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Stepping quietly from Lestrade's office, Sally took a deep breath in an attempt to calm the nervous tremors that had erupted, taking her by surprise. "Guys," She called out, almost immediately silencing the floor. "Can I just have your attention for a moment?" every set of eyes turned to her and she took another deep breath. "I was just talking to Lestrade about Sherlock Holmes. It's not great news," She paused.

"He died?" Hawkes spoke up, spooked.

"No, no, he's very much alive. But he'll probably never be working with us again." Sally elaborated, "He's paralysed, from the waist down." A thunderous rumble of groans and gasps erupted around her. Hawkes' face displayed confusion as he tried to work it all out, not sure if he was shocked, sickened or…what? "He's stable and he's doing OK, generally, but Lestrade wants us buckle down and draw in the case. He's adamant we find the guy – or guys – who did this."

"And they are?" Officer Berkley asked – new to the team, she found Sherlock a dream boat and a genius and a sad frown settled onto her face at the news.

"Exactly," Sally sighed, "I'm as shocked by this as anyone else, but that doesn't mean I can magic up a suspect. Lestrade's…making promises to him, you know what's like. I was there, I saw nothing. We've got no chance of solving this one; it was a blind accident." She shrugged her shoulders somewhat huffily.

"Compassionate as ever, Donovan." Dimmock clapped his hands together mockingly, an eyebrow cocked in sarcasm.

"I'm not a hypocrite." She licked her bottom lip, "I'm not going to suddenly start acting like he deserves my adoration because his disabled. He's a freak, in a wheelchair or not and I'm not going to pretend otherwise. But I'm not completely devoid of emotion, it's sad that this has happened."

"Regardless," Dimmock pressed on, "It was a crime, a shooting, in the middle of London and as police officers it's sort of our job to go out there and find out who did it. Like it or not, Donovan, I'm Detective Inspector and it's me you answer to." He set his eyes on the woman firmly, "Briefing tomorrow at nine am on the dot," he addressed everyone. "In the meantime, find out whatever you can on Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes and go over that flat with a fine-fucking-toothed comb."

Watching everybody bustle back to work, Peter Anderson approached Sally and placed his hands on her thin biceps. Pulling her close, despite the eyes of the office, he placed a soft kiss on her smooth forehead, "I'm a bit freaked out by this as well," he muttered, "Don't let Dimmock get to you."

"He's welcome to the Freak, both self-important little…"

"I know," Peter cut in with a smirk, his voice low and unimpressed. "C'mon, we'll do the fieldwork. Pay Sherlock an information-gathering visit. We'll talk with him and John Watson at the hospital."

"Fieldwork," Sally's brows shot up, "You're on Forensics, Peter, you can't use that excuse to get out of the office the same way I can." She smiled despite herself. "Besides, we can't, not at the minute. It's not fair on them, and Lestrade's there."

"Then we visit as concerned colleagues." He suggested.

"Why would I want to do that?" Sally practically spat in the man's face, her arms folding across her flat chest. "Oh, hi Freak, just thought I'd come and see how you are now that you can't walk. Here, have some grapes and Lucozade."

"Admit it," Peter said calmly, ignoring her babble, "You're worried about him." his eyes widened at Sally and, slowly, she offered an honest not. "Me too – no, he's not our favourite person and ninety-nine percent of the time he's an arrogant git and it's obvious, but nobody wants to see somebody they know end up like this and it's a bit of a shock." His response drew a small, sincere and slightly sad smile from Sally's full lips. "C'mon, get your coat. We'll go to the hospital."

Sally followed Peter from the station and into his unassuming Ford Focus in the car park. Their drive to the hospital was a quiet one, both considering their feelings and wondering why they both felt so shafted by the news when, more often than not, Sherlock's presence was an unwelcomed on in their lives. "They're not going to want us here," Sally finally said as Peter brought the car to a stop in the hospital's vast car park some time later. "John barely tolerates us and Sherlock's not going to want us here at all. He hates us, Peter." She turned on him with sad eyes.

"He doesn't," he voice flowed out with a sigh, "He's indifferent to us and enjoys calling us names. Granted, most of the time I can't stand him but right now what he needs is support and I can give it and so can you." He reached across and took Sally's hand in his own. "If this gains nothing else, it'll at least show that we had enough respect to come here at all." He looked at her expectantly and smiled when she nodded, reaching out her free hand to open the car door.

They weren't usually as open about their relationship as they were today, particularly as Peter's divorce had only just been finalised and their relationship had been a sore topic. Mostly, though, it was down to Sally never having been one to be very forthcoming with her emotions. Angry she could do, disgust was an easy one, too, but opening up and being sentimental and loving was hard. But with Peter, it had been different. She'd always just 'been' with him.

Sally asked at reception for directions to the ICU and smiled as they were passed on from the busy receptionist with an overworked smile. Unlacing her arm from Peter's, they walked with only the sound of Sally's small heels between them, the smells and sights of the hospital making her throat constrict. They passed through double doors and marched down corridors, taking lifts and turning corners until they finally found the Intensive Care Unit. Cleaning their hands with the provided Alco-gel pump on the wall, they pushed through the double doors with their hips and walked in ever-thickening silence along the dimly-lit corridor. It was the sound of Greg Lestrade's voice from far down the corridor that assured them they were heading in the right direction.

Taking reassurance from Sally, Peter preceded her into the room, surprised to be met by jovial voices; they had rather been expecting something wholly more sombre. "Morning," His default tone raised an octave.

"Anderson," Greg's brows crooked up. "Donovan,"

"Hi," Sally stepped in, "We just wanted to-," She waved her hand at Sherlock's bed. She had been about to say 'pay our respects' but knew that the sentiment wasn't quite right. "Check on the patient," She amended as quickly as she could think.

John, though surprised, had to admit he was pleased to see them; it made him feel warm inside to know that people cared enough to visit. "Thank you," his slightly confused frown settled, "But he's pretty out of it at the moment – they've got him on strong pain killers and they're keeping him pretty much comatose most of the time."

Mycroft eyed the officers silently. He'd known immediately who they were – confirmed, then, by Greg's words – and he wasn't about to be shy in conveying his disgust toward them. He knew how they viewed and treated his brother and he wasn't one for offering respect out where it wasn't first offered, very much of the opinion that it was something you earned.

"Does he know yet?" Sally asked, her arms locked nervously across her chest.

"Not to the full extent, no but we can't put off telling him or asking him questions much longer. Oh, is that why you're here?" John frowned more deeply, eyes flicking between the two officers, "You were hoping to ask him questions?"

"No, no." Peter shook his head, "Really just came to see how he is."

"How is he?" Sally asked, licking her lips. "I mean, what's the outlook?"

"Bleak," Mycroft muttered, "A good stretch different to what it was yesterday. Had you and your team been doing your job correctly, this wouldn't be the case."

"Mycroft," Greg turned with a serious glare in his eyes. Right now he was DI Lestrade and he meant business. Mycroft's frame and vicious stare didn't relax and Greg reached out, placing a hand on his chest. "Mycroft," he said firmly. "This isn't the time, nor the place. And you're inaccurate," he warned in a low tone, "Calm down."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," Sally spoke up, "but I was doing my job correctly. I was escorting your amateurish brother to a scene he shouldn't have been at as per your request. But, yes, I do feel responsible if that makes you feel better." There was a glitch in her voice and it spooked John. Sally was nothing if not steady. "We couldn't have prevented what happened no more than you could. I wish I could have stopped it happening and not because I failed him, but because I failed at my job. And maybe you're right; maybe I wasn't doing my job correctly after all because, if I was, your bloody brother wouldn't have been there in the first place because I wouldn't have let him."

"Do you simply forget that you are paid to serve and protect the public or is it just that the only 'public' with you was Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft's voice was deep and harsh but, some might argue, not wholly unreasonable. "What is it you call him, Ms Donovan? Freak?"

"You're angry, I get it, Mr Holmes as I understand that Sherlock and John will be too. I didn't stop the bad guys last night, no but, you know what? Neither did Sherlock and neither, Mr Holmes, did you." Sally's chin wobbled but she kept her composure.

"Sargent Donovan, it's alr…" John couldn't finished his sentence and sighed, watching as Sally turned and left, abandoning Peter in the middle of the floor.

"I should…" he pointed hit thumb over his shoulder.

"Go on," Lestrade's firm nod excused the tall, slim man quickly. Hands on his hips, Greg looked between Mycroft and John and then settled on the eldest Holmes. "You provoked that." He warned but Mycroft said nothing, he simply crossed the room, collected his belongings and left without a word. "Great," Greg threw out his hands and rolled his eyes with an exasperated sigh. He rubbed his temples and fixed his gazed on John. "I'm getting a headache."

"Stress and grief," John said simply and Lestrade found himself unable to argue. "You don't think I don't want to do that? You think that I haven't thought about blowing up? Because, I have – God, I bit Mycroft's head off at around three am." John licked his lips, his knuckles white as he hung onto the bar on the bed. "He's angry and Donovan gave him back as good as he gave out. She was pretty bloody insulting, actually, but she was honest and I admire her for that. There's probably a part of her that secretly feels horrific about all of this because at the end of the day, Lestrade, Mycroft's right; she was the officer in charge and whilst with him he's her responsibility. And, while I don't blame her," he said as Greg's face paled, "I understand Mycroft's anger was aimed at her because he knows that fact, too. Greg, she was there and so he's passing the buck, he's blaming her. Don't tell me you've never needed somebody to blame before?"

"I can't." Greg laughed mirthlessly.

"Exactly. She and Mycroft just butted heads; half of it was down to them both being stubborn and half of it was because they're both right." John rubbed the back of his neck, aching and tight. "Cut them both some slack, or better yet bang their bloody heads together." he smirked and Greg matched it.

"How do you do it?" he asked.

"What?" John's mouth drew down quizzically.

"This," Greg gestured, "See your life falling apart and stay so calm."

John shrugged up one shoulder, "I'm not calm, but I loved Sherlock and I didn't fall in love with him because he could walk, I fell in love with him. Everything's horrible and I'm angry, but he's still Sherlock.2 He inhaled slowly, "And it's not that I'm not upset, because I am – God, I am, I'm so angry, but it's going to get me anywhere to stomp my feet and sob; that's not going to get us somewhere to live, or fix Sherlock. Maybe I'll hit a wall and I'll break but until that happens I need to be here for him and be as calm as I can be. I dunno," he shrugged, "Maybe two tours of Afghanistan have really helped settle my nerves. You've seen nothing until you see the battlefield."

Greg watched John's face carefully before he lowered his gaze and flicked his eyes over Sherlock as the dark-haired man groaned and moved, his neck stretching slowly as he gently turned his head, beginning to wake. "I'll leave you two alone for a while," he pushed his hands into his trouser pockets. "Call me if you need anything."

"I know, I will. Thanks, Greg." John gave a quick nod. "Oh – and if you see Mycroft out there, just ask him to give me ten minutes here on my own?" Greg nodded his understanding silently, walking on. "Thanks." John called after him, then offered Sherlock his full attention.

While I kept Sally's emotion, I cleaned up the argument a little and made her a little colder than before and also filled the chapter a little, allowing me to break off and do Sherlock leaning of his condition in one, full chapter which is much better, save dividing it. Much happier. :)

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 615