To Sally's own surprise, it took almost a month before her hatred of the freak finally exceeded her control.

The crime was grisly even by Lestrade's team's standards (really, it was sad that Lestrade had his own qualifier on such things). There were enough body parts in the dumpster to make at least five people, and they had either been killed extremely recently or the murderer had brought a bucket (or three) of blood with him. Two of the uniforms had lost their last meal and Sally was hard-pressed not to join them. It was only her iron-clad will that kept her upright.

So, already tense from the murders and stressed from keeping her body under control, it was only inevitable that the arrival of the freak lit the fires of her hatred. The sight of Watson following him only fanned the flames, especially since his humiliation of her (in from of junior officers, no less!) was seldom far from her thoughts.

"Hello, Sally," Holmes' deep baritone drawled, as the man himself strolled up to her – and in her present state, petty though even Sally knew it was, him being so much taller than her (and thus, forcing her to look up), just pissed her off more.

"Hello, Freak," she sniped back, not even gracing Watson with a glance as he stood behind his friend's shoulder.

The freak didn't even roll his eyes. He merely stepped past her and made a beeline for the dumpster, Watson following a step behind. Neither man gave her so much as a glance.

This observation made Sally smirk. She'd disobeyed Watson's directive (as if he had the right to give her orders) and he'd done nothing. Clearly, she'd placed far too much emphasis on her conversation with the tagalong a month ago. It was time to take the initiative and re-establish the natural order of things.

But then, Watson stopped and looked at her. Still smirking, she raised an eyebrow at him. He watched her steadily for a moment before looking at his watch. Then he spoke.

"Well, Sally, that's one. Come on, you average four 'freaks' per crime scene and at least one 'gets off on it' or 'psychopath.' So, let's get it over with so Sherlock can get on with catching this bastard and we can all go home."

Silence fell over the entire scene, broken by a single, quiet snicker.

For Sally, it took a moment for Watson's words to really register, but when they did, she saw red (though whether it was rage or embarassment, she couldn't rightly say). How dare he?!

"Oi!" she snapped. "Who the bloody hell do you think you are?!"

To her mortification, the tagalong just gave a longsuffering sigh and shook his head.

"We've already done this, Sally. I have no interest in going over it again. But, please, you're keeping everyone waiting - go ahead and get your 'freak' out of your system, and the other insults you were planning to use so we can tick that off our lists and get back to the murder."

That first snicker had been joined by a few others, though no one else spoke, and Sally felt herself flushing with humiliation. Watson was still watching her, his expression calm, his eyes steady. Sally found that she couldn't make her voice work. When a full minute had passed without a word from her, the tagalong just shook his head.

"Well, you've had your chance, Sally. Since you didn't say anything, can we all safely assume that the insult portion of the day is done?"

That earned outright laughter, and Sally inadvertently flinched, even as anger began to break through the embarassment. Lestrade, standing just past the dumpster, was gaping at her and Watson, which only fed her anger. How dare the freak's tagalong humiliate her in front of her DI?

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she almost jumped when Watson spoke again.

"Well, Sally, are we done?"

She glared at him with pure, savage anger and found herself startled at the hard look she got in return.

"No, really, are we done?" he demanded. "Because, quite frankly, the rest of us have better things to do than wait for you to throw out the same tired lines, but if it's the only way to get on with solving this murder, then let's crack on."

The freak suddenly loomed over his friend's shoulder, taking in the details of the standoff with his usual rapid-fire pace, and Sally blinked. She'd actually forgotten he was there.

"Donovan, what the hell -" Lestrade started, only to be cut off by the freak.

"Oh, do pay attention, Lestrade! John obviously told Sally to quit poking me in a childish effort to elicit a response, and thus justify her actions."

"And since, today at least, she has, let's get on with finding this bastard," Watson interrupted firmly, turning his back on Sally and urging the freak toward the dumpster.

Lestrade blinked, shook his head, and gave her a disappointed look before moving to join the freak and his tagalong. One of the uniforms, Fletcher, fell in with him. Everyone else stayed frozen where they had been when Watson first spoke. Then Hawking, another uniform, nudged the man next to him.

"Hey, Davies, look at that. Donovan shut up. Hey, you should tell your son to try that on the brat who keeps making him miserable at Primary."

This made Sally flush with mortification, and the laughter died away. Sally Donovan wasn't as well-liked among her fellow officers as she wanted to believe, and her behaviour wasn't limited to Holmes, though he was admittedly her most extreme.

And John Watson had just very clearly showed everyone that they had, in fact, been letting a bully run rampant. Shame was showing on almost every face now, and from Davies' shoulder, Lestrade cleared his throat. Everyone jumped.

"Sergeant Donovan, a word," he snapped before heading to his car. Feeling as though she were going to the gallows, Sally followed, hyper-aware of the looks being directed her way.

"What the HELL was that about," Lestrade demanded as soon as she was in front of him. Feeling persecuted, Sally struck back.

"It was the freak's tagalong thinking he can order me about," she began heatedly, only for the DI to cut her off.

"For God's sake, Sally, do you not hear youself?!" he exclaimed, throwing a hand in the general direction of the freak and his tagalong. "Watson just brought you spouting off to the attention of the entire bloody team, and it didn't even register with you!" He paused for a few seconds, staring at her like she'd grown another head. "My God, I've never been so ashamed in my life, and you haven't realized you've done anything wrong."

He paused again, but the silence was ominous this time, like the air just before a lightning strike.

"You - he - we can -"

In her three years working for Gregory Lestrade, Sally had never one seen him so flustered, much less at a loss for words. He stopped trying to talk and turned away, pacing several steps before stalking back over to her.

"Based on what I've heard, Detective Sergeant Donovan, Doctor Watson's actions were fully justified," he announced. "You are hereby suspended without pay for three days and when you return, I will be enforcing his dictate. God knows Sherlock is an ass, but he also assists us at my request, so he will be treated civilly. I don't care if you like him, but if you insult him past the level he insults you, the suspension will be for a month. If I hear 'freak' again, that person is fired."

He had made no effort to lower his voice, and as they were at the end of an alley with a dumpster, his words reverberated with every person there. In the back of her mind, Sally vaguely registered that the freak and his tagalong had left.

Stunned silence fell as everyone in the alley goggled at their DI. He met their gazes without flinching, one by one, before continuing.

"I accept full blame for allowing it to get this out of hand, and I will accept the responsibility, but every person here and at the Yard is, according to their records, an adult. Therefore, you are capable of behaving in a mature, responsible fashion. You will do so, or *I* will take care of it. And I promise, between me and John Watson, you want me. All I'll do is fire you. John'll take your head off."

Since Watson had a talent for chasing - and bringing down - crimals of the murdering variety (among others), no one disputed this.

Anderson, however, finally found his voice.

"And what the f-Holmes?!" he demanded, his voice going a bit shrill. "It isn't like we're unprovoked!"

"I know," Lestrade replied. "But I also know Sherlock, and based on what little I've actually seen firsthand these past few months, this farce has escalated way beyond 'he insults you, you throw one back, and he goes on to the scene.' Sherlock can - and has, actually - try the patience of a saint, but Watson wouldn't have taken action if he didn't feel it was necessary. And don't think it's escaped my notice that Sherlock has been less . . . abrasive . . . in the last couple of months.

"And, regardless, my decision stands," he snapped when Anderson started to object. "Make no mistake: I am first and foremost an officer of the law. And a huge part of that is being responsible for and to the population I protect. And if I find out that any memeber of MY team has been abusing their rank or position because they don't like someone, then I. Will. End It."

Another silence fell. This time, it was full of shame. Greg Lestrade was an extremely easy-going, laid-back man, but he had a spine of pure steel. The former had kept too many people from truly understanding the latter.

That was about to change.

Slowly, every officer but two straightened and met their DI's gaze. One by one, they bowed their head in acknowledgement of his authority. Then they calmly returned to their duties, studiously ignorning the woman standing by Lestrade's car.

And Sally Donovan's hatred consumed her.

She barely heard Lestrade order Anderson to take her home and didn't even feel the humiliation of being escorted off the scene. All she could focus on was the fact that because of Sherlock bloody Holmes, she was suspended and disgraced. Because of the freak, she now had an official black mark on the record she had worked so hard to build and maintain. Because of an unbalanced psychopath who would eventually turn into a serial killer, she was less than she had been.

That she was in large part responsible for her own actions never crossed her mind.

She nurtured her hate, building it on resentment (and not just from the freak. It was from every person who had ever slighted, dismissed, or overlooked her) and feeding it with self-righteous justification (she had the right to defend herself, even as a preemtive strike). And she waited and watched.

She observed.

And, a little more than two months later, when a kidnapped girl screamed at the sight of the freak, Sally Donovan smiled.

Her time had come.

finis