents never got married doesn't mean you ought to fuck up your own life." The dirty word sounded odd coming from the normally quiet doctor. "Get your head on straight and smile through it or I guarantee the smile on your face won't e of your own making."

john lowered the pistol and held out a hand.

"Nice seeing you, Anderson. Act pleased when your wife tells you about the pregnancy. With quite a bit of work, you might not corrupt your child as badly as your father corrupted you. Now I have to go before Sherlock decides to confront our psychopathic murderer all on his own. He always gets himself in a mess and then I have to deal with the bodies and smuggle in a new gun. Again!" Watson waved and cheerfully left the stunned Anderson in the dust.

...

"Well," said John, glancing up from the dead body to the two police officers who were watching him with knowing eyes. "Looks like a clean crime scene. Very professional."

Sally smirked. "Military precision."

John met her eyes, his own twinkling merrily. "Possibly."

Anderson sniffed. "Impressive shot."

John spared him a glance. "I've seen better."

"So what have you been up to lately?" Sally said, trying to make the question sound innocuous.

John shrugged. "Blogging, trying to get the tongues out of the air vent before they rot entirely, having a discussion with an old friend of Sherlock's... And you, Sally?"

Sally Donovan smiled. "How about I answer over drinks. I know a good pub. You can even bring Fr- Sherlock. And I'll tell you all about him."

Anderson waved to the two of them. "Hate to miss out on some quality time with you, but LeeAnne can't drink, what with the baby... The scene is secure, tape up, and we've got those two-" he inclined his head to the uniforms standing by the tape. "-watching the scene, I'm going to head home."

John smiled with a glitter of malice in his eyes. "Good."

"So what do you say, Watson?" Sally queried. "We're together because of you."

"Who?" John questioned innocently.

"Like you can't tell."

"So you met someone?"

"Besides myself?" She glanced down. "Yeah. I really like him. He's got the oddest name though..."

"Really?"

"Yeah, he's Mycroft. Says his last name is worse than his first, so I really don't mind not knowing..."

John froze. "Mycroft?"

"...and he's fascinating. Absolutely brilliant..."

"I think Sherlock will be quite happy to join us," John said, with an amused glint in his eye.

"...Really? I was so afraid he'd hate me, you know. I mean, I did insult him. Not that he isn't a freak, but then so are you, and you didn't turn out to be half bad..."

Oh God, John wondered. What have I started?

"I do have to make a stop first," he said.

"Oh?"

"Sorry, Sally but I need to take a break to dispose of material evidence in a murder investigation. I'll send Sherlock a text and we'll meet you in an hour."

Sally opened her mouth, wondering how he had gotten her into a cab without her noticing.

"Don't worry, you look beautiful. Bring your beau along, I have something to discuss with him." John shut the cab door and waved as the cabbie sped off.