After The Fall: Donovan's Story

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"Today marks the two year anniversary of the tragic death of Reichenbach hero Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, who fell to his death from the roof of St. Bart's Hospital in London during a confrontation with so-called 'consulting criminal' James Moriarty, had been the victim of several false accusations by members of Scotland Yard. Detective Greg Lestrade of the Yard insisted in a statement that the individuals responsible had been dealt with, but refused to elaborate further."

Former Sergeant Sally Donovan buried her head in her hands, hoping beyond hope that if she blocked out the words it would make them any less true. She sighed. Of course it wouldn't. Sherlock wasn't coming back, and it was all her fault. Donovan raised her hand to order another drink, only to have a rough arm pull it down.

"I think you've had enough, don't you?" Lestrade whispered quietly. Sally snatched her arm away, glaring at her former superior.

"What's it to do with you? You aren't the boss of me. Not anymore anyway..." Greg sighed and took her hand gently.

"Look, I miss him too. But drinking yourself stupid day to day isn't gonna bring him back. You know, Anderson's taking it even harder than you. He's still in denial, keeps coming up with all these ridiculous theories suggesting Sherlock faked his death somehow. But that's Anderson; we both know he's a tosser. You're better than this, Sergeant Donovan." Donovan burst into tears.

"No I'm not! I'm a monster! I was so jealous of him sauntering in and getting all the recognition that I tried to convince you he was a fraud! I killed Sherlock Holmes!"

"I can't begin to imagine what you're going through right now, but Sherlock would NOT want you to blame yourself for this. Understand? If he were here right now he'd call you a moron, call me 'Graham' or something to wind me up, then he'd swish his coat and walk off without another word." Lestrade picked up his glass. "To Sherlock." He downed his drink and, with a reassuring squeeze of Donovan's shoulder, left the pub.

Later that night Donovan sat at her desk, her hands shaking so much she could barely hold her pen. She stared down at the note she'd spent the last half hour perfecting, the tears dripping down and threatening to smudge the ink. Eventually she picked up her half-empty bottle of vodka and glanced over at a little glass canister at the edge of the desk. She took a deep breath, and whispered through her sobs.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock... I hope you can forgive me for this..." She started to reach for the jar of pills, when she heard a faint pinging sound. The sound of her text alert. She shook her head and ignored it.

PING.

PING.

PING.

She sighed and took her phone out of her pocket. Someone clearly wanted her attention. She managed to steady her hand long enough to unlock her phone and open the message; just two little words:

"Not dead."

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